#my mother asked ONCE if i had heard back in AUGUST

[lvllns]

well that’s one way to find out everyone apparently thinks i’m already in a master’s program

[iknityounot]

(Long post, sorry y'all)

A little more than two years ago now, my grandmother passed away. She and my grandpa had moved down to my home town a few years before so we could take care of them. I brought them groceries once a week, helped them write checks, fixed tvs, and found lost things. I was really close with my grandma.

In addition to her hilarious personality and dry wit, one of my favorite things about her was that she was a painter and a crafter like me! She used to crochet, and I took her to the craft store a couple of times so she could get more yarn and books on crochet. But her arthritis and the shaking in her hands kept getting worse, so she eventually had to stop.

She kept her most recent project, a granny square blanket, safely packed away in a plastic bin. She told all of us she was going to finish it one day.

Her hands never got better, and when she got sick, and we found out it was cancer, she rapidly deteriorated.

After she passed, I went to work helping my mom clean out my grandparents apartment so we could move my grandpa in with her. In our frantic cleaning, I found that bin again:

DOZENS of granny squares, dozens of half used skeins. I asked my mom what she wanted me to do with it, and she said she didn't care. I set it aside and later took it home.

Maybe a month later, that tumblr post about the Loose Ends Project was going around. It felt like a sign--I was never going to learn to crochet in order to finish my grandmother's blanket. But they might be able to help!

So I filled out the interest form. They got back to me SUPER quick. And maybe 2 weeks later, I was paired with volunteer in my state (only 2 hours away!) and the box of yarn, granny squares, and my grandmother's crochet hook were in the mail. That was at the end of January this year.

Over the next couple of months, my "finisher" emailed me regular updates on her progress, and asked me questions on my preferences for how she constructed the final blanket.

At the end of August, the blanket was done!

I had always intended the blanket to be a gift for my mother. So I cleaned it up, put it in the only bag I had big enough to fit it, and drove to my mom's. I gave the blanket to her and she was gobsmacked. I explained to her all about Loose Ends, and how someone volunteered to finish the piece for us. She was speechless. (I was quite pleased with this, because I am not the best at giving gifts, so this was a pretty exciting reaction!)

She said that it was the most thoughtful gift she had ever been given. She said "your grandma would love this". To which I replied, "yeah, I know she really wanted to finish it a couple of years ago". But that was when my mom dropped the bomb of a century on me--she told me that my grandma had started making those granny squares OVER 30 YEARS AGO. She had started the blanket when my grandpa was staying in the hospital, but that was back when my mom was younger than I am now! My grandma had packed them all away, planning on finishing it, when my grandpa was sent home from the hospital. Then it went from house to house, from condo in Chicago to their apartment in my hometown. All that time and my grandma had wanted to finish it, but couldn't. First because she was busy, then because she forgot how to do it, then because of her arthritis, and then because of the cancer. My mom said she had given up on expecting my grandma to finish it. 

She said I brought a piece of her childhood with her mom out of the past.

And really, all of this is to say, if you have seen or heard about the Loose Ends Project and have an uncompleted project or piece from a loved one who has passed away--these are your people. They were so kind and treated my project with such care. That box probably would have been found by my own grandkids one day if I hadn't heard about Loose Ends.

Five stars, absolutely worth it!

(From what I understand, you can sign up to volunteer too! If you have time to share, it might be worth checking out!)

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 14 – The One Where They Call It Chaotic but We Call it Predictable

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Yes, I am fully aware my entries have been sparse of late, and, no, I am not planning to stop my general Lukola ramblings any time soon. In fact, once I run out of material, I’ll probably dabble with fan fiction because, meh, why the hell not? Any ways, the reason for my slight absence is that I’ve had a special guest staying at my house – one by the name of “Dad.” Yes, that dapper gentleman has been roosting on my porch for the past few weeks (because that’s the only place I allow him to smoke), drinking an ungodly amount of Coca-Cola and holding my shih tzu like she’s a human baby. He did pry himself away long enough to be my date to see “Wicked” (he loved it, by the way). Oh, and he was obliged to my incessant babblings about Lukola. In fact, he even opened my mind to a few theories of his own and made me laugh hysterically at his reaction to the Jakolas.

It has always been my intention to delve into a certain section of our timeline – the part where Luke seemingly ran off into the Summertime Sunset with his friend group, which included Antonia. That period in time is the cavity of my Lukola table puzzle. The left side isn’t connecting to the right side because there’s this gaping hole in the center called Hot Boy Fucking Summer! Before June 12, things made sense to me. Even with the muck we find ourselves in now, just about everything after July 30 has made sense to me. So, of course, Hot Boy Summer was a topic of discussion with my dad. Actually, it was an “all afternoon” one.

I originally presented the Before, During, and After of Hot Boy Summer in chronological order to my dad only to get blasted with, “Stop doing that shit!” after I mentioned “Bless the Telephone.” His gripe was that – like the Claddagh ring – I had failed to disclose to him information that may alter his opinion about the event for which we were theorizing. Specifically, if I knew that the Claddagh ring preceded June 12 and I knew Nicola’s aptly named “Chaos Week” followed July 30, then disclosing those details to him before asking him to theorize about what happened in between those two dates (i.e., Hot Boy Summer) was necessary and even critical to his final opinion.

I don’t believe there is much explaining to do on the front-end of Hot Boy Summer – at least not to my well-versed Lukolas. We presumably all watched the same World Tour (including that trip over to Galway so Luke could meet Nicola’s mother) and I’ve already discussed the Claddagh ring in Entry 6 of my blog. That leaves us with the tail-end of Luke’s summertime jaunt, which steers us into Chaos Week. For those of you who thought I was going to discuss Hot Boy Summer in this entry, I’m sorry – this one is dedicated to that erratic period of Nicola blowing her war horn, beckoning all Lukolas within a worldwide radius of London to commence at her feet. And, commence we did!

Have you ever heard of “chaos theory?” Broadly speaking, it’s the idea that small changes can result in major changes over time – like cause and effect. That’s kind of how I’ve looked back at Chaos Week. We’d spent most of the summer on one bummer of a vacation, with Luke and Nicola (presumably) spending time apart from one another. Sure, we’d had few fireworks explode here and there with pap pictures, and we saw JVN enter the ring as the fan favorite best friend but, on the surface, Hot Boy Summer was, well, rather static. It had carried on with a monotonous “blip…blip…blip…” until suddenly our radar detected a quiet but distinct “blip-blip,” which didn’t register in any of our minds until we had a torpedo coming straight for us!

I don’t believe we can attribute Chaos Week solely to Nicola. Yes, yes, I know, Nicola’s online presence in early to mid-August was chaotic, hence the name “Chaos Week.” But, I do not believe Nicola started Chaos Week. She sure as shit drove it home but, in my opinion, it wasn’t her actions that set everything in motion. Nicola wasn’t the “blip-blip;” she was the torpedo.

So, what was the “blip-blip?”

Luke returning to London – alone – on August 2, of course.

The friend group, which had included Antonia, was nowhere in sight.

Hot Boy Summer had come to an end (I imagine this to be the reason Nicola started blowing her war horn).

In my opinion, Luke’s return set everything else into motion. He was that second pendulum that caused the first one to spiral out of control.

But, we ate that shit up, didn’t we? Yeah, we sure did, and we loved every day of Chaos Week. What’s funny to me is that everyone remembers bits and pieces of Chaos Week, but they never seem to get it in the right order (how chaotic, right?). This happened, then that happened. No, no, that happened first. No, this happened first. The only way to really look at Chaos Week is to give order to the disorder. And, we’re going to do that via a very generic captain’s log, so…

Welcome aboard!

Mission: Chaos Week

Origin: Somewhere in Mayfair.

Destination: Happily Ever After.

Time of Departure: Fuck, I don’t know. When did you board this ship?

Expected Time of Arrival: Hopefully before we all wither up and die.

Log Entries:

August 2. Luke returned to London alone. Yeah, yeah, I know, I already told you that, but I had to add this:

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August 4. Nicola decided to wake us all up from our somber summer with a plate of French toast. Umm, okay, that’s fucking random. I’m going back to bed – but wait, didn’t Luke say brunch was his “fav meal of the day?” Yeah, I swear I have that polaroid around here somewhere.

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August 7. Luke – after being absent on social media for what seemed like a lifetime – suddenly popped into his Instagram stories to post some delightfully cute Bridgerton Bloopers. The entire fandom rejoiced at Luke’s return to social media! And, let’s be honest, we only cared about the bloopers with Luke and Nicola. Hmm, Luke always has this intriguing, yet subtle way of surprising us. Did you hear that?

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August 7. Shortly after Luke posted his Bridgerton Bloopers, Nicola swooped in and dropped a very loud Wordle anvil on her Instagram stories. <clang!> Was she clocking people for making fake social media accounts using her name? Did she really solve the Wordle in two? Actually, most of us ignored that part of the post entirely and went straight to Mr. Google to ask, “What does ‘anvil’ mean? Okay, how about in the Urban Dictionary?” You know you did, too! In all seriousness, though, when this first dropped, I considered whether she was directing the “anvil” at Luke. After all, let’s face it, Nicola was the one who promoted Bridgerton post-Papsmear while Luke disappeared from the limelight. It’s only natural that she might be a bit peeved at him suddenly promoting Bridgerton. However, in hindsight, I believe this to be nothing more than Nicola calling out the person making fake social media accounts under her name. During this time, there seemed to be an influx of fake social media accounts using Nicola and Luke’s names (Luke would address this same topic on his Instagram stories on August 24). And, as fun as it would be to theorize that the “anvil” was directed at someone (other than Luke, of course), it was, in fact, the Wordle for August 6. That said, I do believe that “Wordle” has become synonymous with “Luke” at this point. So, I’ll give you that.

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August 8. JVN reposted their “[w]hen you catch someone trying to sneak a pic but you were born for these moments” to his Instagram grid. Did you think JVN wasn’t going to be included in Chaos Week?! They produced some of their best shit during this time! Any ways, Nicola liked this grid post, which confirmed my belief that Antonia played some part in the Italy pap pictures (for a full explanation on this, read “Entry 11 – The One About the Heart of the Ocean”). Thanks for the recap, JVN, although most Lukolas probably didn’t need to a reminder as to why they disliked Antonia.

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August 9. Nicola posted the Scrabble board to her Instagram stories. Whoa, hold up, Jakolas! Yeah, we know Jake played Scrabble with Nicola and – guess what – we Lukolas don’t care. I mean, I’ll even throw the Jakolas a small scrap of meat and say that Jake could (emphasis on could) have helpedNicola with the Scrabble board. Why am I being so charitable? Because that just makes me more confident Jake has always supported Lukola. You will not convince me (or probably any Lukola) that this Scrabble board was directed at anyone else but Antonia. In my opinion, there are only two things in this picture that matter – the central word “HEYA,” or “HEY A,” and the Guinness coaster. In fact, if I had been playing on the opposite side of this Scrabble board, I would have challenged this word. That alone says exactly what it needs to say. This is not to dissuade you from theorizing on every other word on that board, though. I’m simply saying I do not need any other evidence to persuade myself into believing the board was directed at Antonia. Now, if you want to take the two corner words and speculate that Nicola was having “SEX” with “DAD,” go right ahead – I won’t argue with you.

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August 10. Nicola posted to her Instagram grid the now-deleted birthday greeting to her friend, Camilla. The caption read, “…Remember the time paparazzi took a picture of us and to protect me you grabbed my face?” If that’s not an indirect jab at Luke’s friend group, I’m not sure what it is because it sure as hell doesn’t scream, “Happy Birthday,” to me.

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August 11. Nicola decided to get out her blow torch and light every beacon fire she could find starting in Bowral and ending in London by posting the “Drink Your Milk” shirt to her Instagram stories. You could practically hear her rallying every last Lukola still standing: “Rise, Lukolas, rise!” In fact, I think some even rose from the dead that day! What was the crisis? Well, only that the “Drink Your Milk” shirt was exactly like the one Luke was seen wearing on or about June 22. Now, now, this was a charity promoted by Jonathan Bailey so it’s entirely possible Nicola was gifted her own shirt. But, guess what? The Lukolas didn’t give a shit! They deep dived into reflections on sunglasses and creases in t-shirt sleeves! And, no, I’m not speculating on that hot mess (if you’re interested in learning more, I promise you there’s plenty of TikToks for that). In truth, it never mattered to me whether the shirt belonged to Luke or not. What mattered was the perception that it was Luke’s shirt. It blew up the Internet and I would stand by my belief that, if the fandom’s perception of something was detrimentally incorrect, Nicola (or Luke) would have corrected it. Nicola did not correct this. And, no, Jakolas, don’t even talk to me about that scrap of green blanket in that picture. I don’t care if Jake played Scrabble with (presumably) Nicola at some point over the summer while sitting outside on a goddamn green blanket. The “Drink Your Milk” post was not a secret coded message to Jake. I would stand on a hill and argue that all afternoon. Why? Because – again – Nicola did not correct the “Luke’s shirt” narrative. She let the fandom run with it. In fact, we all got our own blow torches that day. Mine’s turquoise and engraved with my initials.

