#sorry for my absolute absence here since like ... november

[mccncutter]

[anika-ann]

Stockings (S.R.)

Type:  Modern-college-professor AU - part of Attached series or a standalone

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 3000

Summary: You just wanted to decorate the apartment for a bit, you swear.

It wasn’t your fault that it was impossible to stay with your mind out of the gutter for longer than five minutes whenever Steve was around.

A/N: No knowledge of Attached needed I think 😉 Feel free to read as a standalone, you’ll find it in my masterlist as both.

A/N 2: For @wonderlandmind4​ ‘s challenge. Congrats on your follower count and for coming up with this awesome challenge!

Prompt: “Those - weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind-“ (bold in text)

Warnings: suggestive themes, implied smut with tiny bit of action so 18+, nsfw, language (always), and one (1) trope that has definitely been used before

Series masterlist

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When the idea of decorating first flashed through your mind, it was, honest to God, completely innocent.

Due to loads of schoolwork, Halloween somehow passed by and you barely noticed, the most festive thing you had done being the indulgent orders of pumpkin spiced lattés and hogging some of the candy for your exam time stress-eating. Candy which just happened to be shaped like spiders, snakes, witches and other lovely stuff.

But that was it and with ditching the spooky holiday and the Thanksgiving which no one in your apartment was allowed to talk about, you itched to celebrate at least one of the holidays in peace and with everything that belonged with it.

Gifts, obviously.

Baking, perhaps.

Decorations, absolutely.

Last year, you and Penny had gone a bit overboard, fully affected by the holiday madness, and bought half the store (well, as much as your financial situation allowed anyway). Your dorm room looked as if Santa puked there, as Penny elaborately put it, but you both adored it.

Now, with Steve, you knew you had to be considerably more restrained.

Not that he would notice if your apartment turned into a damn Santa village, because he was too preoccupied with grading midterm papers. Non-stop, it seemed. The pile never ever appeared to be reducing.

However, you and Steve had set a rule that even if you were both crazy busy, you’d make time for at least one or two evenings together – simply to take few moments to fully appreciate each other’s company.

That night, Steve’s mind wandered despite trying to stay focused on you, you could tell. You felt for him, you truly did… but you missed him. Your time together, truly together, became so rare lately and--- you didn’t want to end up like the couple that kisses goodnight and good-morning just because they share quarters and a bed, and ignores one another for the rest of the day.

Rather than letting the gloomy thoughts consume you though, you tried a different approach; humour.

After all, that was how your relationship had started, along with loads of awkwardness.

“Penny says hi, by the way,” you said casually, practically feeling Steve’s absence despite his body engulfing you as you cuddled on the couch, movie on your laptop playing in the background which neither of you were watching.

Steve hummed, his fingers never ceasing the comforting strokes on your arm.

You adored him, you did – which really was the reason why you couldn’t but mess with him, tease him for his mental trip to the far-away lands.

“She and Bucky hooked up again.”

“Mm.”

“She still claims he was the best she ever had.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Steve muttered, almost as if he was actually listening to you.

“I’m meeting them tomorrow both, because they offered me a threesome.”

“That’s nice.”

The corners of your lips twitched. God, Steve was lucky to have you to take his mind off his job sometimes, otherwise he would work himself into the ground with how much of his brain space was filled with university matters. He was so detached from life sometimes…

“Bucky asked if he could film it, do you think I should say yes?”

“Whatever you think—wait WHAT?!” he cried out, sitting up straight, hence pushing you up too since you had been nestled on his chest.

Giggles erupted from your throat as you watched his perplexed and scandalized face, realization slowly dawning on him as he probably went over the last few sentences that left your mouth – and his expression gradually melted into an apologetic one, blending into exhaustion as he ran his hand down his face.

You cupped his cheeks then, leaning in to plant a kiss on his forehead – you would swear it was a fraction hotter than normal, his poor brain overheating – and stifled the aww threatening to spill when Steve closed his eyes contentedly, a hum vibrating in his chest.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing your lips chastely before wrapping his arms around you to hold you close again, face nuzzling your hair. “I’m listening now.”

You curled into his warmth, much more welcoming than the comforter wrapped around you.

“It’s okay, Stevie. I know you’re tired. We’ll just call it a night.”

“But you wanted to talk about something?” he protested softly, earning a hum in affirmation.

“Just wanted to ask if you’d be okay with me decorating the apartment? Just a bit, to bring a piece of the Christmas spirit in here?”

You could feel his smile against your scalp as his thumb caressed your shoulders blades, his large form shifting for a bit.

“We both live here, sweetheart,” he reminded you and you made a tiny sound of protest. Yes, he was correct, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t consult him on stuff before messing with the interior, even if it was with the best intentions. Duh. “But I appreciate you asking. Decorations, huh?”

You withdrew, meeting his tired eyes with a barely-there twinkle. You smiled at up at him innocently, showing him a tiny space between your thumb and index finger.

“Just a little bit. Just the basics…”

“Uh-huh. The basics. So that’s what? Christmas lights, stockings, mistletoe, a tree?” he mused, his thumb moving to your chin, to your lower lip, brushing it tenderly as you nodded minutely with a smile. His irises lit up a fraction with that image he must have painted in his mind and you felt familiar warmth around your heart at the sight. “I guess we’ll have to talk about getting a tree then. But it sounds nice, babygirl. The mistletoe in particular.”

He proceeded to capture that lips with his, lazy but indulgent kiss that sent pleasant sparkles down your spine and yet made you sleepy as it was soothing, feeling like home.

“Yeah. Sounds nice,” you echoed dreamily, meeting his lips again in a short kiss before nudging him to stand up so you could begin to move to bed.

Only later it occurred to you just how nice you could do with the stuff Steve had mentioned if you tried – and you fell asleep in his arms, a menacing grin that would make Grinch green with envy on your lips.

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Carrying the box after hanging one mistletoe branchlet in the kitchen along with very few fairy lights in the window, you were ready to move onto the bedroom, where Steve was, again, working.

Not for long, you hoped – after all, you put notable effort into your appearance.

With a small smirk on your lips, you knocked on the separating wall, peeking from behind it, trying your best not reveal too much.

Steve didn’t even bother looking up, a semi-loud hum the only sign of him acknowledging your presence.

“I’m gonna decorate this room… you mind me messing around for a bit?” you asked, attempting to sound compassionate about his workload, which you were, and perfectly innocent, which you were not.

That got him eye you briefly, an unconvincing smile passing his lips.

“Sure, go ahead,” he encouraged you softly. He turned his gaze back to the papers on his desk and started writing notes before you could even respond – hence missing your victorious smile.

“Thanks!”

You gleefully walked in, steps soundless against the floor thanks to the thin fabric covering your soles, and placed the box on your own desk.

The rustle of papers and the sudden lack of scribbling sound had you biting your cheek so you wouldn’t burst out laughing.

Steve cleared his throat loudly; when you looked at him over your shoulder however, he went back to reading his damn papers.

You swallowed your disappointment, trying not to think much of it – Steve could be very patient when he wanted to be – or very impulsive. And sometimes, he was both at the same time.

So you pressed your lips together and removed the other branchlet of mistletoe from the top of the box, following with Christmas lights, putting whatever you needed on the desk.

“Sweetheart…” Steve’s voice sounded from his seat, partly amused, partly… hoarse, affected, and you had to bite your lips so the giggles wouldn’t spill out. “What are you wearing?”

You turned to him, making a show of checking your outfit, letting your palms sprawl over your barely covered thighs and slowly moving them up, the hem of Steve’s loose ivory sweater hiking up an inch and revealing the lace of your thigh-high crimson stockings; perhaps even offering a peek of the straps holding them in place due to the garter belt.

“Your old sweater… and stockings,” you offered with a one-shoulder shrug, cool as cucumber in December – or as yourself teasing your loveable boyfriend at the end of November – on the outside, giddy on the inside as his gaze trailed all over your figure, wavering at the lace and the patch of skin on display, before focusing on your face.

“Those-- those weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind-- when I, uhm, talked about decorating this place,” he explained.

He sounded almost patient, as if it wasn’t clear as day. His irises, however, were not clear – a cloud of desire covered them, turning them a shade darker, hungrier.

It sent a pleasant shiver up your spine, heat pooling in your belly, satisfaction at inching closer to your goal causing your chest nearly puff with pride.

“Oh, my bad!” you exclaimed, chuckling self-depreciatingly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you eyed Steve from under your eyelashes, picture perfect of innocence… not. “Silly me! I’m sorry, I know how much you hate me in stockings…”

“Babygirl…”

His voice resembled a growl, a low warning not to toy with him – which was exactly what you did want to do, teasing him shamelessly when having added emphasis on him not liking your attire.

Stockings and/or his clothes on you got your boyfriend going in fact, sometimes for hours even, thank you very much.

“Yes, Steve?”

“This isn’t going to work, you know. I really have to finish these,” he stated and you most definitely didn’t imagine the impatience and his dislike towards his task sneaking into his voice.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. These are just…” you bit gently on your lower lip, sliding your palms up and down your thighs, Steve’s gaze following the motion instinctively, pupils dilating with the craving to replace your hands with his own, “…comfy, just like your sweater. You never minded when I borrowed it before—you know I love stealing it. It just… it smells like you and it’s warm. It’s like you’re all over me. It’s perfect.”

His glare zeroed on your mouth, slightly accented by a natural, yet visible shade of your lipstick. Steve didn’t say a word, simply staring – and shifting slightly in his seat, much to your glee, which hopefully didn’t show too much – and grumbling an unidentifiable noise.

You felt for him, you truly did – god knew that sometimes, you were overwhelmed with schoolwork too – but that didn’t stop you from smiling at him sweetly now, adding an apologetic tone to your next words.

“Sorry. I talk too much. Don’t let me disturb you. You have work to do and so do I. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

Then you spun on your heels and went back to continue your previous activity, laying out decorations on your desk.

Steve only grunted behind you, but you could hear him as he started going through the papers again, probably trying – and hopefully failing – to ignore your presence.

It wasn’t that you wanted to be mean, there was no single drop of malice in your plan; Steve needed to get his head off his work for a bit, even if he wasn’t aware of it. The way he was overworking himself was beginning to threaten to his sanity.

You simply wanted to help and this was just the way that had crossed your mind first; it was entirely on Steve and his stupidly perfect everything that you couldn’t seem to get your head out of the gutter sometimes when in his presence.

You wished nothing more than for him to turn off his brain… and to relax and enjoy himself.

Clearly, he was enjoying the view indeed.

You caught his sharp inhale when you accidentally dropped a tacky plastic Santa and proceeded to bend over to pick it up… offering Steve a perfect view of your rear and revealing the smart garter belt you wore; with nothing as much as a thong, leaving your most intimate areas bare.

You heard him shuffling in the chair and had to smirk, mentally counting down the time until his resolve broke.

He was holding up quite bravely – nearly long enough to make you doubt your ability to seduce him. Except the shuffle of papers that followed sounded as if he was trying to make a point and you knew that the breaking point was on horizon.

So when the time came to set in motion what you assumed would be the final strike – pushing the chair from your desk to the middle of the room to get ready to put your stockings on display right in his natural line of vision – you delicately took the branchlet of mistletoe with you, climbing up and carefully tying it to the lamp.

Steve’s pen hit the desk with a click and you quickly shot him a glance, meeting his stern and yet rather amused eyes. He sighed at your ridiculously unsubtle antics, but one corner of his lips rose anyway.

“Alright, that’s it. Get down here, you little minx,” he huffed.

Oh, sweet victory.

Mirroring his expression, you retorted cheekily: “Come get me.”

There was no missing the dangerous glint in is eye as he rose to his feet and stalked to your chair, a smirk playing on his lips, every movement purposeful and precise as if he was a predator chasing his prey to the corner.

Your breathing picked up as he neared, your heart pounding, chest heaving quickly – fuck, wasn’t it an erotic sight, Steve’s figure cladded in plain t-shirt and sweats, looking up at you as if he was about to eat you alive.

Maybe it was the expression on his face, somewhere between aroused, amused, cocky and predatory at the same time. Maybe it was the outline of his semi-hard dick on his sweatpants. But shit, you knew you were in trouble, you loved it, and you might have been this close to drooling. You were glad for forgoing underwear, because it would be absolutely useless and soaked through in an instant.

And Steve hadn’t even started yet.

Stopping right in front of you, craning his neck only a bit to face you (the tall bastard), his wide palms sprawled over your calves, their heat warming you from inside out.  

An appreciative hum rumbled in his chest as his touch trailed up at torturously slow pace, drinking in the sight of your ragged breaths, indulging in every inch he laid his hands on. You couldn’t withhold the shudder running through your whole body and his grin widened.

“You’re such a fucking tease….” he whispered, licking his lips as his gaze fell lower again, following the movements of his hands, clasping the back of your thighs now, inching toward their inner part, fingers brushing the hem of your stockings.

“Is it-“ You had to clear your throat against the lump that grew there, your body buzzing with anticipation, the smart remark growing heavy on your tongue. “Is it teasing when you can just take what you want?”

He chuckled, a delicious dark sound, bringing more slickness between your legs, much to his apparent satisfaction as he set eyes on his prize.

“Downright naughty…”

His mouth landed softly on the inside of your right calf, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to nudge them few inches apart to make space for him.

“Does that… uhm, does that mean I won’t be getting any presents from Santa this year?”

You had genuinely no clue how you managed to form a sentence through the fog of arousal around your brain, only growing thicker when Steve’s teeth grazed the skin above your knee, his fingertips brushing an extremely sensitive spot so close to your core.

“You could come down now, be a very good girl and I might put in a good word for you,” he muttered, biting down some more, drawing a mewl from your lips, another one escaping you when he snapped one of the strings holding your stockings in place.

The sharp gentle pain was enough to make words roll off your tongue.

“You think that would work?”

“Oh sweetheart…” Steve chuckled again, a huff of breath warming your thighs, before his eyes, wide-blown and hungry, met yours. “If it doesn’t… you can be damn sure I’m gonna give you fucking everything I have.”

You yelped when his grip on the back of your thighs tightened and he tugged you forward, your hands instantly going to his shoulders to maintain balance as you found yourself with no surface under your feet all of sudden.

He grinned up at you – the show-off, but by God, wasn’t the demonstration of strength setting your body on fire, rendering you speechless – and slowly lowered you to the ground, half-lidded eyes zeroed on your lips. He made damn sure that you felt his erection against your body at all time as he always loosened his grip and tightened it a second later, until your feet touched the ground – and yet you felt your legs shaking, unsteady with the need to feel more of him.

It dawned to you how crazy he managed to drive you, your roles reversed, your plan backfiring. But was it? Backfiring? Because you couldn’t wait to see how it would unfold--

His hands slipped under the sweater you stole from him, one grasping your hip to hold you tight against his body, fingers of the other diving into the pool of slick between your legs, causing you to jerk forward into his hand.

He leaned down to nip at the skin of your neck right under your ear, forefinger circling your clit for a good measure, drawing a needy moan from you.

“And I bet you’re gonna take it…” he hummed into your ear, satisfied smile audible in his hoarse voice, “and thank me for it like the good girl you are.”

You barely forced the words out, heavy with desire but any less true.

“Yes, Professor Rogers. I think I will.”

“Damn right.”

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S.R. masterlist

Attached masterlist

The One Word (next in timeline)

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I really wanted to come up with an original title… and failed. Also, it was supposed to be a drabble, but you know that I tend to babble… and rhyme, apparently.

Thank you for reading and for any kind of feedback :-*

[kamosweasley]

Not that damn song again (George Weasley x Reader)

Description : It's Christmas time so a cute fluffy fic about it sounds right. And I'm a simp for George (and Christmas songs), I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Words count : 2.5K

Author note's : lyrics from All I want for Christmas by Mariah Carey are in italics.

Tag list : @memekingofwwiii

It's terribly cliché but you can't lie, you love Christmas. There is no better time of year, with snow, hot chocolate, big sweaters, cinnamon cookies and decorations everywhere, how not to love it ? You don't understand people who prefer summer with its sweltering heat and sunburn and all those damn mosquitoes. But unfortunately for you, your boyfriend is a man of the second category whereas you are a woman of the first category. Which makes some things a bit complicated, like you grumbling when he wants to pull you out in the July sun or like him not being able to stand the Christmas carols that you play over and over again from the first of November.