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August 12. JVN posted a “Special announcement” to their Instagram grid. Right about now, you might be, like, “What the fuck does this have to do with Chaos Week?” I told you, JVN has this way of slipping shit into to their posts that make you do a double take – usually a day later while you’re daydreaming during your drive to the office. This was one of those posts. The announcement was: “I’ve been waiting for this announcement until after the Paris Olympics had finished, as to not take away from the incredible success of USA Gymnastics…@teamusa has been following my journey and growth as a gymnast and showed up at my house to personally invite me to train to be a potential member of their 2028 team. While I hate taking a slot away from 2028 potentials like @simonebiles & @stephen_nedoroscik (as it appears quite obvious I’ll make whichever team I attempt to)…” What made this post stick out is that it is, in fact, bullshit. As in, it is a completely made-up story. Team USA did not visit JVN at their house; they’re not joining the USA gymnastics team. It’s not even that funny, to be honest. So, what was the point of it? It’s confusing as fuck when you read it at face value; however, when you drop it into the Lukola timeline, I’m convinced it alludes to something bigger. On August 11, we had Nicola posting the “Drink Your Milk” shirt – which sent the fandom into believing Nicola was wearing Luke’s shirt and that Luke’s reflection was in her sunglasses. On August 13, the day after this post, a torpedo was launched at us (warning, warning, anyone got a phone I can use?). When you look at this post as the middle piece connecting Nicola’s August 11 and August 13 posts, I believe it tells a story. Let me rewrite it for you but imagine it now coming from Nicola’s perspective: “I’ve been waiting for this announcement until after the Paris Olympics Hot Boy Summer had finished, as to not take away from the incredible success of USA Gymnastics Luke’s friend group, which included Antonia…Luke @teamusa has been following my journey and growth as a gymnast and showed up at my house to personally invite me to train to be a potential member of their 2028 team [choose your own adventure on this one]. While I hate taking a slot away from 2028 potentials like @simonebiles Antonia & @stephen_nedoroscik Rory (as it appears quite obvious I’ll make whichever team [“girlfriend” or best friend] I attempt to)…” Huh, at the very least, this post is starting to get the side-eye from you, isn’t it?

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August 13. Oh, my God! My hair is on fucking fire!!! Nicola dumped “Bless the [Goddamn] Telephone” on her Instagram stories. Whose voice is nice to hear again? What is she trying to say?! Maybe nothing. No, it’s something. “It’s nice, the way you say my name; not very fast or slow, just soft and low; the same as when you tell me how you feel; I feel the same way, too; I’m very much in love with you. I’m very much in love with you.” I don’t need to elaborate any further on this post. It speaks for itself. Chaos Week had officially launched its massive torpedo (full of firecrackers and pinata candy) and the entire Lukola fandom was hysterical – in the best way possible. However, I will interrupt this happy moment with – Jakolas, please don’t start trying to link this song to Jake because Jack Rooke used it in an episode of “Big Boys.” Yes, we are aware Jake played a minor role in that show as a love interest to the main character, Jack. Again, Nicola did not shut down the fandom’s perception that the song was for Luke. Sorry, not sorry, Jakolas. If any part of Chaos Week was for Jake, I believe Nicola would have shut the entire thing down after realizing the fandom was associating everything with Luke.

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August 15. After giving the fandom 48 hours to process “Bless the Telephone,” Nicola posted to her Instagram grid, “Very demure, very mindful.” In my opinion, Nicola was acknowledging that her recent posts (ahem, “Bless the Telephone”) were intentional, and she was aware of how they were being taken by the fandom (ahem, that they were for Luke).

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August 15. JVN posted to their TikTok account “Slick Back Bun.” Hands down a fan favorite moment with JVN. “Sometimes I just need a very demure slick back bun…I don’t do my slick back bun like all the other girls. Here I’ll show you how to do it…I’m just going to take the hair and twist it around itself, so I just have a little cinnamon roll bun…” Do I need to elaborate on this one? Seriously, do I? Slick back bun – Antonia – yeah, okay, got it, we’re still going knives out on Antonia. If you haven’t watched this, it is still on JVN’s TikTok and Instagram grid. It was clever how “demure” JVN and Nicola were being that day.

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August 16. Nicola posted another song to her Instagram stories. This time it was Clairo’s “Juna.” It was not just a sweet, romantic song; it was full on sexy. “You make me wanna try on feminine; you make me wanna go buy a new dress; you make me wanna slip off a new dress…With you, there’s no pretending.” Alright, alright, enough! Wait – no, no – come back! I didn’t mean it! Please, please bring back your music to Instagram, Nicola!

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At this point, in my opinion, Chaos Week ended; however, I’m going to reference one more log entry mainly because, if I don’t, it will get overlooked in the small gap between Chaos Week and when the Jakolas enter the picture on August 25 (see “Entry 8 – The One About the Adjacent of Convenience” for that side show).

August 22. Nicola posted the picture of Luke and herself from Bridgerton Season 3 to her Instagram grid. And, no, I do not consider this to be a “Polin” picture. The picture appeared to be an alternative version of the polaroid Nicola carried with her throughout the World Tour. She captioned the post, “I thought I’d already shared this but I hadn’t so here you go now it’s all yours.” She also shared this in her stories and captioned that “with the lovliest pal a gal could have” and tagged Luke’s crotch. The story would disappear after 24 hours, but the post itself is still on Nicola’s Instagram grid. This post can be taken in several ways, depending on your mood. Was she friendzoning Luke because she used the word “pal” in her Instagram story? No, I don’t think she was. The “lov[e]liest pal?” That’s about as confusing as their “unique relationship.” Was she telling the fandom to support Luke because she supported Luke (i.e., stop hating on him)? Yeah, probably. Was she telling the fandom that she thought she’d already made it very clear that everything she had been posting was about Luke? Yes, I believe this to be the most reasonable answer, especially when you consider her previous posts. The reality is, that man fills a hefty chunk of her Instagram grid – and not dressed like Colin Bridgerton. But, I also believe that this post may have been a preemptive strike against the narrative that would surface three days later on August 25. It’s entirely possible Nicola knew that the pap pictures of Jake at the festival would be released by DeuxMoi (after all, it took DeuxMois over a week to release them), and Nicola was reminding fans that her narrative involved Luke. Note, that Nicola would repeat this in October when she and Luke simultaneously posted their “Polin” picture to their Instagram stories, which was followed a few days later by DeuxMoi dropping pap pictures of Nicola and Jake.

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Oh, a few honorable mentions post-August 22: (a) Nicola posted a picture from her Stylist Magazine photoshoot – the one from the back seat of a car (i.e., the “modern day carriage”) on August 23; (b) Luke posted about how he only had an Instagram account on August 24; and (c) JVN posted his “two finger” hair straightening demo on TikTok on August 25 (yes, I only listed these honorable mentions to get to JVN’s “two finger” demo because that was some laugh-out-loud funny shit – and it’s literally on the heels of Nicola’s “modern day carriage”).

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August 25. What in the hot fucking kittens is that? Well, thank God, it’s not an iceberg this time. Whoa, they didn’t just pull that Non-Player Character from that group of guys and name a ship after him, did they? Hahaha, dumbasses. Oh, shit! It’s coming straight for us!

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End Log.

Well, how was Chaos Week? Did you have a good time? I’m honestly friggin’ exhausted. Seriously, even just writing all that down was exhausting. Like, my brain is fried. Oh, yeah, feel free to ignore that part at the end of our log. That shit happens every time the Lukolas are given a bit of fun. You’ll get used to it.

I took you on this excursion through Chaos Week today because I believe it is important to develop an opinion about what happened before and after Hot Boy Summer, especially if we’re going to theorize on it at a later point. And, as I mentioned earlier, the before played out in front of our eyes and the after, well, if we have the information available, why not peek in its direction? It’s almost like reading a book from back to front.

There are three things that happened during Chaos Week that have kept my feet firmly planted on the USS Lukola. One, Nicola wearing the “Drink Your Milk” shirt, alluding to the still uncorrected perception that it was Luke’s shirt. Two, “Bless the Telephone.” We started Hot Boy Summer with The Frames singing, “I’m gonna wait for you…” and ended it with Labi Siffre answering, “It’s nice to hear your voice again…” And, three, Nicola posting “Very demure, very mindful,” confirming – in my opinion – that she was very conscious of what her posts were telling the fandom – i.e., that they were for Luke.

But, as I was sitting here typing out my thoughts about Chaos Week, I found myself – oh, no, word vomit! – annoyed.

Yes, annoyed.

It’s not Chaos Week itself that has left me feeling annoyed. That was one hell of a “Bridgerton Ride.” It’s that Chaos Week set in motion this predictable pattern which solidified my opinion that “Lukolas can’t have nice things.” Seriously, we can’t have nice things because something always comes in and fucks it up.

You know how I mentioned at the beginning of this post that Luke’s return to London was the “blip-blip” that led to Chaos Week? Luke was the “cause” and Chaos Week was the “effect.” Well, Chaos Week was the “blip-blip” that led to the current state of the fandom. We now have three ships – the Lukola, the Jakola, and the Lutonia – sailing the Fandom Sea, and every time the Lukola finds itself flying high, it gets hijacked by one or both of those motherfucking side ships.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Somewhere in this hot mess, the chaos that originated from Nicola’s August social media spree found order! In fact, we’ve fallen into such a predictable pattern of events that the ebb and flow of the sideshow antics barely “blip” our radar these days. When bullshit starts bullshitting, I just breathe a deep sigh of unadulterated annoyance and think, “I’m so over this shit.” Honestly, I’m getting the vibe that many of us are over this shit. We’re not playing Scrabble anymore. We’re playing that never-ending game of Risk.

Sometimes I wonder if the fandom would have been better off if Chaos Week had never happened. That Pandora’s Box had never been opened and that the fandom had simply allowed the USS Lukola to sail off into the sunset. But, then I think about the people I have met along the way. The Ones that have made me laugh until my stomach hurts. The Ones with whom I’ve gone so far down a rabbit hole we’ve come out on the other side as different people. The Ones that I’ve rescued from the riptide. And, the Ones that have stopped me from rowing my dinghy to shore (because, yes, I’ve had rough days, too). You all know who you are.

So, I find myself putting up with the day-to-day humdrum of the Life of a Lukola, chatting with the people I now consider my friends, and waiting.

Waiting for something different to happen. A disruption to the current cycle. A new kind of chaos – preferably, the kind that mortally wounds the Jakola and Lutonia love triangles and finally allows the Lukolas to have (and keep) nice things.

But, in the meantime, I am still sitting here – listening for that quiet but distinct sound – but also contemplating knocking the Risk board off the table.

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[muzaktomyears]

Yoko said to me: ‘I was told John was in danger in New York’

Elliot Mintz was the friend with whom John Lennon and Yoko Ono spent some of their most private moments. Now he has written a book in which he reveals what went on after the former Beatle was murdered in 1980

John Lennon and Yoko Ono in New York on November 26, 1980, just days before his death

Part of me started to wonder if perhaps I’d acted rashly. My mother had heard a radio report about a shooting on 72nd Street. The Lennons were not answering their phones. The Dakota operator had hung up on me. Was that enough to send me racing to the airport to catch the last flight to New York? But then I saw a flight attendant exit the cockpit, tears streaming down her cheeks. As she hesitatingly made her way down the aisle, I reached out and touched her arm.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “They killed him,” she answered, gulping back a sob. “They murdered John Lennon.”

For a long moment I found it impossible to process what I’d been told. And then, like a flash fire in the brainpan, the horror of what happened exploded in my consciousness. “John is dead,” I whispered to myself. My best friend was gone. My heart began to race, I found myself gasping for air. I literally doubled over in pain as my whole body absorbed the shock.

Lennon, Ono and Elliot Mintz outside the Mampei hotel in Karuizawa, Japan, in 1977

I don’t know how long I sat, crumpled in agony, but eventually I regained a modicum of composure. I realised I had to marshal my thoughts and plan what to do once the plane touched down at JFK. I needed to pull myself together, bury my grief, and be strong for Yoko and Sean.

I had seen John just a few weeks earlier, in New York; he and Yoko and I had spent a long evening at the Dakota listening to their soon-to-be-dropped Double Fantasy album. At around two in the morning I said my goodbyes. John walked me to the door.

“Remember,” he cautioned me, “walk on the side of the street where the doormen are. Don’t walk on the side of the street next to the park.” “John,” I said, “I grew up in New York. I know how to walk in this city.” That was the last time I saw him.

Lennon and Ono at home with their son, Sean

By the time I got to the Dakota, at around 7.30am, at least 5,000 people had gathered on 72nd Street. At the request of Richie De Palma, Studio One’s office manager, a couple of officers helped me across the police cordon. Suddenly, I was face-to-face with the crime scene: there was blood on the pavement as well as shards of broken glass from a window shattered by one of the bullets.

I rode the elevator to the seventh floor. The Lennons’ housekeeper, Masako, let me in. It was clear she’d been crying. “Yoko-san in bedroom,” she said in broken English. “Door locked.”

I paused at the closed door, then gently knocked. “Yoko, it’s Elliot,” I told her softly. “I’ll be right outside until you are ready to see me. I’m not going anywhere.”

After about five minutes, I saw the door open a crack. I stood up and peered inside the bedroom, illuminated by the big-screen TV, which was showing live local news footage of the Dakota. Yoko had been watching, with the volume off. Even though the windows were shut and the shutters closed, I could hear the music from seven floors below. The sound of mourners on the street singing John’s lyrics would fill the apartment for days to come.

Lennon surrounded by fans in New York in August 1980

Standing by the bed, wearing silk pajamas and a kimono, Yoko looked incredibly frail. I reached over and gingerly put my arm around her. She touched my face, then crawled back into bed.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked her. “There’s nothing anybody can do,” she weakly responded. “Have you eaten anything? Can I bring a cup of tea?” “Elliot,” she answered, “your presence is comforting. You don’t have to say or do anything.”