“Not that damn song again …” he mumbles, hiding his face in his hands. “Darling I love you, but if you play this song one more time ...”

“Come on Georgie, it’s Christmas time ! Listening to Christmas songs is essential to my mental health right now. It's either that or stuff myself with cinnamon cookies with the delicious icing and not fit into my favorite sweaters anymore. You really don't like it ?”, coming to give him a back hug with puppy eyes. He never resists you with those eyes, he loves to see them disappear to give way to a big smile.

“I'm sorry my love, but at the end of the fiftieth listening of your playlist I started to hate Santa Claus and the sound of the bells.”

You're both sitting on his bed, he's finishing his potion homework but he's not getting very far with you in the same room listening to the same songs for over a month. He hates it because he loves you with all his heart, but he's starting to wish he could go deaf so he can't stand those melodies which haunt him even in his sleep. He would love it as much as you do, but the more the days go by, the more he understands this will never be the case. And he doesn't want to put limits on how you enjoy this time, he knows how much it means to you.

You put your hands under his sweater to warm your hands, the contact of your cold skin on his abdo makes him startle as you let out a giggle.

“Sorry, my hands are cold and I know that your mother's sweaters keep me warm so I took advantage of it …”

“I know darling, it's absolutely not to satisfy your wandering hands.” he says as he turns his head to kiss you, “I'm going to ask my mother to knit you some mittens, since it's very warm.”

“Good idea, I'm freezing to death right now.” George begins to turn around with a grin on his face, ready to warm you up in his own way but you haven’t noticed his purpose, “I'm going to go make hot chocolate in the kitchen, do you want some too ? I can bring you a cup, I make the best hot chocolate you've ever tasted. No offense to your mom who must make really good ones too, but mine is better.”

You often take him by surprise, changing the subject or not noticing how the situation is turning out and he always found it charming. You make him think of Luna a little bit, on another level but just as clueless as her sometimes. Your boyfriend smiles at you, returning to his potion homework. “Anything to please you darling.”

“You'll see, it's fabulous! I have a secret ingredient, if you're nice I might tell you what it is.” you put on one of his sweaters that you take from his suitcase before you wink at him and leave the room. He should take advantage of the silence of your absence to finish his damn homework in a hurry but he can't concentrate. Potion is boring and he really loves it when you wear one of his sweaters, it's way too big for you and that's what makes you so adorable. And you will come to spend a few days at the Burrow, meet his parents as his girlfriend and receive your own sweater knitted by Molly. He hopes that you will continue to steal from him even if you have your own.

“Here it is ! Taste it and tell me.” you say while putting the cup in his hand. You already know what he’ll say of course, everybody loves your hot chocolate, there is no reason for your boyfriend not to do the same. He thanks you before taking a sip of the hot drink, ready for a chocolate too sweet with some spice in it. And it is, but he has to admit that it is particularly good. He nods his head before he smiles at you. “You're right, it's the best I've ever tasted.” He puts his cup on the bedside table and returns to his parchment.

“So why don't you keep drinking it ? It doesn't look like the best hot chocolate you've ever tasted.” You're sure George didn't lie to you, but you still hoped he would act on his words. When he tells you it's the best hot chocolate he's ever had in his hands, you wish he wouldn't let go of the cup until he's finished it. Maybe you have a misplaced ego but this chocolate is your personal pride and you want your boyfriend to treat it well.

He runs a hand through his hair, not even taking his eyes off his homework. “I've never been a big fan of hot chocolate or Christmas cookies and certainly not of all those bell-filled songs. I’m sorry darling but I never liked any of this.” You melt before his eyes, he is sincerely sorry he doesn't like what makes you so happy and you think it's too cute.

"I'm just not a Christmas person. It's good because we saw family and have presents but still don't get what you found in this period.” You come and join him on the bed, sitting in a suit in front of him. “It’s simple. Let it snow, Jingle Bell Rock, All I Want For Christmas, it’s all about a magical time.” In his eyes you can tell that he doesn't understand at all what you're talking about, which is amazing when you consider how much time he spent listening to all those songs. “We are wizards. Our whole life is magical, I'm not sure I understand you on that point.” You grab a roll of parchment and hold it as if it were a microphone, looking at him with a glim in your eyes.

The best thing you can do to help him understand is to show him. You’re not a good singer, at least George never complains about it, perhaps because he tries very hard to keep his mind upright since he doesn’t like your playlist. It's unlikely you'll be able to change his mind, but a little a capella karaoke should put a smile on his face.

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need. I don’t care about the present, underneath the Christmas tree.” While keeping your fake microphone close to your mouth, you point at your boyfriend with the same expression as Mariah Carey in the clip. “I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know ! Make my wish come true, all I want for Christmas is you !”

As it is impossible to sing Mariah Carey without playing the diva, you give it your all and when you see George's smile, you do it well. It must be your acting more than the words of love that make him smile like that, it's like he's trying to restrain himself from laughing.

“'Cause I just want you here tonight, holding on to me so tight.” On all fours you come and sit between his legs, facing him. He puts his cold hands on your hips passing them under the elastic of your jogging, a smirk on his lips. You shiver from the sudden cold on your skin but don't stop singing, your face getting closer and closer to his. “What more can I do ? Baby, all I want for Christmas is you ! You, baby.”

He's right in front of you. Your noses are touching, your eyes are immersed in each other and you melt like snow in the sun at the intensity of this moment. Damn you love him.

The hunger in his eyes devours you before his lips reach yours. A passionate, fiery, kiss that will get you high. Your head empties itself of all words and thoughts, your hands naturally place themselves in his hair and behind your closed eyes you imagine his smile, his eyes shining with mischief, his hand holding yours and all those little things that make you fall for him. Over and over again.

Gasping for air, the kiss is stopped. You're almost dizzy, head spinning with butterflies messing around in the belly. Liking George Weasley drives you crazy, there's no telling, you've never felt that way about anyone else. Before him you'd never been that high, you'd never had a simple kiss that made you tremble, you'd never dreamed of spending the rest of your life with someone. George Weasley is the kind of man you should treasure, marry and have as a father to your children. For the simple reason that he will be wonderful in all these roles, with him everyday life will never be boring, he will always have the words to make you laugh or smile. He will give love like no one else to his children, an exemplary father who will take care of his children as if they were the greatest wonders in this world.

You have no doubt about it, your boyfriend will offer a wonderful life to the woman he chooses. That's why you're not going to let him go. Your lover.

You suddenly open your eyes as you feel yourself tilted to the side with George, he's still holding you against him and you land softly on the comforter and pillows. You're lying against each other and George slips one of his legs between yours so that they get tangled up. “Now we’re good darling.” He kisses your forehead and plays with a strand of your hair, it's so peaceful. “I haven't finished the song.” You feel his mouth smiling against your forehead. “Who cares ? Certainly not me, I heard what I needed to hear. I think I understand now.”

“Do you ?”

“Yes, but I still hate Christmas songs.”

You lean on your forearm to look down on him, looking pouty. “C’mon ! You’re overreacting, this song is brand new. It's only been out for a month, you can't already hate it.” He grabs you by the shoulders and applies pressure to force you to lie down, not softened by your pouty air. “You listen to it all the time and if not, you sing it. Believe me, one month is enough to get sick of it.”

After being a diva a few minutes before, you're having fun being a diva again because after all, you can't talk about Mariah like that. And you can't help but defend the honor of your favorite Christmas songs. With a burning gaze, fists on your hips and a somewhat condescending tone, you fight back. “It’s Mariah Carey so it will be a massive hit, I’m sure of it. And at least, I’m sure you will think of me every time you’ll hear this song for the rest of your life.” Smiling at you, he adopts the same facial expression and flutters his eyes saying to you in a sweet voice: “The only way I'm going to hear this song again is from you. It's a Muggle song, no one is going to know it among wizards.”

Rolling on yourself to be flat on your stomach, half on George given the proximity that the bed offers you, you give him a charming wink as you rest your chin on your hands.

“That’s what I’m saying. At the end of each year you will hear this song many, many, many times and you will think of that moment when I sang it to you in your dorm at Hogwarts. You will see the scene again as you hear me singing it from the other side of our house. Because we're going to spend our whole lives together.” Since you're already half on top of him, he has no problem placing you on top of him, kissing both your cheeks and your forehead as you go by, making you giggle. “You’re a genius. You really thought of everything.”

You mess his hair before wedging your head in his neck, breathing in his scent. You smile against his throat and you know him well enough to know that it makes him smile back. “How could I want to live without you ? You know how to make yourself indispensable Georgie, it's almost annoying.” You love it when he runs his hand through your hair, it's the most relaxing thing ever. His other hand traces back and forth in your back, making you a little sleepy. This man knows how to deal with you. “Because you thought you were the only one who thought of everything? I would never let you go.”

If you could stop time and stay like this forever, you would do it without hesitation. You're comfortable in a bed, just the two of you, your hearts are beating at the same rhythm and you're in love. Then it smells like hot chocolate and you've managed to make him smile to a Christmas song. You never want to forget this moment. “Fine by me Georgie.”

You can't resist the temptation to hum Last Christmas, but George's caresses make you fall asleep little by little. You stop before the end of the song and in a few minutes you fall asleep on him. He kisses the top of your head, finding you absolutely adorable. You always manage to fall asleep quickly when you are being tickled, which makes him very tender and amuses him a lot. He often teases you about it, it always annoys you and he finds it even cuter.

Feeling your body rise slightly to the rhythm of your breathing, he starts humming the end of Last Christmas. He takes advantage of you being asleep, so you won't be able to talk to him about it someday. Continuing to run his hand through your hair and humming Christmas music, he smiles as he looks up at the ceiling. You are with him, alone and calm, in perfect harmony and he always liked to feel the beat of your heart when you cuddle. It's that kind of perfect moment. And he wishes it would never end.

[emma-what-son]

(Echee post) Did Emma Watson actually graduate from Brown University? Special treatment at college?

Posted on November 8, 2015

*PS this is a work in progress, will take a few days to get it in order...so apologies if it is incomplete Intro Emma has been talking about how important education is to her since she was 10. Even during the first interviews for Harry Potter promotion, back in 2001 for Philosopher's Stone, she was adamant about going to college. She's continuously said how important college/education is throughout the Harry Potter promotion years, but does what she say match up with what she actually did? She was playing along with that bullshit "Classy, educated" image she and her PR team (like her publicist Luke) have crafted for her, the one where she claims she is exactly the same as Hermione, the beloved character from the Harry Potter franchise. Course though, she's contradicted herself on that multiple, multiple times - sometimes saying she's exactly like Hermione, and other times claiming they're extremely different. There was some extremely strange stuff going down with Emma's Brown University Education though....as will be revealed below. And you'll have to start wondering if she actually did graduate or how much, how extensive and enormous, was the amount of special, unequal treatment she got for being a celebrity and a feminist (College campuses love pandering to social justice warriors/feminists - part of it is a natural love for them and another part is Obama forcing them to through the OCR and Title IX) Emma's Education Emma entered Brown University the Fall of 2009. Brown is a private, 4 year university/college in America. Emma entered Brown as an international student studying on an F-1 Visa. Okay Emma didn't do much BS during her first 3 semester (Fall 2009, Spring 2010, Fall 2010) at Brown and seemed to study there like most normal students, but it's after the first three semesters that things started getting extremely strange and Emma started telling a whole bunch of lies. Emma constantly raved about how awesome college is and gave every single impression she was going back to Brown in Spring 2011. getSurrey November 2010: getSurrey: Will you carry on acting? Emma: I will keep on acting. I’ve just been in a film called My Week With Marilyn. I’ve just finished shooting that. But finishing university is a priority. But I hope I do lots more things. I don’t really want to be put in a box – just yet. I’m not exactly sure. University Magazine Interview by Colin Turner (November 2010?): (Okay just note that this interview came out in June/July 2011 for Harry Potter Deathly Hallows Part 2 Promotion, but Emma mentions in the interview she just finished filming My Week with Marilyn, which happened in November 2010. Uni magazine is this student run magazine, so I'm assuming they don't do monthly issues (don't have the money/people for that) so it takes them several months to release an issue.) Colin Turner: You’ve gone to university, obviously, do you imagine taking up acting in the future or are you just seeing what happens? Emma: I just did a movie, finished something last week, “My week with Marilyn”, which is exciting. No, I think I’ll just keep doing things. But my education is my number one priority at the moment and everything else comes around that really. Parade Magazine Interview November 2010 (Emma Watson's Campus Confidential, interviewed by Jeanne Wolf): "I get some amazing offers to act, and sometimes it’s hard to say, “No, I’m going to stay here and do my homework.” People are like, “What do you mean she’s not available?” I may do some theater next summer, but this college experience is really important to me, and I won’t give it up for anything. I’m not going to school just for the academics–I wanted to share ideas, to be around people who are passionate about learning."

Echee says: Okay, notice how in November 2010 and even right up until January 17, Emma claims/gives the strong impression she's definitely going back to Brown University for the Spring 2011 semester. Big lol at the "this college experience is really important to me, and I won’t give it up for anything" two months before she did. By the way I have to mention the whole "Sorry for long absence from here - so much to do and so little time to do it in before I go back to school! Hope you're all ok x" was originally a tweet from Emma's @EmWatson twitter account but after she left university she deleted it lol. The picture I posted is from the official (that's why there's the blue check mark) Emma Watson Facebook page run by both Emma and her team. I guess she forgot to delete the facebook post after she deleted her tweet. For Spring 2011, the first day of classes was January 26 (per the academic calendar). Yet even at January 17, Emma stated she was getting ready to go back to school, hence her "so little time to do it in before I go back to school!" How the fuck can she be confused 1 week before classes start whether she's taking a personal leave of absence or not? Brown University Personal Leave of Absence Deadline

Brown University 3 types of leaves of absence

Okay, so of Brown University's three types of leaves of absence, Emma took personal. The deadline to declare you're taking next semester off is December 1, hence the Brown policy "If you are planning to take leave for the spring semester (Semester 2), you must declare by Dec. 1st." Either Emma was lying and trying to delay revealing she was taking time off to do her Perks of Being a Wallflower filming and BS Lancôme makeup and perfume work (very possible since she lies so much), or she was honestly undecided until right before, and thus requested special, unequal treatment that despite her missing the deadline, she should be allowed to take a leave of absence. Anyway I think it was special treatment from Brown allowing their publicity cow to get what she wanted. That means she was clearly lying in her January 17 tweet about going back to school.

This from Amanda Foreman, Emma's interviewer, for Emma's Vogue Magazine July 2011 interview: Emma struggled valiantly to fit everything into her life, becoming increasingly exhausted, until over Christmas advisors at Brown suggested that she take a leave of absence, a turn of events Yates was not surprised by. Notice how the Vogue article says it was "over Christmas"....Christmas Break for Brown starts after December 1, the deadline. First off, unless Emma's doctor signed off on it, then it was NOT a medical leave of absence, and her advisors gave her special treatment since she missed the personal leave of absence deadline already. And You know December 25 is over 3 weeks after the December 1st deadline, so that's an amazingly long extension despite the severe, absolute terms of "You must declare by December 1". Anyway, wowza, off to a bad start....getting special treatment when you're quitting school temporarily. Well, whatever, it's equality feminist Emma Watson that we are talking about here. She runs her mouth off talking about feminism and equality and whatever but like most Western (usually Caucasian) privileged feminists, have no idea what she's talking about. Despite Brown's Spring 2011 semester starting at the end of January, Emma kept quiet about all this until March 7, 2011. She announced it on her website EmmaWatson.com (which is now defunct and shut down): Here's her statement on March 7, 2011: As you know, I love Brown and I love studying pretty much more than anything. But recently I've had so much to juggle that being a student AND fulfilling my other commitments has become a little impossible. I've decided to take a bit of time off to completely finish my work on Harry Potter (the last one comes out this summer) and to focus on my other professional and acting projects. I will still be working towards my degree … it's just going to take me a semester or two longer than I thought : ) Hope you are all well! Thank you for all your continuing support. Emma xx.