I sat down in my usual spot, the white wicker chair, and we both watched the images flickering on the TV. For a while, my eyes wandered around the room, eventually settling on John’s bedside table, where I spotted a pile of books — it was an eclectic stack, to say the least, everything from The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir to Your Child’s Teeth: A Parent’s Guide to Making and Keeping Them Perfect by Stephen J Moss. Yoko’s reading material was similarly varied.

Suddenly, a picture of the suspect appeared on the screen. Yoko sat up and stared intently at the mug shot of the assailant; she seemed both mesmerised and repulsed — and deeply confused — by the face of the man who had murdered her husband.

The following weeks were a blur. I spent a lot of them downstairs at Studio One, joining a staff of four or five employees, fielding a never-ending barrage of phone calls. At one point early on, an assistant held out a phone for me. “He says he’s Ringo Starr,” she whispered. Ringo was calling from a pay phone and wanted to make a condolence call with his girlfriend (now wife), Barbara. I ended up sneaking them into the building through a back entrance.

“I know exactly how you feel,” Ringo told her when she greeted him and Barbara in her bedroom. “No, you don’t,” Yoko replied, “but I’m grateful you are here.”

One evening, just a day or two after John’s murder, I returned to the apartment to find Julian Lennon sitting alone in the kitchen. He was now 17 and had just flown in from London by himself to pay his respects. (He told me later that the flight was filled with passengers reading papers covered with headlines about his father’s killing.) John and Julian had made some repairs to their estranged relationship, but Julian had practically no relationship with Yoko or with his half-brother, Sean.

“Would you look after Julian?” Yoko asked me. “It’s so depressing here. Take him around New York, show him different places.”

She was asking partially as a kindness to Julian but also as a mercy to herself. Yoko was in no condition to deal with John’s grieving teenage son; she could barely handle her own child’s grief. Sean reminded her so much of John, she found it painful to be in the same room with him, so he and his nanny were dispatched to the Lennons’ vacation home in Florida.

Police outside the Dakota, the apartment complex where Lennon was killed

I found the idea of sightseeing with Julian a bit odd, but we ended up spending a day together, culminating with a trip to the viewing deck atop the World Trade Center. It was one of the few pleasant interludes in an otherwise unbearable stretch of misery.

One of the other assignments I took up around this time was reading through the bags of hate mail. The most worrying ones were flagged for further investigation by law enforcement and shared with Yoko’s private security, who started pinning the names and descriptions of the senders on a bulletin board at Studio One.

I was always running into bodyguards in the kitchen. The irony was impossible to miss: this house built on love and peace was now filled with guns. At one point, even I started carrying a snub-nosed .38 revolver in an ankle holster. I was also provided with a bulletproof vest. One of the few times I recall willingly slipping into it was when a man fitting the description of one of the assailant’s fan club letter writers was spotted on the street outside the Dakota.

He was a tall, young, otherwise innocuous-looking fellow. I approached him carefully and asked him for the time. When he lifted his wrist to look at his watch, I could see under his jacket what appeared to be the butt of a gun.

I quickly returned to the Dakota lobby and called the police. They arrived in minutes, pushed him against a wall, discovered what was indeed a weapon, and hurried him away.

Julian Lennon, Ono, Mintz and Sean Lennon at the dedication of Strawberry Fields as a memorial to Lennon in New York in 1984

Nearly as shocking and upsetting as the dangers that were swirling outside the Dakota were the perils lurking inside. Yoko would learn that some of her most trusted confidants were scheming against her. By far the worst offender was an assistant named Fred Seaman, a trusted aide who, earlier in the year, accompanied John on a trip to Bermuda — the trip on which John wrote many of the songs for Double Fantasy.

Incredibly, almost immediately after the murder, Seaman began smuggling shopping bags stuffed with private papers from the Lennon offices and residences — including five personal journals that John kept hidden under his bed — hauling them uptown to the apartment of his accomplice, Robert Rosen, as part of a scheme to write a tell-all book. We eventually got the diaries back, and Seaman ended up pleading guilty to second-degree larceny.

Yoko found herself surrounded by traitors. Whom could she turn to? For a while, she leaned on the companionship of her friend and interior designer Sam Havadtoy, who not only moved into the Dakota but began sharing a bedroom with Yoko, although not the one she had slept in with John. This struck many on her staff as curious. Although Havadtoy was undeniably charming, appeared to have Yoko’s best interests at heart, and was terrific with Sean, he was also a gay man.

Yoko continued to grow more and more wary of just about everyone around her. I don’t know if I ever fell under Yoko’s suspicion but I do recall one moment when she and I came dangerously close to a serious argument, after I implored Yoko to let me conduct a radio interview with her and Sean to dispel some of the more outrageous rumours being spun about the Lennon family following the publication of Albert Goldman’s book about John, like the notion that he was an abusive husband and father (who once allegedly kicked Sean across a room); and that he was a drugged-out recluse, possibly schizophrenic, and an enthusiastic devotee of Thai prostitutes.

“I’ve never asked you to comment about any of the other books, but this one we can’t ignore,” I told her. Yoko paused for a moment, then responded. “Let me check with my advisers,” she said, meaning her team of tarot readers and numerologists.

Mourners at a vigil for Lennon shortly after his death

I’d never expressed scepticism about Yoko’s mystical beliefs but for once, I pushed back. “Yoko, let me ask you something,” I said. “If these advisers are as good as you believe they are, why is it that none of them saw what was going to happen to John? Why was there no warning?”

Yoko’s answer astonished me. “Elliot,” she said, “how do you know I wasn’t warned? Did you ever ask me if there were warnings?”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll ask you: Did any of your advisers warn you about John being in danger?” “Yes,” she answered. “I was told he was in danger in New York and that he should be removed immediately. That’s why I sent him to Bermuda over the summer … But I couldn’t keep him away forever. He had to come back at some point.”

I was speechless. “Look, Elliot,” Yoko went on, “you know how John felt about his own safety. We talked about this at our kitchen table when your friend [the actor Sal Mineo] was killed. John said, ‘If they’re going to get you, they’re going to get you.’ It didn’t matter what my advisers told me. He didn’t believe in bodyguards, he wouldn’t put up with them. He wanted to be free.”

(source)

[sepulchralblues]

@jilymicrofics A My Lady Jane AU for Jily in august - elegant, bride, knight, royalty, soulmate

“I didn’t ask to be his bride, Petunia.” Lily wanted to tear her hair out its elegant crown-braid, half out of frustration, half to piss her sister off further. “Just because I’m going through with this doesn’t mean I want to be stuck in a loveless marriage with some doddering old fool I’ve never even met before.”

She stood before a large mirror, edges gilded a brown that once used to be gold, in a floor length wedding dress. If she held any care for the day itself, she’d notice the gown was rather stunning, a similar fashion to the royal wedding gown from last season. Instead, she was spending the morning of her wedding like any other day growing up with her darling dear sister – arguing.

“You could at least try to appreciate the effort Vernon’s parents put into securing this match for you,” Petunia returned with venom. “You’re nearly five and twenty summers old, Lily. You’re practically a spinster. After Mother died last year, you weren’t able to secure any prospects for yourself. Without Vernon stepping in, who knows what state you'd be in a year’s time from now.”

Anywhere but here sounded absolutely lovely to Lily at the moment, but she refrained from antagonizing Petunia anymore.

Lily sighed and turned away from the mirror. She waved off the handmaiden who stepped out of the shadows to help her down from the platform the tailor had her stand on for the final fitting of the gown. 

Stepping closer to her sister, Lily said softly, “Understand that I am only doing this for the sake of my inheritance. If this stupid clause had not been in the will, I would have taken the money and left for Paris the minute I could get my hands on it.”

Petunia smirked. “Would you have waited for a knight in shining armor to come along before you got married then? Someone who was, perhaps, your soulmate?”

Some childish part of Lily was stung, hearing the dreams she’d once whispered to Petunia under the covers of darkness in their childhood bedroom thrown back in her face so mockingly.

But her sister was not wrong. As stupid as it sounded, Lily had spent her entire life dreaming of a love that felt like an adventure, rather than one built and bred in the stuffy castles and manors they had grown up in. It was the dream that Paris had held, and the hope that had shattered the day their parents will was announced in full.

Neither child would gain access to their portion of the (significantly large) inheritance until after they were married. And they had to be married before the age of twenty-five.

Hence the stalemate the Lily found herself locked in – a marriage to one James Potter in return for her inheritance. She’d wait the minimum period out, call for a divorce, and finally – finally – leave this place for good.

The double doors at the far end of the room burst open before she could reply. It was the Butler.

“My ladies,” he bowed deep, “it is time. The ceremony will begin shortly, and your presence in required in the garden.”

“Well then,” Petunia said. “Off we go, before you change your mind and embarrass our family again.”

Clenching her jaw, Lily followed Petunia out of the room.

–

James ran a finger along his collar in an attempt to find respite from the sweltering heat of the garden. He failed remarkably, but it was yet to be seen whether it was really the summer heat or the prospect of what was to come that was making him sweat.

Sirius Black, his best man and best mate, heard his annoyed huff and chuckled. “Heat of the moment getting to you, Prongsie?”

James ignored the taunt and focused on straightening his cuff links.

While he’d always known the day was coming, he hadn’t quite let himself wonder what it would be like. He’s never been one for stage fright, but they don’t really prepare you to stand in front of a crowd of two hundred-odd nobles and minor royalty to say the most damning two words of your life.

And damning they were, because whoever this Lily Evans was, he doubted she was any match for the girl he’d been eyeing up at the pub last night when out celebrating the last of his bachelorhood with his mates. Or the girl from the week before, her raven hair spread like ink on his bedspread, her moans like ecstasy in his ears. Or even–

The band began its tune, and the guests shuffled to their feet. He shared a final glance with Sirius. It was time.

First came the sister (he thought it was the sister at least), in a gown of deep scarlet with her arm looped around Vernon’s.

Sirius coughed something that sounded like that slug beside him, and James could only agree.

It was when he saw the white gown brushing the navy carpet that James looked at his parents. His mother met his gaze, a grave look on her face.

They couldn’t screw this up, she was trying to say. This was the last chance they had to fix things, their last attempt to root the problem out before it came back to destroy his entire family.

Sirius inhaled sharply, causing James to finally look at his bride for the first time.

Except he’d seen her before. Nine hours before, to be precise, in a badly lit pub, with a glass of ale in his hands and the golden daze of drink highlighting the arch of her eyebrows, her delicate collarbones.

Lily Evans was, in fact, the very girl he’d been flirting with last night.

Judging by the shock that stole across her face and the slightest pause in her steps, his identity was news to her too.

Suddenly everything that had seemed too daunting and painful about this marriage didn’t seem as bleak.

–

Oh, thought Lily. Oh, fuck.

[naivesilver]

giving you full rein on the kid fic dialogue ask and suggesting maybe something from the toddler ask? you can pick a child and parent combo from anything you like ~

THIS WASN'T EVEN THE FINAL ASK BUT I AM SO LATE AAAAH sorry you know how much I love my babies thank you for encouraging me 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 I'm gonna be super predictable now!

Kid/Parent Dialogue Prompts

4. "With the rate uncles/aunts/grandparents/friends are buying stuff for you, you will be the most spoiled kid ever"

"Do you ever get the feeling that they're going to grow up as the most spoiled kids ever?"

Emma glances at August with her eyebrows raised, quietly puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

Technically, they should be getting coffee like the grown adults, friends-who-rarely-get-to-catch-up that they are, but since there is a distinct lack of free, unaccompanied time in both of their lives now, what they're actually doing is drinking their coffee at the outside tables of Granny's while their sister and daughter respectively entertain each other. Of course, it was clear within minutes that the girls had no intention of doing so - Apple is currently burying her hands in the potted plants, alone, while Cedar is nowhere to be seen, having long since wandered into the bowels of the diner.

That doesn't seem to bother August much, however, because he continues, undeterred: "You have possibly the largest extended family in town- how much stuff have people bought for your sister, Raven or Sparrow, and how long has it been since you've heard anyone saying no to them? Because I am related to considerably fewer people, and our house is still full of kids' stuff, and I know Belle has the same problem with Rosa and Gideon."

He...has a point, actually. Emma has long since matured past the point of being jealous, but that doesn't mean she's blind - children are protected and splurged on for in Storybrooke, especially children she knows. Apple is likely the best dressed little girl in town, and the way Henry tells it, Raven and Sparrow own just about every toy that makes noise. Nobody in her family will grow up wanting for attention, that's for sure.

Still, there's a difference between agreeing with August and telling him that out loud. "Come on, I'm sure it's not that bad-"

It's at that moment, as if summoned by her comment, that Cedar shows up on Granny's front step, like a little bushy haired apparition. The girl trots over to them with what looks like a cup of pudding, spoon included, in one hand and a small sandal in the other - she offers it to August with a miniature frown, shifting her weight off her bare foot. "Daddy, I los' m' shoe."

"Wow, a sentence I've never heard before," August deadpans, though he still lifts his daughter onto his knee with practiced ease, only gesturing to her other possession once he's done wrestling said shoe back in its place. "Where did you get that, kiddo?"

Cedar grins at him, the wide, gap-toothed smile of toddlers all over the world - there are already smears of chocolate around her mouth, which means she must have gotten more than a taste of her treat by now. "Grampa."

"Of course you did." He pats her back as she hops off his lap, then turns back to Emma with a look and a gesture that scream What did I tell you? for all to see.

For her part, Emma simply rolls her eyes. "Alright, you've made your point. Look, if it bothers you so much, why don't you tell everyone to stop buying her stuff?"

"Did your mother listen when you tried to do that?"

"Point taken." She mulls it over for a bit, watching the little figure bound away, then says, distractedly: "Does letting them be the most spoiled kids ever include allowing them to run with a spoon in their mouth?"

August follows her gaze, then stands up with a muffled curse and chases after his daughter before she falls on her face. Emma barely stifles her laughter, grateful that at least she's not still losing the argument - for a moment there, both father and child looked entirely too smug for her liking, which tends to be the only expression where they share an uncanny resemblance.

She just hopes Cedar will lose that trait as she grows up. She doesn't think she could bear it, if she had two Augusts to contend with.

[liminalmemories21]

2023 Writing Round Up!

tagged by @jesuisici33. Thank you!

Writing Round-Up: Share what you wrote this year! It can be works you posted to Ao3, Wattpad, Tumblr, or anywhere else! You can share everything you wrote or just the ones your most excited about.

Fewer stories this year, but they were all mostly much longer. I genuinely cannot believe that Knave 2 was this year, it feels like so long ago, but apparently was just February. I also can't believe I wrote it in two months. I think maybe Knave 3 kicked my ass so much I forgot that Knave 2 wasn't longer ago.

February

The Knave of Hearts . . . he said he'd steal no more (February 25, 2023 | 60,161 words | Rated E | Tarlos | White Collar AU)

Do you know where Tyler was the night of the 10th?"

"TK," he repeats stubbornly.

Mattheson looks up. "What?"

"His name is TK. Nobody calls him Tyler except his mother.”

Mattheson makes an ostentatious show of noting the correction in the file, although it hasn’t made a difference the last seven times Carlos has said it. "So, the night of the 10th, do you know where Mr. Strand was?"

June

We Were in Screaming Color (June 25, 2023 | 66,639 words | Rated E | Tarlos | Season 4 Interstitials)

All the conversations we didn't see in Season 4

July

The square root of sixty nine (July 6, 2023 | 11,630 words | Rated E | Tarlos)

5 times TK asked for consent + 1 time Carlos did

August

A Secret is a Strange Thing - Owen, Gwyn, Enzo (August 5, 2023 | 5,793 words | Rated T | Tarlos adjacent)

character studies - six kinds of secrets each person kept

October

to be at home in fragments (October 9, 2023 | 3,488 words | Rated G | Tarlos)

collection of tumblr prompts

November

The Knave of Hearts . . . brought back the tarts (November 17, 2023 | 65,951 words | Rated E | Tarlos | White Collar AU)

It starts so innocuously that it’s hard to pinpoint, even in hindsight. But he thinks that maybe it was his father’s birthday, sitting on the porch waiting to digest lunch before they embark on cake. TK is sketching a line of Steinlen style cats to march along the walls of Marisol’s bedroom. [ . . .]

His father laughs at the two of them. “That reminds me actually, a friend of yours stopped by to visit me the other day." TK freezes in reaching for his ice tea, and Carlos’s father arches an eyebrow. "Tulson. Agent Tulson stopped by my office. Who did you think I meant?”

TK exhales and picks up his glass. “The mind boggles. What did Matt want?”

“Wanted to ask if I’d heard any rumors about a new art thief nosing around town for targets.”

Think It Over, Think It Under (November 30, 2023 | 12,864 words | Rated T | Tarlos adjacent)

6 conversations TK had with his sisters-in-law + 1 conversation Carlos had with his sisters

December

Once Upon a Bus coming soon - the bus driver AU

tagging @ladytessa74, @chicgeekgirl89, @chaotictarlos, @strandnreyes, @paperstorm, @rmd-writes, @louis-ii-reyes-strand, @reyesstrand, and @welcometololaland

[xxgwenstacyxx]

Day 1: Loyalty

They’d come back for me. 

The words burned at the back of my throat like salt water, but they didn’t make any sense. They didn’t fit together with everything else I knew, refused to click into place, clogged up my airways like I’d already gone under. 

The water now reached up to my thighs. The narrow gap where it flooded the cabin forced it into a current that lapped at my legs like a clingy turtle ray. If I weren’t chained up and about to drown like the deceased rats we tossed overboard on the first days of a voyage I might have found something relaxing about it. The ocean had always had that effect on me. 

I had to yell to be heard over the mournful groan of the sinking ship. “What are you doing here?”

Surya didn’t answer. Of course they didn’t. The stupid thing had never once listened to me since we’d gotten stuck with each other, and they sure weren’t starting now. Not even with the ship sinking faster and faster, wooden planks creaking and breaking. Not even with the water sloshing around their chest when it only just finished engulfing my hip. 

“I told you to stay back,” I snapped, because I was stuck and the current was now slapping against my belly, and now Surya would die with me. Brainless, ridiculous child.

It made no sense. I’d yelled at them to leave. I’d told them I’d never cared about them. I’d thrown their mother’s death in their face like you tossed stones after seagulls to shoo them away. If there was one thing I excelled at, it was turning people away. Just ask Basilica.

“Why’d you come back?!”

The water now circled my waist, and Surya was too busy tugging at the chains to answer me. Like a squirt like them had a chance breaking apart metal. All they’d accomplished was to give the ship two rats to drown.

x x x

I wanted to give the August writing challenge from @problematicprocrastinator a go! :) I'm still getting to know my characters, so even though these snippets probably won't be in the final version, I'm hoping they'll let me get to know them a little better!

This first scene would take place all the way in the third arc of the novel. My main character Maryan gets herself in some trouble and isn't exactly thrilled about who comes dashing to her rescue.

[bluedalahorse]

What is this midnight sun bullshit???

(also hi :)

Hi friend! I have returned from Colorado.

Ooh, I’m glad you asked about this one.

So “what is this midnight sun bullshit” was a file started in the autumn of 2021, shortly after I’d posted Terrain Boundaries Territory to A03. Good lord, I wrote TBT before I learned how to punctuate poetry. I am much better at poems now. Also there’s just some really early show weirdness in it! Season 1 had just aired and we might have barely heard that season 2 was happening, but had minimal idea of what it would involve.

Anyway. Terrain Boundaries Territory is basically about Sara infiltrating the circle of elite kids to become August’s girlfriend so she can find out his dark secrets and get revenge on him for what he did to Simon. Of course, there is also some lingering attraction and horniness wrapped up in that angry plan. August falls in love with Sara when they’re together, and she realizes the best revenge she can get is thoroughly breaking his heart.

Now, I was writing this immediately post season 1. From my past fannish lurking, it seemed like most fans thought it impossible that August would ever fall in love with Sara, and fall in love with her hard and fast. However, I was convinced that he would fall in love with her in season 2, though I didn’t know exactly what that would look like. I could just feel it in my gut.

So I started writing this fic as August’s B-side to Terrain Boundaries Territory. I wanted to understand the process of him falling in love with Sara, and also just how his brain worked. The more I started writing in his POV the more I enjoyed it, even if it was a messed up, thorny place. Also, there was a whole subplot where August’s mother Louise was Kristina’s Unfortunate Romance during their teens.

I called the file “what is this midnight sun bullshit” as an allusion to the time Stephenie Meyer rewrote Twilight from Edward Cullen’s POV. Note: I have never read a Twilight book in my life. However, back when I could drink, I would sneak mini bottles of vodka into the movie theatre, dump them into a slushie, and drunkwatch the Twilight movies. Hence me using the reference.

ANYWAY. I am including an excerpt of the midnight sun bullshit in question below, so you can get a sense of the generally angry-horny-angsty vibes that dominated this fic.

Shortly before this scene, August got hit in the face and learned a little bit about Sara having been bullied by kids at Marieberg. He also learned that Rosh and Ayub are Simon’s friends, but that Sara thinks they’re only nice to her because of Simon, and wouldn’t like her otherwise.

Now, Sara and August are hiding away in August’s room. Simon and Felice happen to be away on a choir trip, and have just posted a selfie of the two of them together.

—

Sara swipes up, then down, before an image stops her. Simon and Felice side by side in their Hillerska uniforms—on their way back from the choral festival, probably. Simon’s got his elbows on the table like no parent’s ever told him off for it, and Felice has left behind her pizza crusts on her plate. They’re laughing together. Friendly. Friends?

Sara draws a ripped-apart-heart curve around the edge of the picture of Simon and Felice. She presses her lips together, tight.

“What are you thinking?” August asks her.

“Only that I’m so angry,” Sara answers. “All the time.”

“I know.” Now August leans closer. “Me too.”

He kisses her, like really kisses her, like for once it isn’t to say notice me but instead I understand. Sara is the only mirror August can stand to look at right now, if he can call her that, and part of him wants to drown in all of her—their—fucked up emotions. She’s kissing him back as many times as he kisses her, giggles in the gaps between. Then Sara dips down, presses her mouth to his neck, does something with her lips and teeth that will leave a mark, the way he’s only done to girls before. August’s breath catches. Things are even more fucked now because he didn’t even know he was into that, or what it means that he’s into that. He wraps his hands around Sara’s, coaxing her phone out from between her fingers. Pulls away.

The phone is already lighting up with another text from Felice, so August sets it face down on his nightstand. He opens the nightstand drawer and takes out a box of condoms, glances sideways at his window and checks to make sure he closed the curtains.

He looks back at Sara, reminds himself how much she hates euphemisms. Asks if she wants to have sex.

“Okay. We can do that.” Sara scoots closer and pinches the hem of his shirt. “As long as your face doesn’t hurt too much.”

“I’m fine.” What August actually means is, I really don’t care about my face right now, and that’s rare enough that it might translate to fine.

Sara kisses him again, which gives way to touching skin and tangling arms and legs and everything else together. The physical release of being with her should be enough. Should be, except. After everything, when Sara’s noticed the time, and after August has watched her pull her clothes back on and arrange her hair, and long after she’s gone back to the working class house she can’t stand, and after lights out has been called in the Hillerska dorms—after all that, August can’t bring himself to sleep in the center of his mattress. Awake, with his back pressed against the cold wall, he observes the space where he wishes Sara still was. He doesn’t even dare smooth down the wrinkles she left behind on the bedsheets.

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 36

Joint Effort (Wattpad | Ao3)

Table of Contents | Prev | Next

August 11, 1778

Réunion didn’t know what he thought of the Americans. They were a strange collection of people, although perhaps he would understand them better once he learned English.

Réunion has been sent into war on behalf of his mother, her ambassador, and her way of signaling that she genuinely cared about the war she was involved in. Réunion wasn’t used to this role. It hadn’t always been him. He was the replacement pick.

It had always been New France before him. New France, who was tall, looked more respectable and had been doing that job all his life. Réunion was a small island, the height of a child, more overlooked, receiving less respect.

It was harder for Réunion to adjust. But he had to. For his mother. He promised he would make her proud.

Even if Réunion didn’t like how they were going to manipulate the United States. It felt wrong for a colony to be the ambassador of an empire and tempt a colony that wanted independence into dependency with another empire. But Réunion had his orders, and he was a good son.

The United States came second to his mother’s wishes. Maybe she never participated in war, but she was just as terrifying and deadly as a soldier.

Réunion had been sent with the navy to a port city called Newport. The British had captured it earlier in the war, and the Americans wanted to reclaim it for their own. The Americans had had it under siege for a long time and were hoping that, with French support, they could take it back.

Réunion had been eager to help in the beginning, to enshrine a positive view of the French in the American’s eyes. If they could take back a city that the Americans had been attempting to reclaim for a long time, then they would begin the relationship in an excellent standing.

But the Americans seemed to think they were better than they were. First, the American commander deviated from the plan without informing them. It stung, but Réunion bit his tongue. 

He tried not to take it as a slight. The Americans were technically the ones in charge of the whole operation, and he knew that they were not yet used to foreign support. Besides, the siege was going well, with their ships grounding British ones that the British were then being forced to scuttle as more pressure was put on the British occupiers.

Despite tensions and learning to work together, it seemed to all be going well. There were both French and American troops on the island, and the attack could begin soon.

Of course, that was when it had to go wrong.

For the past day, a storm had been ravaging the Rhode Island coast, and many of their ships had been damaged. It was a devastating blow.

Not to mention, a British fleet had arrived a few days earlier to push them out of the bay. While the British fleet had certainly been damaged as well, no French forces could remain on the island as they traveled to Boston for repairs. 

At least, that was what the Admiral thought. 

“Comte d’Estaing, are you sure it is wise to remove all of our troops from the island while we go for repairs? The Americans will take this as an insult, and the troops can join with the Americans while we are—”

“We cannot risk it. All French troops will be coming with us to Boston. The Americans have managed fine without us. They can manage while we fix the navy,” Comte d’Estaing said. Réunion frowned.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Comte d’Estaing nodded.

“I do not want to abandon the Americans either, but if they need our navy, we cannot let it all get destroyed because of a storm. They will understand,” Comte d’Estaing said. Réunion nodded, bowing his head.

“Of course. I am just worried that the Americans will take offense to this. My mother wants me to ensure peaceful and cooperative relations between us and the United States, so my focus lies there,” Réunion explained. 

He didn’t know how else to explain his fears without challenging the admiral.

Réunion thought they were leaving too soon after the storm, with just a letter to explain why they were gone. He knew that as much as Comte d’Estaing didn’t see it as a slight to the Americans, they would take their sudden leave as a slight. 

Réunion knew this would only make his job harder.

“The Americans will understand,” Comte d’Estaing said before waving Réunion away, “You're dismissed.”

Réunion couldn’t help but wonder if New France would have been dismissed like that or if Comte d’Estaing would have heard him out. 

But there was no use in dwelling on it.

Réunion made his way back to his quarters and prepared pen and paper to construct a letter for the United States. If he couldn’t change Comte d’Estaing’s mind, he could do damage control. His mother didn’t care about the people. She cared about having some of United States’ strings in her command.