On February 10, 2011 (well after the Brown semester had started), Emma confirms on twitter that she will be filming Perks of Being a Wallflower, which interfered with Brown (Brown school date ends May 20, Perks started filming May 9) and she had also already had various talks and was close to finalizing a deal with Lancôme. And she knew she would have to do some filming work for Lancôme commercials in the coming months. At this point clearly she was taking the semester off and yet she didn't announce it until March 7, 2011. Why'd she wait an entire month??? Why be so secretive of it? Just like how a week before classes started she was claiming she was getting ready to go back to school. And then why wait another month before she and Harry Potter publicist Vanessa Davies, release more details of this leave of absence? April 23, 2011 Press Release to Associated Press: LONDON (AP) — A spokeswoman for Harry Potter star Emma Watson says she will be transferring from Brown University to another university in the autumn. Vanessa Davies denied reports that the 21-year-old actress was "bullied out" of the Rhode Island university, saying there was no truth in reports by a number of online publications who cited classmates and "insiders". Davies said Saturday that Watson, who plays Hermione in the wizard movie series, has decided to pursue a different course not offered at Brown. She added that the star "has absolutely loved her time at Brown" and made many good friends there. Watson has recently taken time out of her studies to focus on her movie career. She has said that her first days in college were difficult. Davies did not identify the university Watson will be transferring to. Emma releases a statement April 30, 2011 on her website EmmaWatson.com (now defunct): I felt the need to let you all know the reason I took a semester off from Brown had nothing to do with bullying as the media have been suggesting recently. I have never been bullied in my life and certainly never at Brown. This "10 points to Gryffindor" incident never even happened. I feel the need to say this because accusing Brown students of something as serious as bullying and this causing me to leave seems beyond unfair. Please don't try and speculate about what I might do in September - no one can possibly know because I don't even know yet! Like my other fellow Brown students I am trying to figure out my third year and whether or not I will spend it abroad (this is common).

If you wondered why Emma let Vanessa Davies announce the transferring information, instead of Emma just announcing it on her website a week later, it's because Davies is head of publicity at Harry Potter, so they were working out how best to frame the narrative that Emma is still a hardworking student. Don't forget, ~200 million is spent on Harry Potter marketing for HP Deathly Hallows and Davies is part of that team and one of the heads. Warner Brothers had to protect their little cash cow until the movies were over and Emma couldn't damage their profits. Also, the Harry Potter spokesperson, Vanessa Davies, says Emma will be "transferring" but from Emma's own message (and it's later revealed), she was actually only just studying abroad, not transferring. Weird. April 2011 Associated Press Interview: I just knew I was going to be beating myself up because I wasn't going to be able to be doing the best that I knew that I could at school or in my job. If I'd been getting B's or C's I would've been really upset. Wonderland Magazine February 2014: You realize you can't do everything. I really did think I could do it all - commute back to the UK for Potter filming and press, then go to Brown for finals, and keep up with my friends and family. You can't do it by the way. You do have to take breaks. It's how I became interested in meditation and yoga. I developed bedtime rituals. Elle Magazine UK November 2011: Of course Harry Potter got in the way, with its relentless round of reshoots and promotion, meaning that Emma had to temporarily halt her studies at the start of this year. "I was basically commuting across the Atlantic. Taking a semester out wasn't what I wanted to do, but I am still enrolled at Brown." Collider.com Interview with Steve Weintraub November 14, 2010: Well, I keep trying to but she keeps finding her way back into my life. I still have two movies left to promote, and they’re still cutting and editing Part 2 so I might have to do some more voice recording and other stuff for it, so it’s a very gradual goodbye. I’m being eased out of it gently........I mean we are special, it is Harry Potter. But we only had two days—I was being sarcastic (laughs). Sorry, I have to like fill that in because otherwise it will be written, “we are special!” (laughs). But yeah we only had two days to shoot it and we needed so much more time than that. So yeah, we have reshoots at Christmas. So it’s not over. It’s not over yet guys! Echee says: Okay, what? Notice how in Wonderland Emma claims she was busy filming for Harry Potter and her Elle Magazine interviewer claims the same. Harry Potter Deathly Hallows Part 1 and Part 2 filming ended in June 2010, and then for less than a week they had to reshoot the epilogue in December 2010 (they reshot around Christmas time, so Emma had already finished her Brown Semester). They re-shot the epilogue because the makeup/CGI made the actors look elderly instead of middle aged. Also, HP and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 premiere was July 15, 2011. Generally press begins one month in advance (though you might do some magazine interviews 3-4 months in advance). Emma was not seen at any events/doing press until beginning of July 2011. She was stuck in Pittsburgh doing Perks of Being a Wallflower filming (which took place from May 9 to June 29, 2011) Emma was also filming for and doing work on her Lancôme stuff in March/April. How can she claim she was too busy during the Spring 2011 school year (which was from January 26 - May 20) with Potter filming and promotion? She did none of that. The overlap she had with school and non-school stuff was Perks filming and Lancôme filming/promotion. It had NOTHING to do with taking time off for Potter. Plus she was negotiating those deals for Perks in January 2011 and for Lancôme in December-ish. There was ZERO reason for her to take time off from school, but she did, because she was desperate for fame/money, and she blamed it on Potter to hide the truth. PopSugar On-Set May/June 2011 Interview with

Shannon Vestal Robson: Shannon: Have you read the book, and do you feel pressure to live up to it? Emma: I read the script first and then I read the book. It was so funny because I read the script and I came back to Brown and I told my roommates that I've just read this amazing script, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and my friends were like, "Oh, that's my favorite book. So jealous that you get to play Sam. If I was ever going to be in a movie, if I was ever going to play any character ever, it would be Sam. Notice how Emma mentions going back to Brown and asking her Brown roommates (Scout Willis, Madison Utendahl, etc.) about the book. So even during the Fall 2010 Semester, she was secretly thinking of filming Perks next year. And remember the interviews I posted above (from November 2010) where she claimed education and university came first? BS. She was already planning back in September 2010 (when she went back to Brown) about leaving next year. Also, remember this. Emma is claiming she was overworked with Brown and Potter stuff.....why in September 2010 was she looking at possible filming projects that would coincide with Spring 2011 Semester and Summer? If you claim you are overworked, why are you looking to add on more, extra, unnecessary work. She was also negotiating her Lancôme deal in December 2010 as well. Harry Potter Deathly Hallows Part 2 New York City Press Conference July 2011 (Listen at 17:30): "I'm going to Oxford, in the fall, to study English for a year. Just to explain, I haven't left Brown. I'm still enrolled at Brown, but I'm doing my third year abroad. Studying at home, abroad, for me. So I'll go back to the States to do my last year. I took a semester off but my A-Level credits actually count as an advance-place-me-out-a-semester so I'm no further behind, I'm still technically going into my third year. So, yeah, that's that." Something to remember is how Vanessa Davies (when the Harry Potter spokeswoman announced Emma was transferring from Brown in April)says "Watson, who plays Hermione in the wizard movie series, has decided to pursue a different course not offered at Brown". On Emma's EmmaWatson.com website in the FAQ section (undated), she says this: I was seriously torn as to whether to stay in the UK or go to the States as let's face it the UK has some of the best universities in the world. But, ultimately, I loved the course at Brown and really liked the idea of experiencing a different country and culture - and I must say I've never been happier, I absolutely love Brown. So strange how Emma + her Harry Potter spokesperson contradict each other. Emma claims she purposefully chose Brown (instead of staying in the UK for university) because she loved Brown's course, but then the spokesperson said the reason Emma is transferring is because Emma was sad that Brown didn't have the course she wanted to take. Emma reveals in the press conference that she will be studying English a Oxford. The thing is, Emma was and did graduate as an English Literature major. So Brown did have the course she wanted to take (which is what she earlier said). Okay so Watson claims here that despite taking an entire semester (3-5 classes) off, she's no further behind than the rest of her classmates. Damn, this girl must be such a hard worker to not fall behind. Still, is she telling the truth, lying as usual, or begging/threatening Brown University to give her special, unequal treatment? Fact checking Watson's "advance-place-me-out-a-semester" claim Brown University Office of the Registrar - The College, Advanced Standing Guidelines

Anyway, there's a lot of information and I only parsed out a bit of it, but here's a quick summary. Basically, to graduate from Brown University, you need to take a minimum of 30 classes during your college years (can be at Brown or other approved colleges) and also a minimum of 8 semesters. Just to mention, A-Levels are the UK equivalent of American Advanced Placement (A.P.) courses or International Baccalaureate (IB) courses. Also, when Brown says "credits" they mean courses/classes. So, yes, Emma told the truth in that her semester standing is no further behind because her A-Levels counted as an extra semester. However! Emma is still behind in total number of classes taken because A-Levels do not count towards your degree requirement of 30 classes/courses. So she needs to take more classes per semester than the average person since she's behind.