To the great country of the United States of America,

My dear sir, I regret the plan that Comte d’Estaing has chosen for our navy. While our ships are badly damaged, and we do need to go to Boston for repairs, I had hoped he would decide to leave our troops behind to help General Sullivan. Unfortunately, he has decided that it would be best to bring all of the French troops to Boston. He will not be swayed from this position.

I know you have long awaited our aid, and my mother has been eager to provide you with it, but we, just as you, are servants to the will of our people. I know this situation is not ideal, but we hope that once the repairs are finished, we can return to Newport Bay and secure the city you have been trying so hard to reclaim.

I am deeply sorry for any offense Comte d’Estaing’s decision might have caused you. I hope you can forgive us for the slight and help us to ensure peaceful and beneficial relations in the future, both in this war, and after it.

Your Obedient Servant, the Ambassador of the Kingdom of France in times of war,

The Colony of Réunion

[nicsnort]

The Bookworm and the Beast [part 47]

A dark Scarecrow/Fem!OC romance fanfic

Intro [with Ao3 link] First Previous

CW: Death and Funerals

The wind whipped around, and there was the threat of rain in the air as Isabel stood in front of the grave. The small funeral had ended some time ago, but she could not leave. Isabel watched as the men covered the grave with fresh dirt. They had left in silence, leaving Isabel staring at the headstone.

Jonathan Crane August 15th 1980-March 28th 2045

Twenty-nine years. They had had twenty-nine years together. No that wasn't right. As much as he tried, Jonathan had never given up his life of crime. Jonathan had made her a promise long ago that she and Evelyn were his new life's work, but the truth was that he was still in love with his Fear Toxin. A little less than two years after he made a promise to never leave her, he did.

Isabel was cold. She groaned and reached over to cuddle Jonathan, only to find him gone. Cracking her eyes open, she looked to the bathroom. The light wasn't on.

"Jonathan?" She called groggily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. From the room next door, Evelyn's room, she heard Jonathan muttering softly. Tiredly, Isabel got up and walked to the room. She paused outside of the door and peered inside, through the crack, listening.

"...regrets. You are so perfect. I love you and your mother so much but I need to go away for a while."

"Papa go?" Evelyn's tired, but sweet little voice asked.

"Yes, just for a few months."

"Go where?"

"Back to Gotham."

"Gotham? Batman!" Evelyn's tone became scared at the mention of Batman. She had been raised with her father and her "uncles" and "aunt" always casting Batman as the villain in their stories to her.

"Yes, Papa needs to go and fight Batman."

"Papa fight!" Evelyn giggled, "Papa win!"

"Yes, I will win," Jonathan reached down and picked Evelyn up, hugging her tightly. "I will win and return to you as soon as possible."

Evelyn closed her eyes as her father hugged her, and when she opened them, she spotted Isabel through the cracked door. "Mama!"

As Isabel opened the door and entered, Jonathan turned, Evelyn still in his arms. "Why Mama cry?"

Isabel reached up and wiped the tears from her eyes. "Nothing, it is nothing, sweetie."

Evelyn smiled and returned to hugging Jonathan. Isabel stepped up and wrapped her arms around both of them. Jonathan put an arm around Isabel and pulled her tight against him. The family stayed like that for a long while. Eventually, though, Evelyn became antsy. "Tired, Papa."

"Okay, my sweet, back to bed."

"Night, night Papa. Night, night Mama." Jonathan set Evelyn back in her bed, and the two adults snuck out of the room. Taking Isabel's hand, Jonathan led her down the stairs so they would not wake Evelyn back up.

"You were just going to leave without telling me?" Isabel accused once they were downstairs.

"No, no," Jonathan said, drawing her into his arms. "Of course not, pet. I was just saying goodbye to Evelyn first."

Isabel felt tears rolling down her cheeks. "Y-you didn't even tell me. We didn't discuss it at all."

"I know, Isabel. I'm sorry. I didn't know how to bring it up. Please understand. I don't have a scheme. I just need to conduct some research. I will be back in a few months. I promise…"

That had been the second promise he broke. Jonathan had been caught by Batman and thrown in Arkham, it was not until six months after he left that he returned. It was almost poetic, though, he had returned on Evelyn's birthday. Jonathan stayed with them again for a year and a half before returning to Gotham. That ended up being the pattern of their life. Stay for a couple of years, then leave. All in all, Jonathan missed about 4 years of Evelyn growing up. Four years they would never get back.

The wind was stinging Isabel's cheeks, the pain increased by the tears now streaming down them. Sniffing, Isabel dabbed the tears away. Jonathan had asked her not to cry. They'd known this was coming. Ten years ago, Jonathan returned to her and officially retired. Five years ago, he had fallen ill. All the years of being beaten by both Batman and other criminals and many more years of accidentally inhaling his chemicals had finally taken their toll. There was nothing the doctors could have done to help him, and all Isabel could do was ease his pain in any way possible.

The last year had been the worst. Isabel had done all she could, but in the end, they both knew his time was up. Then in the middle of the day, three days ago, Jonathan had been sitting in his chair reading when he suddenly looked up at Isabel sitting on the couch.

"I love you, Isabel." He had said, his voice still strong but the tone softer than it had been when they were young.

"I love you too, Jonathan," Isabel had replied automatically, not looking up from her book.

"No, Isabel." His tone, this time, made her look at him. "I do love you, and I am sorry that I went back to Gotham all those years ago. I should never have left you or Evelyn. We should have moved across the country far away from Gotham and Batman. I was being selfish, and I am sorry. I am so, terribly sorry."

Tears had pricked his eyes, which Isabel had not seen often in all her years with him. Smiling, Isabel had gotten up and kissed Jonathan's cheek, but then he had grabbed the back of her head and given her a proper kiss on the lips. Not passionate, but even fuller in meaning and intent than the kisses they shared when they were young. Pulling away, Isabel had felt her eyes misting over as well. "Do you need anything, Jonathan?"

"No, pet," Jonathan had said tiredly, "I think I will just close my eyes for a bit."

Isabel had nodded and went back down to read some more. When she had checked on Jonathan an hour later, he had passed on.

"Mom." Isabel was pulled out of her memories by the sound of her daughter's voice. "Mom, it is going to rain soon."

"Yes, Sweet," Isabel sighed. "Just-just a couple more minutes."

Evelyn put a hand on her mother's shoulder. "Okay, Mom. Stewart is waiting for you, though."

Isabel nodded before turning back to the grave. After her daughter's footsteps faded, Isabel heard another pair approaching her. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Crane."

Isabel turned to look at the source of the unknown voice. It was a man, old, but not older than her, somewhere in his late fifties. Most notably, he was huge, not with fat but with well-toned muscle. Muscle that could only be earned with years of constant use.

"Thank you." She paused for a second before continuing, "He had been sick for a few years. There was nothing the doctors could do. So many years of bodily abuse led to this. I always thought, one less punch, one less broken rib, one less time exposed to that toxin…but it doesn't matter now, I guess."

The other man was silent, staring consideringly at the grave.

"I suppose I should thank you again, though, for never coming for us, for him at home."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I'm not a fool, Batman. I saw you one night. Out in the woods, watching us. You knew where we were, and you knew where Jonathan was hiding. You could have burst in and arrested him, me. Broken up our family, but you never did. Thank you for that."

The man was silent once again.

"I also know what you have done with the other bodies. The bodies of Jervis, Two-Face, and the others who have died so far. I know you take them so their graves cannot be made into monuments to their crimes. Please, though, don't take his body. No one in this town knows who he is. No one will find him. Please, when the time comes, let me be buried next to my husband."

"No idea what you mean, ma'am," the man said, walking away. "Once again, I'm sorry for your loss."

Isabel watched as the man walked away. Her attention was drawn away, though, by a call from a young boy by the road. "Babushka!"

Smiling for the first time all day, Isabel waved at her grandson. Glancing back towards the man, Isabel saw that he had disappeared. Closing her eyes, Isabel looked back towards the grave once more. Bending down near the headstone, Isabel placed her hands on top of it. "Sorry, my love, I have to go now. It might be a while until we see each other again. I love you."

Standing, Isabel made her way to the road where her daughter and grandson were waiting for her. The six-year-old boy wrapped his arms around Isabel, his pumpkin-shaped plastic bucket that Jonathan had given him three years ago on Halloween, knocking against her legs.

"I am sorry, Babushka," he said, hugging her tightly, "I am going to miss Grandad."

"I know, little ghoul, so am I," Isabel said, patting his straw blonde hair inherited from his father.

Evelyn hugged her mother tightly. When they parted, Isabel looked at her daughter with her blue eyes so, much like her father's and her grandson with an obsession with Halloween to rival his grandad's. Doctor Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, the God of Fear, was gone, but his legacy would live on.

________

Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed this old fanfic I wrote a decade ago! If you are interested in some of my more recent works, see my master list!

Masterlist

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Who Cares for You (m)

Guess who’s back with YET ANOTHER fic lmao. This is based on 2 prompts, one from @waterfallofspace and one from an anon, the prompts are kinda long to put here but essentially the idea was that Elijah comes to work sick and refuses to go home, so Greyson has to figure out a way to get him home and take care of him. THANK YOU FOR THE PROMPTS!! <3 This one was a little out of my comfort zone, and I LOVED writing it so I hope you guys like it :) A little over 3k words because I just cannot be concise, it isn’t in my nature lol. 

OH and if you’re the anon who sent the Greyson-centric prompt, I’ll be filling that one later this week >:)

cw: male, cold, coughing, light mess. 

Who Cares for You

In the five years Greyson had been the executive chef at Elliot’s, many thing had changed; he’d become a partner; they’d expanded into the storefront next to the original, tiny space; and they’d seen about a dozen cooks, servers, bussers, and dishwashers come and go. One thing always stayed the same, though: August was always, without fail, maddeningly slow.

Greyson was sitting in the office, throwing a ball against the wall while attempting to come up with the fall menu they were supposed to be rolling out in the next few weeks. Was it an urgent task? Definitely not. But, his cooks were on prep projects, his sous chef was sorting through the walk-in, and truly, he had nothing better to do.

Unfortunately, his creativity was about as lukewarm as the office today.

Just when he was about to say fuck it and click out of the near-empty word document he had open, Greyson heard his boss swing open the back doors of the kitchen and stomp inside.

“Christ, it’s hot,” Elijah said, pushing past the chef and into his seat in their shared office. “Is August always this hot?”

“I mean, I’m sure climate change doesn’t help,” Greyson said, cracking his neck and turning toward Elijah. He raised both eyebrows when the two of them locked eyes. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?” Elijah asked, sitting down and turning on his computer. Greyson motioned to his own face, then at Elijah’s. “What?” Elijah asked again.

“You’re wearing glasses,” Greyson pointed out. “You’re not feeling well?”

“Oh. Yeah, I have a headache, didn’t want to put in contacts,” Elijah explained, pawing his nose with the back of his hand absentmindedly. He glanced again at the Chef, who had a cheeky half-smile on his face. “What?”

“Who the fuck gets a cold in the middle of August?” Greyson asked, laughing. Elijah rolled his eyes, then grimaced.

“Fuck off, Grey, I do not have a cold. It’s a headache. Not everything is a -,” Elijah cut himself off when his breath hitched, seemingly out of nowhere. “Huh! HUTSCHH-oo! Snf.” Elijah cleared his throat, and turned back to the Chef, high spots of embarrassment blooming on his cheeks. “A thing,” he finished, lamely.

Greyson snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, not everything is ‘a thing’, but this,” he gestured at Elijah’s entire presence, “is most certainly a thing. I’ve known you five years, Lij, you think I can’t tell when you’re sick?”

“What is this? What is happening?” Elijah turned his chair to fully face Greyson and gave him a look of disbelief. “Are we an old married couple now? You gonna start organizing my pills in little containers and making sure I take them with oatmeal every morning? Putting my coffee on the night before my early-morning shift down at the mines?” Greyson sat back, arms behind his head, and shrugged, clearly amused. “Do people still do the coffee thing? I thought that was eradicated by Big Keurig.” Elijah couldn’t help but bark out a laugh at that. “For real though, boss,” Greyson continued, “It’s gonna be slow as hell tonight. If you’re sick, just go home; Mark can handle the front. Hell, Matt could handle the back, to be frank.” Greyson sat back up and clapped a hand on his boss’s shoulder. “No need for you to martyr yourself. For once.” An insult, but said without malice.

Elijah wasn’t having it. “I’m here. I’m not sick, I’ll take an ibuprofen. I don’t need you to mother me, Greyson, though God knows you love to do it.” He stood up then, clearly looking to finish his tirade strong, but instead crumpled to the side to muffle a volley of sneezes into his sleeve. “Huhh! HuhNGSTSHH-ue! HhDTSHHH-uhh! Hhh...HNSTCHHOO!” Elijah sniffled and looked up from his sleeve at Greyson, who was clearly basking in the thought of being correct. “Fuck off,” Elijah said again.

“I didn’t say a word,” Greyson said, holding up his hands to proclaim his innocence. “But I feel like you might want to bring these,” he handed his boss the box of tissues from behind his computer, “with you.”

Elijah looked, seemingly longingly, at the tissues before pushing past the chef once again. “Not necessary,” he said, opening the office door. “I have to go get inventory done.”

***

“Chef?”

Greyson snapped his head up at the sound of his sous chef’s voice and gave him a half smile and wave. “What’s up, Matt?”

Matt shrugged, leaning against the door to Greyson’s office. “Just checking on you. Thought maybe you’d fallen into a trance or something,” he said. Greyson laughed and swiveled his chair away from the computer.

“Nah, just trying to get this goddamn menu written, but I have literally not one single idea,” he said, pushing his hair away from his face. Matt raised an eyebrow.

“Why not have Elijah help? Don’t you guys usually bounce ideas off each other?” Matt asked.

Greyson huffed out a laugh and turned back towards the computer. “Elijah is currently ignoring me for calling him out. He has a cold and desperately needs to martyr himself on this, the slowest week of the year.”

Matt snorted. “Sounds like Elijah,” he said, picking at a loose thread on his chef’s coat. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the guy leave early – well, unless you count leaving to take other people home sick.” The sous chef shrugged and pushing himself back to a standing position as Greyson slowly turned toward him, a look of bemusement on his face. “What?” Matt asked.

“Matt, you absolute genius,” Greyson said, pushing himself to his feet. “You just gave me an incredible idea.”

“About… the menu?” Matt asked, confused. Greyson placed a hand on his sous’ shoulder and shook his head.

“Not about the menu,” Greyson said. “Do you think you can hold it down tonight?”

“Uhh… yeah, Chef. I’ve got it covered. Are you...going home?”

“Not exactly,” Greyson said. With that, he swung open the doors to the dining room, leaving his bewildered sage in the dust.

***

Elijah slammed down his clipboard in frustration for about the tenth time that morning – there was no way in hell this inventory was going to get done today.

It had started fine enough; he’d inventoried the wine and beer relatively quickly, but once he got to the liquor his body apparently had other plans for him.

“HUHGSTCCHH-oo! HUTSCH-oo! Hhh...hnGTSHZUE!” Elijah sneezed into his rolled-up sleeve again and cursed himself for being too proud to take the tissues Greyson had offered with him. He wiped his nose gingerly on his sleeve, sucked in, and sat down on one of the thirty milk crates adorning the liquor room.

Much as he didn’t want to admit it, Elijah felt like garbage. He’d known for days that he was getting sick, and despite all of the preventative measures he always took it had bloomed into a Whole Thing, just like what he’d told Greyson it wasn’t. He would’ve laughed if he was thinking of it in hindsight, but in the moment he just felt miserable and sorry for himself.

Elijah went to stand and try to count the bottles once again, when he heard an unmistakable sound in the stairwell leading to the liquor room.

“Huh...UTSHH-oo!”

Elijah turned to face the closed door. Was that...Greyson?

Without warning, the door flew open, and there stood Greyson. Elijah had seen him only an hour before, but for some reason he looked different than earlier. Upon closer inspection, Elijah realized it was his eyes – they were rimmed red, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Grey? What’re you -”

“HUTSHH-oo!” Greyson turned to sneeze into his elbow. He shook his head as though to clear it and turned to Elijah. “Sorry, ’scuse me. I was just looking for you to help me with the menu – HUSHH-oo!” Another sneeze, and what sounded like a muted sniffle from the crook of his elbow.

Elijah couldn’t help but cringe. Maybe this was why Greyson seemed so adamant for Elijah to admit to being ill earlier; because he was himself. “Bless you,” Elijah said, his voice low and congested.

“Thanks,” Greyson said, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Sorry, not sure where those came from.”

Elijah swallowed hard to clear the cough he knew was forming in his throat. “Are you sick?” he asked, expecting Greyson to deny the claim. Instead, the chef just shrugged.

“Dunno,” he said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Just started out of nowhere. Anyway,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair and sniffling lightly. “I just came to see if you’d come help me with the menu, but I see you’re...busy. So I’ll leave you to it.”

Greyson turned to leave, prompting Elijah to call after him up the stairs: “If you’re sick, you should go hombe!”

Without turning to say anything, Greyson held up two fingers as an acknowledgment and headed through the door back into the dining room.

***

“HSTHH! USHH!! HTSSSH!!” Greyson barreled back into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes relentlessly.

“The fuck happened to you?” Matt asked, moving towards his chef with concern. Greyson shook his head and turned on the water at the sink.

“I’m playing the long game,” Greyson explained, leaning down to splash water onto his face. “I may have made a slight miscalculation though because holy fuck.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Matt asked, pulling some paper towels out of the dispenser and handing them to his boss. Greyson took them gratefully, and pressed them into his face.

“Well, like you said, Elijah will only leave if he thinks that he needs to take someone home. So. I’m going to be the someone he takes home.” Greyson pulled the paper towels off his face and looked at Matt with bloodshot eyes. “How do I look?”

“Crazed. Like a madman. What did you do? Spray yourself with pepper spray?”

“Ooo, so close. I snorted some white pepper.”

Matt’s eyebrows creased together and his mouth opened in confusion. Whatever question he had next clearly died on his lips at the incredibly odd admission from his boss. “White...pepper.”

“Yeah,” Greyson said, scrubbing at his nose. “I need Elijah to think I have whatever he has. Thus, white pepper.” He smiled at his sous, who was continuing to give him an unbelieving look. “What?”

Matt shook his head. “The two of you were made for each other, I swear to god,” he said, walking back to his station and picking his knife back up. “What are you going to do when he comes back up and you’re miraculously cured?”

Greyson chuckled softly in the back of his throat. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve got this all under control.”

***

After another twenty minutes of attempting to finish inventory, Elijah gave up and stomped up the stairs. He knew he’d hate himself for it in a few days, but he just couldn’t fathom counting any more bottles with the absolutely insane headache that had bloomed in his temples.

While walking towards the office. Elijah allowed himself to fantasize about his bed. About wrapping himself up in a blanket, watching TV for hours on end, sleeping as long as he wanted. Was it pathetic? Yeah, maybe a little, but he always felt like it helped get through particularly difficult days.

When he stepped into the office, the first thing that struck him was Greyson, slumped over on the chair with his head in his hands. Elijah cleared his throat, and Greyson sat up.

“Shit,” he said, “sorry, boss. Headache.”

Elijah’s head pounded at the mention of a headache. “Do we have any ibupro – hh..hnnNGSTHH-ue!” Elijah wrenched to the side and attempted to stifle the sneeze, making the pain in his head explode.

“Bless,” Greyson said, and pulled out a container of pills. “Always stocked and ready. Want some?”

Without thinking, Elijah held out his hand. “Thandks,” he said, dry-swallowing four pills. Immediately, he cringed at the pain in his throat, to which Greyson gave a small grimace of solidarity.

“I feel you. Sore throat,” Greyson said, touching his own and pouring out some pills. He swallowed his with a sip of something from a paper cup, then dipped into his elbow to sneeze. “HUSSHH-uhh!”

Elijah sat down next to the chef and cleared his throat. “You should go,” he said, gently. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Greyson shrugged at his boss and turned back to his computer. “Nah, I’m alright,” he said. “Besides, I didn’t bring my car today, and I’m having my apartment cleaned. The woman who cleans for me doesn’t get there til noon, and it takes her a few hours to clean it.” Greyson smiled tiredly and said, “Thanks, though.”

Elijah swallowed around the pain in his throat and said, “I cand drive you. You cand stay at mby apartment for a few hours, too, if you wandt. I mbean, it’s like ten mbinutes from yours.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow at his boss. “Really?” he asked. “You’d do that?”

Elijah nodded and sniffled a bit. “’Course, Grey. Hhuh…” Elijah’s breath hitched then, and Greyson pushed the tissue box towards his boss, who took a few in anticipation. “HhhGTSHHH-ue! Huh! HUHESZCHUE!” Elijah sniffled again, his sinuses too blocked to attempt to blow his nose, and threw away the tissues.

“Bless you,” Greyson said again. Elijah just ignored him.

“Grab your backpack. Let’s go before the traffic hits.”

***

This is going to work, Greyson thought as they swerved through the city traffic towards Elijah’s apartment. I can’t believe this is really going to work.

After they’d left the restaurant – with Greyson waving to his staff dramatically and Matt rolling his eyes at the theatrics of this whole charade – Greyson had asked if Elijah could stop at Walgreens.

“Don’t want to use up any of your stuff,” he’d explained, though truly he’d wanted to stop because he knew in his heart of hearts that there was no way Elijah, King of Denial, had any kind of cold supplies at his place. Elijah had nodded silently, and stayed in the car while Greyson hopped out and shopped.

The issue was, he wasn’t exactly sure what kind of illness Elijah was dealing with – no clue if he had an oncoming cough, or a fever, or abject sinus pressure – so he was forced to buy pretty much the entirety of the cold and flu aisle. The cashier raised both eyebrows when he placed the mountain of medicine, tissues, and lozenges on the counter.

“Wow,” she said, “someone must have one hell of a cold.”

Someone sure does, Greyson thought to himself when he threw open the door to the car and saw that Elijah was once again stuck in a pre-sneeze.

“Huhh...hhh. Huh, huhhh…!”

“Uh, boss - ?”

“HhNGSTHHZUE! ITSZCHUE! Huh! Hhuh-GTSSHH-oo!” Elijah doubled over his lap to sneeze, and cringed into his sleeve when he was finished, clearly trying to figure out if wiping his nose on his sleeve was too gross when Greyson was going to be sitting next to him.

Greyson dug into the bag of supplies and pulled out a box of tissues, which he ripped open and handed to Elijah. The GM silently pulled a few from the box and blew his nose towards the driver’s side door before turning back to Greyson.

“Thangks,” he said, his voice low and congested. Greyson winced at the sound of it.

“Do you, uh… do you want me to drive the rest of the way?” Greyson asked, placing the bag in the back seat. Elijah cocked his head, confused.

“Thought you were sigck,” he said, sniffling. Greyson pursed his lips together not to laugh.

“Yeah,” Greyson said, biting his cheek at the complete absurdity of this situation. “Let’s, uh… let’s just get to your place.”

Greyson had white-knuckled most of the remainder of the drive, as Elijah seemed to delve deeper into illness with each passing mile. After one particularly harsh sneeze had almost propelled them into a semi, Greyson had nearly screamed, “Oh, Jesus Christ please don’t kill us!” to which Elijah just rolled his eyes.

Finally, they arrived at Elijah’s building and parked in the garage underground. They rode the elevator silently – with the exception of Elijah’s coughing and sniffling – to the floor of Elijah’s apartment, and continued their silence until they reached his front door.

Elijah opened the door and Greyson marveled, as he always did, at how clean and organized his boss’s apartment was. Even the large window in the sitting room was unsmudged by fingerprints or bird shit. It wasn’t like Greyson’s apartment as a dump, not by any stretch, but it was certainly a bachelor pad; Elijah’s, in stark comparison, was styled—cozy and lived-in, but everything in its place. It was a home.

“You seemb to have mbade a miraculous recovery,” Elijah rasped as placed his keys in the bowl by the door. “You sure you’re ndot just allergic to wooorKSHH-uhh! NGTSZH-ue!”

“Lij,” Greyson said, holding the box of tissues out for his boss once again and placing the drugstore bag on the kitchen table, “I made a miraculous recovery because I’m not sick.”

Elijah turned to the chef and raised an eyebrow from behind a tissue. “But...you said you had a headache. And a sore throat, and you were sndeez – INGSTZUE!”

“Elijah,” Greyson said quietly, stepping towards his boss. “I’m not sick.” He slapped a hand onto Elijah’s forehead and gave him an accusatory smile, eyebrows raised. “You are.”

“I’mb – HNGSTHH-uhh! God-fuckigg-dammit,” Elijah cursed, pulling away from his friend to sneeze, once again, into his sleeve. He ignored Greyson’s offer of the tissues this time, in lieu of sniffing, hard, and meeting the other man’s eyes with a watery gaze. “You lied to mbe.”

“Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic,” Greyson said, pulling the supplies out of the bags and placing them pointedly on the table. “I didn’t lie to you. I tricked you,” he smiled at Elijah and offered him a bottle of nyquil – a peace offering. “Big difference.”

Elijah took the nyquil tentatively, and gave Greyson a look of confusion. “I dond’t… I don’t get it. Why?” he asked. Greyson shrugged.

“You’re a good boss, Lij, and an even better guy. You drive your staff home anytime they’re sick – hell, anytime they’re even hungover. But you refuse to give yourself the same treatment,” Greyson took the nyquil bottle back from his boss and cracked it open. He handed it back, along with a bag of lozenges, and the box of tissues. “You care for everyone in that restaurant. Who cares for you?”

Elijah felt his voice catch in his throat, so he closed his mouth, unable to form a response. They stood there together for a moment – Greyson sorting medicines quietly, Elijah watching with his arms full of the cold supplies he never would’ve bought himself – until he was finally able to get the words out. “Thangk you, Grey.”

Greyson smiled as he looked up at his boss. “No need to thank me,” he said. “Now take your fuckin’ medicine and get your ass in bed. I don’t trust you to not work, so I’ll be out here guarding the door until I’m positive you’re knocked out.”

Elijah huffed out a small laugh. “Oh, fuck you,” he said without malice. Greyson laughed back, in earnest.

“Get some rest, boss. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

[legacygirlingreen]

August 1890 // Farmer Sebastian Sallow x reader (part 7)

Part 7, full master list and description here

Word Count: 1,500

And to hide that would be so dishonest

It had been well over a month since that day that Sebastian had stormed off. She had hardly seen him since, despite being over at his house most days to help with Anne. She would hope to catch him, often annoying his uncle by wondering where he was. If she had to guess the boy was hell bent on never seeing her again. 

Anne wasn’t much help either, as whenever she asked why Sebastian was avoiding her, the sick girl simply would say “that’s something you need to ask Sebastian” before turning away with a grimace. 