Vanity Fair May 2010 Interview: After shopping classes, she settled on European women's history, Ovid's Metamorphoses, and acting. “I think actually I'm the worst person in the class,” says Watson cheerily. So in Emma's first semester (that's the time period they're talking about), Emma took 3 classes - women's history (lol at this feminist class), Ovid, and acting. Brown requires students to take 3-5 classes a semester and so Emma took the bare minimum....kind of super lazy for someone so excited to get to college and start learning and whatever else she's been spouting for years. Okay, Brown's most basic, elementary requirement that ALL students have to fulfill to graduate is to take 30 classes. Since Emma only took 3 classes her first semester, that means 30 - 3 = 27 classes left to take over 7 semesters. Since Emma took a semester off but claims advanced standing, meaning she wants to graduate in May 2013 (September 2009 - May 2013), that means...... 27 classes over 6 total semesters. 27 / 6 = 4.5 classes per semester This I will go into detail in below, later, but just a heads up, Emma also took the Fall 2012 Semester off in order to film Noah. Because Emma had enough A-Levels, she did indeed get 2 semesters of advanced standing, but to graduate in 6 semesters means...... 30 minimum classes to graduate / 6 semesters = 5 classes a semester every semester Brown only allows you to take a max of 5 classes a semester and since Emma only took 3 classes her very first semester at Brown, it means it's impossible for Emma to graduate by May 2013 without special, unequal treatment....special treatment being either lowering the required 30 classes or allowing her to take 6 classes a semester, but come on, Emma is super lazy and unprofessional. Can you honestly see this girl doing 6 classes a semester when she lazily only took 3 classes her first semester? Freshman year is the easiest you know.... And their 30 classes requirement is their most basic requirement - to let her worm her way out of it would be absolutely disgusting.

[liladiurne]

Brighter Than Bright - extract from chapter 13

So, as promised, here is a little bit from chapter 13. The writing is slower than anticipated, as I haven’t been feeling very well these past few days, but hopefully I’ll pick up the pace soon. This is the opening of the chapter, and probably the less spoiler-y bit I’ll be able to isolate to share here. Some things might change, as I tend to add stuff here and there in my final draft. But hopefully, it will satisfy your curiosity for now, and give you a general idea what will happen this chapter. 

EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 13

For the last year or so, ever since Ron’s departure for London after the others, most of Harry’s life has been spent trapped in endless monotony. Time in Hogsmeade has the tendency to drag by sluggishly, the days succeeding each other with little differences between them, and apart from the occasional letter or book, Harry generally does not have much to look forward to. All the commotion caused by Mr Longbottom’s arrival was quite an unusual occurrence, a truly peculiar distraction from the peaceful, mundane life of the town. Following the young man’s departure and that of his unfortunate company, Harry fully expected that the monotony he knows so well would simply recommence, perhaps worsened this time by Ginny’s absence. Of late, however, he has had very little occasion to feel lonesome. Charlie’s presence, it seems, has the ability to hasten the passage of time.

October soon rushes by, colouring the trees bright red and golden before divesting them of their leaves altogether, and settling on the air a chill that grows more permanent each day. Charlie takes Harry riding as often as possible, to their mother’s absolute dismay and utmost displeasure at the constant, unpredictable borrowing of the horses. They take to regularly visiting the surrounding towns or wandering the countryside with no true destination in mind, often settling near the lake for hours when the weather is kind. Harry sometimes takes a book and reads it aloud to Charlie while his brother, who often carries his drawing supplies, drafts pictures of the scenery, of the swans, of the horses, or of Harry himself. Whenever presented with the finished portrait, Harry always frowns and insists that the handsome young man on the page looks nothing like him, accusing Charlie of taking artistic liberties, but his brother only smiles softly and shakes his head.

Yet another blessing brought about by Charlie’s presence is that Mrs Weasley is so often engrossed in nagging him that she rarely bothers with Harry anymore. The war is over now, she will insist nearly every day, and is it not well past time for Charlie to find himself a spouse? Whenever confronted with this sort of statement, Charlie simply tells her that he is in no hurry to marry and that she should not worry about him at all. Such assurances, however, are not enough to convince her, and she often persists for the whole duration of breakfast or supper. Would he not prefer spending the day in the company of a beautiful young lady rather than gallivanting through the wilderness with his little brother? Absolutely not, Charlie will respond resolutely with a grin in Harry’s direction. But then again, Mrs Weasley will often reiterate moodily, stabbing at any piece of food that happens to be on her plate at the time, what young lady would have him in this state? If he had only shaved that horrible beard when she first told him to, he would surely be engaged by now!

Indeed, since Charlie’s return, Harry’s life has been so filled with distractions that by the time October ends, he has nearly managed to forget the unforgettable, to forget what November will bring. And then one evening, he finds himself unexplainably queasy and exhausted as they settle for supper. There is no possible reason for this sudden fit of tiredness, as he has been forced to spend the whole day lazing about the house, his usual wanderings with his brother having been hindered by the heavy downpour outside, which threatened to turn into snow. And yet he struggles to keep his eyes open and to find any interest in the conversation or even the food. When he finally informs his parents that he is not feeling well and would retire to bed if they will allow it, he is taken aback by the gentle way his mother agrees and urges him to get some rest, and even more so by the way Charlie avoids his eyes as he leaves the dining room.

The notion is there in the back of his mind, waiting to be acknowledged, the simple explanation for both his sorry state and his family’s behaviour. But as he slips into bed with a satisfied sigh, Harry refuses to pay it any mind. He is so tired, and the blankets are warm and inviting. He wraps them around his body like a cocoon and his last thought before falling asleep is that this very place, his bed, his home, is truly the most wonderful place there is.

It is only in the morning, when he is awakened by a throbbing pain in his thighs and lower back, that Harry finally acknowledges what is happening. This pain is familiar and recognisable. Unique. And the time is right. Every ninety days or so, Dr Granger assured him. And indeed, it has been nearly three months to the day he found himself taken ill at Longbottom Manor. It is happening again.

Heat, a little voice drawls somewhat mockingly from the depths of his mind, and a sob manages to escape Harry’s throat, but he stifles it into his pillow.

From the daylight and the noises, he knows that it is considerably late already, but he has no desire to leave his bed. He grabs the blankets and pulls them over his head, engulfing himself in safe, comforting darkness. Perhaps it will not be so horrible this time, he tries to reassure himself. Dr Granger did say that the first heat is always worst, and it does seem like the pain is milder. But it has only just begun. No, it has not even truly begun. It started this way last time, with discomfort and soreness. But then it grew and grew until Harry felt he could not endure it any longer. The foul-tasting medicine helped somehow, but it never managed to make the whole of his suffering disappear. There was a pain that was bone-deep, originating from his very core, from a depth that he did not know he possessed before it began hurting. It was not only pain, it was longing. It was a vacant space, a chasm, raw and ripped open, begging to be filled, to be soothed. Remembering this pain now, curled up on himself under the blankets, Harry begins sobbing openly, begging it not to return.