Eventually she had enough, giving up and deciding if he was going to avoid her, she wasn’t going to keep trying. A small part of her had to wonder if he ever even considered her a friend, or if she was simply a replacement for Anne in his brain. Regardless she tried to move on, and get ready for school to start. Her mother had worked hard to get her uniforms for school, the beautiful blue silk looking quite wonderful on her. 

With only a few days left in the summer, she decided to seek out her willow in hopes of getting a quiet moment alone before she would be sharing a room once more. She had grown to like the solitude in the loft without rooming with siblings. Knowing the dorms in Beauxbatons, she’d be forced back into roommates. 

As she sat down at the base of the tree, she heard a noise above her. Looking up she saw Sebastian attempting to cast disillusionment. He wasn’t fast enough and the two made eye contact. 

“I didn’t know this spot was taken. Don’t worry I’ll find another.” she said curtly before picking up her book and lifting her skirt so she could stand, then proceed to start stomping away. 

Sebastian dropped down and followed her, shouting “y/n wait” and she ignored him, much in the same way he’d done the same for almost a month now. Unfortunately she knew he’d catch her eventually but that didn’t stop her from continuing to walk away to prove a point. 

When he finally caught up to her he pulled her wrist, forcing her around. Her eyes showed the venom boiling under her skin and he sulked back slightly, not used to seeing the girl so angry, let alone at him. Her anger caused the words on his tongue to die as he sputtered before her. 

“Do you have anything to actually say, or are you just going to stand there sputtering like a fish out of water Sallow?” 

“Right, I am an idiot… I’m sorry” he said almost as a question, and despite the rushed tone of his reply, she could tell there was a semblance of sincerity buried beneath the awkward nature of the apology. Regardless, a simple apology after so long ignoring her wasn’t going to cut it. And he knew that. 

“What are you sorry for? I’m just the annoying girl next door, not like you need to waste your time on a silly little girl like me, especially since it's my fault you’ll be all alone apparently” she said, forcing the tears threatening to spill due to her anger in her eyes. 

“You’re not, - I don’t see you - I know it's not -” he kept trying to get a proper explanation but he kept coming up short. Frustratingly he ran a hand through his dark hair and groaned. 

“Do you plan to speak to me using complete sentences or just stand there ripping your hair out?” she asked snarkily. 

“I should never have made you feel bad for something out of your control, alright? I had no right to be angry or disappear solely because I was disappointed you weren’t following in my footsteps. I think it's wonderful you can attend Beauxbatons, truly. I apologize for my unpleasant behavior as of late. It was not fair to you.” he explained, finally having collected his thoughts. 

“What made you change your mind” she inquired, tone still blunt with him, but Sebastian could sense a mild amount of acceptance. 

“I overheard you speaking with Anne, that day you came over to show her your school uniform… you seemed truly happy about going back to France. Not to mention the comments you made about feeling connected to your father by attending the same school as him… that you know he’d be proud of you… I suppose that hit a chord with me, as being at Hogwarts, knowing my father not only attended there, but also taught at the school… It makes me feel like a part of him lives on.  How could I ever want anything less for you in that regard. You of all people” Sebastian’s tone shifted often throughout his explanation, first being remorseful, then nostalgic and ending with disgrace directed at himself. 

“I accept your apology.” she said without offering any other commentary. 

“I suppose you’re going to end up in blue regardless. I still think you’d have made a brilliant ravenclaw… but Beauxbatons is fortunate to have you” he said trying to liven up the mood. 

“We still aren’t even sure what house I’d have been in. For all we know it would’ve been a Slytherin.” she joked.

“Absolutely not. You’d have made a terrible Slytherin. I can confirm, I’m sort of an expert.” he commented with mock confidence and she rolled her eyes as they looked at one another before breaking the serious expression, replacing them with soft laughter. After the small chuckles died down, they didn’t speak for a moment, letting the silence loom.

“I got something for you. Got it that day in Hogsmeade and I meant to give it to you but I ran off… sorry again about that.” he told her digging in his pocket. 

Her eyebrow peaked at the thought of him getting something for her. Eventually finding what he was searching for, Sebastian pulled out an object small enough that it could be completely concealed by his hand. Gesturing for her to open her palm, she did as he asked. 

Sebastian delicately placed the wand handle, made of an amethyst so light it was almost clear, in her hands, allowing her to examine it before he explained his thought process. 

“Don’t get me wrong, your wand truly is a thing of beauty, not to mention it has enough character on its own… I still thought it could look more personal to you I suppose. I originally got it thinking you were going to Hogwarts, hoping that french amethyst would be special and could make you still feel connected to that part of you… I suppose now it's not that spectacular–” he started to reason when she hugged him tightly. 

“This is beautiful Sebastian, thank you” she explained, rubbing it gently in her hands, imagining it on her wand, thinking how beautifully the color would look against the natural wood. 

“I hope whenever you use it, you’ll think of Feldcroft, and remember that you’re never alone.” he explained and she smiled. 

“I’m going to miss you, I am sorry things didn’t work out like you had hoped. I truly did want to be there, especially with Anne being sick…” she said remorsefully. 

“I know, but let’s just make the best of the situation at hand. You’ll go, make lots of friends, learn so much, get to speak in your native language for a while, and then come back here for Yule time. I am sure by then I will have cured Anne, and we can all enjoy time in the hamlet” he said, overly hopeful but trying to convince himself it was possible. 

“My owl is going to hate me you know” she joked and he laughed.

“We better start fattening them up now so that they can fly it off going back and forth between France and Scotland” he commented. 

“Their wings may fall off if we aren’t careful” she playfully retorted. 

“They will start a rebellion I’m sure” 

“Could you imagine?” she laughed 

“I can. They will have to deal. I couldn’t possibly go months without writing to my little cabbage” he joked and she laughed.

“What would I do without the obnoxious farmer next door?” she asked rhetorically. 

“Obnoxious?! That fancy French school of yours already has you thinking you’re better than the poor, Scottish, farm boy now?” He pretended to be appalled but she could see the humor in his eyes. 

“Never. And mind yourself: I am half french you know.” she mildly threatened and he laughed. 

“How could I forget? Sébastien this. Sébastien that.” he teased making fun of how she pronounced his name with her accent. 

“Says the boy who calls me cabbage intentionally as retribution for his qualms with my countrymen for making their language translate terms of endearments with vegetables.” 

“Touche” he said.

“Touché. Another word from the French.” she teased pronouncing it correctly. 

The pair of them erupted into a fit of giggles beneath the Sallow tree as the last moments of summer were spent making up for lost time…

[metamorphosisff]

|Chapter 14| The Motions

My body felt heavy as I left Dr. Mitchell’s office and reentered the damp heat of August in the city. It’s been this way ever since I have been at odds with my father. We still haven’t talked since our argument last month. I had mixed feelings about the whole ordeal. Feelings I had yet to process much to the chagrin of Dr. Mitchell, which is why he tasked me with reaching out to my mother. I have inadvertently ignored her in the midst of this and it was not fair. She did not ask to be placed in the middle of our mess. In my mind though, I automatically put her on his side. Not once considering how our actions were affecting her until Dr. Mitchell pointed it out. By the time I rode the subway, walked to my building, showered, and redressed, I knew it was time to call her. 

Grabbing my phone, I plopped onto the couch where a stack of papers waited to be graded on the coffee table as soon as this conversation was over. Like always, she picked up on the second ring, her sienna face filling the camera from her perch on the kitchen island. Her glasses sat on the tip of her nose which let me know she was probably in the middle of doing work. As a personal accountant to a few executives in the finance district, she often brought home extra documents to comb through uninterrupted. We were alike in that way, always working, never quite comfortable with idle time or hands.

“Look who remembers he has a mother who is worried sick about him,” she teased, pushing her glasses further back onto her face.

Outside of a few sporadic texts which were mostly about Granddad, she hadn’t heard from me, so the barb as light as it is, was warranted. “I’m sorry about that. I just needed to clear my head.”

“And have you? It doesn’t look like it from what I can see. Have you been getting enough sleep Xavier?” she fired off, face leaning in closer as she observed me.

Ma has always had a sixth sense when it came to my moods. I don’t know how she did it but she knew when something was off with me. Usually before I even had the words to express so. There was not much I could keep a secret from her and I currently did not have the energy to try. 

“I sleep but it doesn’t really help with the kind of tiredness I’m experiencing. To answer your question, no, I haven’t cleared it yet. Well, in some ways I have and in others…I don’t have the energy to,” I shrugged. 

“Care to expound on that a bit?” she asked warmly. “It’s only me and your sister here, and she’s upstairs talking to her friends so you can be real with me. I’d like you to be real with me. I don’t like seeing you so out of sorts.”

Once again, Ma knew my concern without me having to verbally express it. Since she confirmed that I wouldn’t be overheard- potentially adding more fuel to the fire that flamed between Pops and I answered her question with no hesitation.

“I have come to the realization that I am never going to be good enough for Pops and I can’t force myself to be what he wants nor apparently, can I make him like me by being myself. So I think I’m done trying,” I said.

Maybe we weren’t supposed to have a close bond. Pops and I got along best when we stuck to neutral subjects like sports and Veronica’s shenanigans. Well that wasn’t entirely true. We shared a lot of the same interests and were more alike in our demeanor than either of us realized. There was a layer of something though in our foundations that made us appear to be oil and water. It appeared the moment I turned fourteen. Like a switch went off, Pops went from being my dad to my drill sergeant without any warning or notice. My first reaction to the switch was anger but over the years that has settled into what I’ve found to be is disappointment.

“Your father said something ugly in the heat of the moment but it wasn’t true. Even as he was saying it, I knew it wasn’t which is why I was shocked he told such a bold lie in an attempt to try and even the playing field with you. I had to remind him that there is no game to be won when our child is hurting. No points to be made. No puffing of the chest. Nuh uh, none of that,” she said, wagging her finger for emphasis.

Though glad that she had stood up for me, it did not change much for me. “He still said it though.”

“That he did.”

“That shit hurt. Like a lot. On top of all of the other stuff going on between us, that felt…,” I sighed, shaking my head. I was still having trouble trying to name the exact emotion that is evoked when I relive the argument. “It felt like something I don’t think I can bounce back from.”

“I can’t blame you for that. When I was around your age, my mother said something hurtful to me and I didn’t talk to her for months. Me and you are alike in that way. We need time to sit with situations and that time can range until the moment we feel like we can face it,” she said, which was true.

I didn’t know how to move past anything without over analyzing it. Especially when I was dealing with someone I loved. It was hard for me to set boundaries and even harder to enforce them but I can’t go on like this with Pops. I shouldn’t have to. 

“So I’m not going to convince you to speed that process up,” she continued, pulling me from my thoughts. “All I ask is that if your father approaches you in the interim to give him a chance. You and your sister are teaching him that the world is not the same as when he was a child. Change is scary but he’s learning though it doesn’t seem like it at the moment.”

“No it doesn’t,” I sighed out, squeezing the bridge of my own. “Pops always said a man stands on his word. So I’m taking his words for face value at the moment and if he is changing, then he’ll stand on that too, and we’ll be able to see it. Until then I’m going to keep my distance.”

Nodding her head, she said, “Like I said, I understand baby I do. That’s my piece on that. So let’s talk about this new girlfriend.”

A laugh escaped my lips as I shook my head. “She’s not my girlfriend Ma’.”

She was close though. So close to being everything. The thought both scared and excited me because it was new. I never had a woman fit so intrinsically into my life or heart. There were days I questioned if she was real because how had I been so lucky? Mila was my better half in every way that it mattered and in every way that it didn’t. What we had was rare.

“Not yet but soon by the way you're blushing over there. I can’t wait to meet her. You’ll excuse me if I say, I hope she’s nothing like that high string Miss Thing you were last with,” she said, refusing to say Mariah’s name.

I shook my head. “Nah, she is the complete opposite, trust me.”

“Let me refill this wine glass and then I want to hear all about her!” she says with a silly smile that makes me chuckle. 

As she gets up to head to the refrigerator, I make a mental note to check in on her more often. I may be at odds with Pops but Ma’ has always been one of my best friends. 

Having enough of my “bitch ass moping”, Aiden said he was taking me some place to get my mind off of things. Knowing that was code for hellish workout, I dressed ready for the gym, and called an Uber for the Williamsburg address he sent me. I could have taken the train but my attitude wasn’t ‘take the train’ ready. This past week I have not been able to distract myself enough from the issues with my father. The minor incident I had with Granddad the other night had only worsened my mood as he overheard me on the phone with his doctors and launched into a two hour lecture on how he didn’t need any more check ups or anybody meddling in his affairs. Whatever Aiden had up his sleeve, I hoped it was enough to tire me out to the point where I’ll be too exhausted to overthink. 

It only took me thirty minutes to pull up to what seemed to be a converted warehouse. Converted to what remained to be the question. I could not tell by the crowd filtering in and out of the large building that sat on a dead end street across from another converted warehouse that was used for indoor paintball. It took a few seconds but eventually I spotted both Aiden and Rah standing not too far from the entrance.

“Ayo,” I called out, catching both of their attention as I strolled up. “What is this place?”

Rah snickered and shook his head. “Let me pull my camera up. This is about to be good,” he says in lieu of greeting and answering the question.

I turn my gaze to a mischievous looking Aiden. “What exactly does he mean by that?”

“You know he's just dramatic,” Aiden says with a wave of his hand. “But to answer your question, remember when we talked about participating in amateur boxing matches?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose already knowing where this was headed. “Vaguely.”

“Great so you do remember. Anyway I signed you up and you're slotted to fight in an hour. I got everything with me so don’t even trip,” Aiden said.