[foreverthesickestkidz]

i’ll put a summary here at some point but yeah it’s a serial killer!mark tuan au okay

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten

warnings: cursing, mentions toxic relationship, i think that’s it but this is a serial killer au so read w caution anyway

authors note: this is a short & shitty chapter but it gets better i swear lol

masterlist | guidelines | lullaby m.list

Jaebum’s office at the Eclipse Police Station was pretty clean. The sort of clean that those who just walk in and look around some don’t pick up on the reality that almost everything in it was covered in a thin layer of dust, the small carpet in the middle of the tiled floor was pulling apart at the seams, and the clock on the wall was twenty-two minutes fast. But, Jinyoung grew to pinpoint every miniscule detail of the Police Chief’s office while he sat there for hours at a time. Jinyoung’s back honestly started to hurt around the end of the first hour, and his patience with the Chief was little to none when they started this meeting, and by the end he knew he’d be ready to pounce.

“Detective, I hope you’re paying attention. There was another death last night,” Jinyoung snapped his attention away from the fraying rug and back to Jaebum.

“Yes sir, but with all due respect, sir,” Jinyoung pushed himself up in the chair, “I already know what you’re going to tell me.”

Jaebum raised an eyebrow, “And what could that be?”

“That it doesn’t show a link to any of the murders, and if I go ask the coroner what the autopsy results were, he’ll say the victim died from the fire,” Jinyoung was growing more frustrated by the second. “Which is absolute bullshit, I saw the body! It had major injuries that a damn house fire couldn’t have caused!”

Jaebum’s jaw clenched, “You have no idea what you saw, Detective. That body was burnt to hell, nobody could tell anything. We still don’t even know who he is!”

Jinyoung shook his head and stood, “Alright, sir. It was the house fire. Have a blessed night.” He knew arguing was no use, he’d seen four other cases mirroring this one. All cases tended to wear on Jinyoung’s heart, but these past four were worse. The first time he noticed the body’s clear fatal wounds didn’t align with the Chief and the Coroner’s story, he figured Jaebum was right, he really was just seeing things. The next two times he opted to keep his mouth shut about it, figuring if he was the only one seeing anything wrong than maybe there wasn’t anything wrong. But, this last case pushed him to the limit.

Jinyoung drove home in silence. His head filled with millions of thoughts at once, as he watched the road ahead of him.

Something isn’t right

What do I do?

Who could I go to?

Would anyone believe me?

Why are they doing this?

Unanswered questions ate away at the young detective’s mind and morals. Once home, Jinyoung decided he needed a drink, and popped the cap off the last bottle of Soju in his refrigerator

****

Professor Lee opened the door to his office, politely greeting you and allowing you to enter.

“Y/n! Hello! It’s good to meet you.” Professor and attorney Lee’s smile was present, but ever distant.

You smiled and greeted him as you took your seat at the table. There were several other men present and you gave a small nod to them each.

Professor Lee sat at the head of the table, laced fingers placed on the dark wood ahead of him.

“We will begin our meeting with with some introductions, and what your jobs will be as interns,”

After the meeting finally ended, you sat in your car for a moment checking your messages.

Double B:

-hey lets chill later i miss u

Jackson Wang:

-we need to talk

-meet me somewhere soon

(123)456-7890

-Hey y/n it’s Mark

The last message you read made you smile. You decided to just call Mark while you drive home since you were excited to talk, but didn’t want to text and drive.

He surprisingly picked up after two rings.

“Y/n? Hey, what’s up?”

Your grin widened at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, I just got done with my internship. I thought I’d call while I drive home.” You shifted the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. “Why were you there, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Without missing a beat, Mark answered.

“I went to see a friend of mine that works there, actually.”

“Oh okay. I met a few people during my meeting, maybe I know your friend!”

“Ah, so that’s what you were doing there. I take it you’re a law student?” Mark twirled his pen through his fingers as he spoke, a nervous habit he picked up from Jaebum.

“Yeah! I’m almost done, though. It’s my last year,”

Mark caught himself smiling at your excitement. He’d never found joy in anyone else’s happiness before that very moment.

“So you’re just the whole package then, huh?” You could hear his grin.

Giggling, you questioned him. “What do you mean?”

Mark’s heart bloomed at the sound of your giggle, and he found himself wanting to hear it again and again.

“I mean you’re intelligent, that’s a given,” he chuckled, “but also, your beauty is astonishing. You’re magnificent.”

You turned the corner, nearing your apartment complex.

“...really? You really think that?” You were sure your face was neon red.

“Of course, babydoll. I would never lie to someone so innocent.”

His voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“How come you think I’m innocent?” You giggled again.

Mark smirked and took his bottom lip between his teeth. He deeply wished you were there with him at that moment.

“I can always tell who’s innocent and who’s guilty,”

****

Jackson’s Corvette sat glittering in the moonlight in front of your apartment. He pulled the key out as he exited the luxurious car.

Night had fallen upon the shoulders of Eclipse once again, and with it came the horrors of murder.

Weeks had passed since you moved back into town, and August heat had turned into September’s red leaves. The murders continued on, and with Bambam’s absence until November, he made you swear you’d let either Jackson or Yugyeom stay with you at night.

They traded off shifts every other day, and honestly you were relieved it was Jackson’s turn.

You were slightly startled by the sound of the turning lock, but quickly calmed at the sight of Jackson Wang in all his glory.

“You scared me half to death, Jackson. I told you to knock first!” You rolled your eyes and looked back down at the textbook in your lap. You’d been on the couch for hours studying the same few chapters.

“Sorry, princess. I always forget.” He winked at you as he dropped his keys into the small glass bowl by the door. The irony set in when you remembered that Yugyeom got it for you.

You huffed and roughly rubbed your eyes.

“This is ridiculous. I don’t need a babysitter,” Jackson sat down next to you, and you turned and sat criss cross facing him, “and stop calling me that. We’re not friends anymore, Jackson.”

He studied your eyes for a moment before speaking.

“I’m not babysitting you, I’m upholding my word. I told Bambam I’d do this so here I am,” he ran a hand through his hair, “and I know you hate me for how I handled everything between you and Yugyeom, but I didn’t know what else to do. He’s my best friend, y/n.” Jackson turned to look at the wall, lost in thought.

“I don’t like this, y/n. I wish everything could go back to how it was a year ago.”

You furrowed your eyebrows and shook your head in disbelief.

“You wish what?! Jackson, how could you say that? A year ago everything may have been perfect for you, but I was miserable.” You closed your textbook and walked out onto the balcony. The sea of lights illuminated your frustrated facial expression.

Jackson followed quickly behind, leaning against the railing beside you.

“You seemed happier then,” he almost whispered. “I noticed it, though. I noticed the change. When I first met you, you were unstoppable. You held the world at your fingertips, eyes wide and sparkling at every new adventure.” He paused and shook his head lightly. “Yugyeom was an asshole. You made him feel things he’d never known, but he didn’t know how to handle it. So, naturally he revered back to what he knew, to what he saw his parents do.”

You felt a tear threaten to fall.

“The most important thing right now to me, is that you come back to being yourself. If that takes hating me and Yugyeom, fine. But if your new boyfriend takes any progress away from you healing, I swear to God, y/n. I will end his shit. I made a mistake in defending Yugyeom, and I won’t make it again.”

***

Mark noticed the Corvette the moment he pulled his Hummer into the parking lot. After being together for weeks now, he learned of Bambam’s rule. He wasn’t happy with it, but he tried to understand from his perspective anyway. Jackson being in your apartment was annoying, but he was just an inconvenience at most. Yugyeom on the other hand, caused Mark’s temper to reach concerning levels. He was relieved it was just Jackson there today.

He knocked on your door before sliding the key into the lock. You decided giving him a key couldn’t be any worse than Yugyeom and Jackson having one, and Mark was your boyfriend now after all.

He found you on the balcony alone, sitting in the ground peering through the bars at the silent town.

“Y/n, I know it’s kinda late for dinner, but I brought you something to eat.”

You turned around and Mark’s heart ached at the sight of tears staining your cheeks.

He kneeled down, silver chains smacking together from the sudden movement. He placed his calloused hands on your cheeks, thumbing away the tears.

“Babydoll, what happened?” His voice was so gentle it shocked even him. He never knew he was capable of being so soft until you walked into his life. “Where’s Jackson?”

You sniffled and smiled softly to your boyfriend. “I think he went to sleep already… nothing really happened, I just, I just,” your lip started trembling again and Mark sat down with his back against the bars, pulling you into his arms.