“You signed me up for a boxing match and didn’t think it would be a good idea to give me more than five seconds notice?” I asked, with a raised brow.

“Yes. We haven’t been in the gym doing drills for nothing. Now, let's go,” Aiden said, walking towards the door.

I stared at his back incredulously as Rah zoomed in on my face. “I hope all that practice wasn’t for nothing,” Rah laughs.

“After I win this fight, I’m beating both of y’all asses. Both,” I said, pushing his phone out of my face so that I could follow behind Aiden.

“Not it’s fuck 50,” Rah cracked beside me.

“It definitely is. You know this is wild,” I said with a shake of my head.

“Eh it’s better than what he initially planned. I was able to talk him down to this,” Rah said with a shrug. 

“That is…oddly comforting.”

“I thought it might be.”

In the hour before the fight, we are placed into a small room with just enough space for me to change into shorts and my shoes. Aiden wraps my hands and leads me through a few warm ups that gets my blood pumping. There’s a sharp knock on the door followed by a deep voice shouting, “We need Taylor upstairs in five!”

“We're leaving right now,” Aiden yelled back before turning to face me. “You got this shit bro. Use all that anger you keep inside, let that shit out, and win some money in the process.”

“Money? Is this legal?” I asked.

“Legal-ish.”

I don’t have time to curse Aiden out because we’re being called again and the man magically sounds even less impatient than he did thirty seconds ago. Within the next few minutes I’m ushered upstairs where a boxing ring has been set up in the middle. The crowd is thick in attendance and the workers have to lead us ring side as a Meek Mill song blasts from above. My opponent is reaching the ring the same time as me and I instantly start picking out our differences. I take note of his height and build, which hand he uses while he talks, and how he shuffles his feet in constant motion. This is supposed to be an amateur fight but it’s clear to me that he is a bit seasoned.

“Don’t let that nigga’s size fool you into think he’s better,” Rah says, appearing out of nowhere with a towel draped over his shoulder. Apparently while we had been downstairs, he had been up here getting the corner ready with supplies. “His name is Chris but he is known as C Knock-Out. That changes tonight.”

“Rah right. Niggas his sized get beat up everyday. This just another day,” Aiden said.

“Got it,” I said as he popped in my mouth guard. 

There wasn’t time for any more conversation because things were underway with the flashing of the lights. In what seemed like instantly, we were given the rules and expectations of the match. There would only be three, two minute rounds and any dirty moves would result in points being taken away or automatic forfeit. After that we were touching gloves and a bell was sounded.

Chris wasted no time in charging at me, his style of fighting was aggressive but his movements were clumsy. I was able to tire him out in the first round but it cost me a few body shots. We’re both feeling each other out because my hits are surprising him with how close they land to his face. To his ribs. The last jab I send to the latter area wakes him up. I can see the moment he realizes this won’t be an easy fight and he locks in. I spent the last twenty seconds of the second round dodging a flurry of punches, two of which connect to my jaw and send my head snapping back. I duck the follow up punch with just enough time before the bell us rung again sending us back to our corners.

Aiden is pulling out my mouth piece and I’m not surprised to see it filled with blood. Rah gives me water which I use to rinse my mouth out some.

“He mad now. He getting sloppy. He gon’ give you a window of opportunity, use that shit big dawg,” Aiden coaches, slapping my shoulder.

Rah tossed me a look.

“What?”

“Stop holding back your punches. Rock that nigga.”

I nod my head and with that, I’m ready to go back out. 

Like the two times before, Chris charges at me but isn’t prepared for me to charge back. We met in the middle and instantly began to search for openings. He lands a punch to my arm that sends me a few steps back.

“You know I’m putting that ass to sleep right?” Chris taunts.

“We’ll see about that.”

He starts sending punches to my ribs again and one of them causes me to bite back a groan. The muffled sound I do make is enough for him to sense a weakness. He continues his onslaught of punches but I don’t make it easy as I take him around the ring. I’m quicker on my feet than he is, something that he has yet to take notice of. He relies on his arms being longer so much that it has become a disadvantage. The moment he rushes to close the gap between us I send a right hook to his jaw and follow it up with my left. The shock of the punches causes him to stumble and that gives me the leverage to continue my assault. Like instructed, I use all of the anger that has been flowing in the undercurrent of my being behind my punches. Every stressful conversation, argument, and lost memory pours out of me until the bell rings and we’re being separated. I don’t knock him out but by the end of this final round only one of us is leaning and it isn’t me. 

It doesn’t register to me that I won until Aiden picks me up. The crowd is cheering and the energy is electric. Chris and I slap hands, him with a promise to see me again but he won’t. As much fun as this was, I think I prefer using boxing a method to clear my head, not as my livelihood. I didn’t need to take a spot from someone who really wanted this life. All I wanted was a distraction and Aiden, as backwards as his methods are, came through. I don’t know if it’s from winning or burning off some of the dark energy I had been carrying around but I feel lighter.

I’m riding this high as I go downstairs to change into my regular clothes. I have a busted lip and what I’m sure are fractured ribs but I feel amazing. Until I get around to checking my phone that is. My screen is filled with notifications and when I unlock it, I have five missed calls and thirty six texts. 

All from Mila.

[pea-shooter-brain]

Friendly reminder that the stats show that at least 101 women were murdered in Australia in 2024. That is roughly one murder every three to four days. 2023 it was only 64. And it is so, so unbelievably tragic we have gotten to the point where 64 women, 64 living people with hopes and dreams, can be called “only.”

I live in Australia.

Sometime in November, the body of Isla bell, a nineteen year old girl who had been missing for weeks, was found. The killer is Marat Ganiev. A man named Eyal Yaffe assisted him, and is currently WALKING OUT ON BAIL.

I didn’t know her. But I will always know the way my mum broke down in tears. “They left her in a dump. They killed her and left her in a fucking dump.”

It could have been either of us. We only live a few suburbs away.

Sometime in November, maybe early December, I was left home alone while my family went to the shops so I could look after the dog. I was instructed to keep every door and window shut and locked. After they left, I went and collected every sharp or heavy object that could potentially be used as a weapon and put them all in the bottom drawer of the dishwasher.

Skewers, knives, scissors, metal coat hangers, forks, rolling pins, everything. I then filled a metal water bottle as much as I could while still being able to swing it. I then went and sat on my bed, with the dog, and tried to distract myself.

Why?

Because my mother’s unstable, mentally ill, estranged brother had sent his own damn child death threats, and mentioned us in them. He hit my mother, when they were younger. He told her to kill herself.

He got put into a ward in December. I heard my Nan say she told the doctors she would rather kill him herself then let him out.

I was standing in the kitchen eating banana cake at the time. It was Christmas.

I don’t speak to my dad anymore. He was controlling, narcissistic, he tore my self esteem to shreds whenever he thought he could get away with it. One day he said to me, “I love how your solution to every problem is to be a lazy turd.” I said, “and I love how your solution to every problem is to insult me.” He was bitter about it until I left for the week, and was still bitter when I came back next weekend.

He was dismissive of my mental health. He denied the existence of my disabilities and then complained about textbook symptoms. He treated me like an emotional punching bag and would shit talk me in front of my little brothers, who used to adore me.

I always dreaded the car ride to his house. I always got anxiety that I could feel deep in the pit of my stomach for the entirety of Friday. Because something always happened. There was always some fight, some argument, something that could only leave me guessing if he would blow up or turn a cold shoulder for the next three days.

He would call other drivers retards. I technically fall the umbrella of people who can say it and I still feel disgusting even typing it for educational purposes. He did it so often that I would get anxiety specifically about that happening, because I knew how gross it would make me feel to not say anything about it.

I remember when I was younger, somewhere between ten and thirteen, hearing him say it for the first time. He was on the phone with a friend from work, shit talking some other people from work. I asked him not to say it, because I got called it repeatedly and unceasingly in school. He said he would. He didn’t.

It’s been almost a year since I stopped talking to him. He’s only tried to reach out once, in august. He sent me an email to say happy birthday.

I ignored it.

Violence against women, aggression towards women, hatred of women, it’s all so very, very real. It is insidious, and it is inescapable.

I am sixteen years old, i have had strange boys yell at me to suck their dicks, I’ve cried on a neighbours porch because I thought I was being followed home, I have had such severe anxieties navigating public spaces in broad daylight that I still haven’t been going outside as much as I used to before the pandemic, four years later.

I am sixteen years old, I am too young to have this kind of fear, this kind of anger, this kind of sheer fucking exhaustion. But I do.

And I’ve decided that I refuse to be too young to talk about it.

[courfee]

if this be done (part 1)

@jegulus-microfic | august 26 - crow | wc 1.1k | part 1, 2, 3

a magical realism au with witchboy james :)

James Potter lives in a beautiful cottage in the middle of a green forest with red shutters on all his windows and yellow flowers of every variety one can think of in his garden. His hair is as messy as his working desk, his smile as bright as the early morning sun streaming through his kitchen window, his hands as warm as the fire keeping a big cauldron bubbling at all odd hours of the day, and his heart is as open as the door to his house.

James Potter is a witch, and a skilled one at that, and he offers his abilities up to anyone who asks for help. A plea for a remedy against an especially peculiar sickness is met with a vial full of purple, steaming potion, a cry for help about a spell gone wrong is silenced with a scroll of a messily scrawled on counter spell, and a knock on his door from a lost soul with a heartache is answered with empathy and patience, a gentle smile, an open ear and cup of hot chocolate.

His work helps people and the people help James in return, sending well wishes and favours and ingredients for his potions. Moreover, they give James something to do and someone to be, a person who likes to help and is always there when needed.

He likes his life, likes his work and likes what it has done for him. It’s his magic that brought his best friends into his life, all of them in a similar fashion.

First had been Peter Pettigrew, a small boy with bright eyes and a brighter laugh. Or, he was a boy once James had found the right spell and the correct combination of daisyroot draught and honesty honey, buttercup brew and sunflower syrup. It took a while until James managed to turn him from the little brown rat that had turned up on his doorstep back into the boy he had been before he had stumbled into the wrong pixie ring and eaten the wrong mandrake leaves.

After that, word spread out quickly and Sirius Black was the next one to turn up. A loud and cheerful boy by day who, at night, turned quiet and terrified, the remnants of his family life that had ended when his mother had cursed him to be a big black dog, like his namesake in the stars. The re-transformation was more difficult this time round. Curses were not one of James’ specialities, and it took a while for him to undo the damage – at least the physical one – that his family had left on him. In the months it took Sirius stayed with him, and by the end James had not only gained more knowledge but a best friend as well.

Last had been Remus Lupin. He, too, had come to seek help about an animal problem. Turning into a wolf when the moon stood high and full plagued him even during the moonless days and, having heard of James’ previous success regarding animal transformations, he had sought him out, with scars on his face and hope in his eyes.

James didn’t exactly fail that time. He never managed to complete what he had sat out to do, but when, after having to bring Remus’ the news that he would not manage to turn him back into a full-time human, Remus smiled at him and said “I do not mind anymore,” James knew he still had managed to help where help was needed. Remus completed their little band of marauders, and with them found the acceptance he had always needed, and on top of that found love he had never expected to find with Sirius.

All in all it doesn’t surprise James when one afternoon in the late days of summer there is a knock on his front door and he opens it to find yet another animal looking up at him with dark, beady eyes and asking, a voice more human than crow-like, “Are you James Potter?”

James smiles, pushes the door further open and says, “That I am. Come on in and tell me what I can do for you.”

The crow walks in, head held high, black feathers shimmering in the green glow of the forest, and follows James to his living room. James takes a seat on his worn-out sofa and motions the crow to do the same.

“My name is Regulus,” the crow says, once perched on the arm rest opposite James, “and I have found myself in the unfortunate situation of being cursed.”

James smiles at Regulus, encouragingly and brightly, and says, “Lucky for you I’ve gained some experience with curses last year. It’s still not my speciality, but I will do what I can do unravel the curse so you can walk on two legs again.”

Regulus gives him a look that makes it obvious that had he still had eyebrows, they would now lift up into his hairline. “I am walking on two legs,” he says flatly. “It’s not the walking I’m concerned about.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry, all my previous clients had four legs when they came to me. This is a bit of a change, you see? But no matter, I’m sure there is not much difference between a crow and a dog.”

“Maybe I should find a different witch,” Regulus huffs. “One who is competent enough to not think a crow and a dog are anything alike.”

“Regulus,” James says, and the name feels pleasantly cold and smooth on his tongue, “You will find that I am the most competent witch.”

“And the most arrogant one, too, it seems.”

It is the first time that James’ smile falters, fog obscuring the morning sun. “I’ll help you,” James says. “It will take time and it won’t be easy, but I’ll help you. But for the duration of the process you will have to stay in my house.”

The crow grumbles, but he nods his little head. 

“And while you are here I will not brook you being unkind to anyone who comes by. If you can’t be a decent human being – or crow, for that matter – to any of the people who seek help from me, then I cannot help you either.”

Regulus steps from one foot onto the other, ruffling his feathers as he gives this a thought. “I’m not an unkind person,” he says finally, “I simply cannot stand stupidity and people so often are stupid. But I’ll step aside when you have clients and will not bother them. Does that work?” Regulus seems rather rude to James and he must admit he doesn’t quite like him from the few words they have exchanged. But he is James Potter, and who he is is a person who likes to help and is always there when needed. No matter how awful of a person, Regulus needs his help, and so James blows away the fog, gives Regulus a sunny smile and nods. “That works. Welcome to my home, Regulus, make yourself comfortable and I will start looking for the right spells.”