“Shhh, it’s okay babydoll. I got you, nothing gonna hurt you,” he whispered into your hair.

You took a deep breath and relaxed into his arms.

“I’m scared, Mark. So many people are dying. What if I’m next?”

The comment made Mark cuddle you tighter.

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, let’s go eat and watch Disney movies, okay?” His smile made you feel better, and you found yourself grinning back at him.

“You know me so well already,” you giggled as he picked you up and brought you inside.

[sleepyxcoffee]

@thewitchersecretsanta gift for @youkaineko !

Ultimately, this was all Master Varin’s fault.

It hadn’t, Vesemir explained, been mandatory for young witchers to hold a degree until 1990, when Master Varin had returned after spending six years obtaining a Bachelor’s in Chemistry whilst still doing all his… witchering. He had proclaimed the experience “eye opening” and “a good way to get to know humans” and some other bullshit Geralt didn’t fully understand.

Geralt had succeeded in evading the Trial of Uni, as he and Eskel had taken to calling it, for a grand total of two months after his Grasses, until Vesemir had all but scruffed him and dragged him to a computer with UCAS opened up. His only solace in the whole situation was that he and Eskel were applying to all the same universities.

Except then Eskel got a full scholarship to the University of St Andrews, which the trainers weren’t letting him pass up on, and Geralt… didn’t get a place at St Andrews.

Which was how Geralt had ended up at Edinburgh instead. It was still Scotland, at least, so it wasn’t that far from Kaer Morhen over on the Shetland Isles, or Eskel in St Andrews. It was a city, which was… less than desirable, but Geralt could work with that.

He could.

What he wasn’t so sure he could work with was the fucking disaster of a man he had ended up flatmates with. The others seemed alright - Shani and Priscilla gave Geralt his space, and didn’t bother him too much. They didn’t seem to mind that he was a witcher either.

Jaskier, on the other hand…

The best part was, Geralt hadn’t even met Jaskier in the flat. For the first half of his first semester, Room 4 in Flat 12 of College Wynd had remained blissfully unoccupied. Shani and Priscilla did their own thing - Shani was rarely in the flat anyway, being a medicine student with a ridiculously full schedule - and Priscilla spent most of her time doing her theatre society things. The girls were at least kind enough to not throw any parties in the flat, after the time Geralt had nearly murdered Priscilla with a glare for doing so.

No, Geralt met Jaskier outside the dean’s office, of all the possible places.

It was November, and Geralt had heard of some strange, possibly vampiric, activity occurring on the outskirts of Edinburgh, thanks to a contract for a witcher put up by the Metropolitan Police. Unfortunately, he was also the only fully trained Wolf witcher situated anywhere near Edinburgh, and he’d be damned if he let a passing Cat or Griffin or anyone hop in and take the kill. Remus had passed through last week, but he was all the way down in Yorkshire by the time the reports came in. The UK was large, and the Wolf School was only a hundred or so members strong. They didn’t have enough witchers to permanently station anyone in cities, their witchers instead roaming up and down the country.

Also unfortunately, Geralt had about five different assignments due the next week, but the police were getting antsy, nobody could find the stupid vampire, and nobody could even identify it. Geralt had wanted to just get up and leave to take the contract, but Vesemir insisted he had to go ask the dean for permission to miss his classes first, and also for an extension on his assignments, because Melitele knew Geralt might take a while.

So, much to his annoyance, Geralt had ended up sitting outside the dean’s office during one of his free periods, fidgeting and playing with his medallion and his hood pulled over his distinctly white hair, shadowing his cat-slitted eyes. Just because everyone knew he was a witcher didn’t mean he wanted to put himself on show.

Then a tall, slim man wearing a frankly ridiculous red raincoat over an even more ridiculous yellow crop top and absolutely horrifying high waisted jeans and incredibly impractical Ugg boots (it was Scotland, how were his boots not soaked through?) sat down next to Geralt.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully, in an obnoxiously posh accent. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Hmm.” Who named themselves Buttercup in another language?

Jaskier laughed. “Hmm. What an excellent name. I love how you just sit there and… brood.”

Geralt turned pointedly away from him.

“Come on, you can’t keep a man with…” Jaskier waved his hands wildly, “...a screwdriver in his pants waiting.”

That caught Geralt’s attention. “What?”

Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. Say, what are you here for?”

“Absence request,” Geralt said shortly.

“Right, those, yeah,” Jaskier laughed again and sank down in his seat. “I’m uh - well, I may or may not have stabbed my flatmate with a screwdriver while I was putting together this thing from IKEA?”

Geralt stared at him.

Jaskier’s arms flailed again, and he made an odd sound. “He’s okay - unfortunately - he just ended up bleeding a little and started screaming and our RA walked in, and, yeah, I’m here now.”

There was a moment of silence. Geralt… didn’t know what to say to that. He settled for sinking further into his chair.

“...so, uh. What do you need leave permission for?”

“Job.”

Jaskier made an interested sound. “Ooh, cool! I should get myself one of those. What’s your job?”

“Killing monsters.”

“Huh?”

Geralt was saved from having to answer further when the dean opened his door. “Geralt Rivia!” he called. Geralt stood and pulled back his hood.

“Here,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier gasped and leapt to his feet. “Oh my god, I know you! White hair, yellow eyes - you’re that witcher! Jerald Rivia!” Geralt speed walked into the dean’s office. He gave Geralt a confused look, but stepped aside to let Geralt in anyway. “Jerald - hey, wait, that’s how you say your name, right - wait, don’t leave! Hang on! I’m sure you have a treasure trove of stories -”

The dean shut the door, and Geralt sighed in relief. “What was that all about?” the dean asked. Geralt shrugged. “Right. Well then, Geralt, what did you need to see me for?”

Once the dean had granted Geralt his leave with minimal fussing (scary witcher eyes worked wonders), Geralt brushed straight past Jaskier to return to his dorm room, despite Jaskier’s attempts to reach out to him. He had a vampire to track.

***

The vampire, as Geralt now knew two days later, was a katakan. And not just any katakan - an old, experienced katakan who had left Geralt sore, out of Black Blood, and highly toxic. The smarting in his leg told him Swallow or even White Raffard’s was probably called for, but the white hot throbbing of his veins told him White Honey was a much better idea.

Geralt groaned as he stumbled into the flat. Shani and Priscilla were, predictably, asleep - it was four in the morning, after all, but there was a third heartbeat coming from the kitchen. Instantly on high alert, Geralt kept one hand on his steel sword as he opened the kitchen door.

Dancing in front of the countertop was… Jaskier? What was the strange man from the dean’s office doing here? He was dressed in shorts and a loose T-shirt, and, humming, put a metal bowl in the microwave.

“Stop!” Geralt exclaimed. Jaskier yelped and dropped a fork - which had, God help him, been going into the bowl. “What are you doing?”

“Geralt! Is that any way to greet your new flatmate - sorry for getting your name wrong, by the way - hey, what are you doing -” Geralt shoved past Jaskier to yank the bowl out of the microwave and slam it onto the counter. It contained… what might have been mac and cheese. “What are you doing - you’re getting monster guts everywhere!”

“You can’t microwave metal,” Geralt snarled. “It’ll blow up.”

Jaskier blinked once. Twice. “Well. Ah. Thank you for letting me know - you’ve just saved our flat. A true hero. Say, what are you covered in?”

“Katakan.” Geralt stepped away from Jaskier and shrugged off his swords. Jaskier’s eyes trailed them curiously.

“Katakan. So, that’s, what, a type of necrophage?”

“Vampire. Their true form looks like a giant mutated bat but they can disguise themselves as humans, and their healing is slowest when the sun is highest. Violent. Nasty.”

“You don’t say,” Jaskier mumbled, eyeing Geralt thoughtfully. “And what about you? Why are your eyes all… black? Is that your witcher true form or something?”

Geralt… had nearly forgotten about that. He pulled out a White Honey from his belt pouch and chugged it. Immediately, the warmth spread through his veins, and he felt the toxins clear. “Witcher potions. Too much is toxic for even us.”

“Oh wow, your eyes are going back to gold.” Jaskier peered at him curiously, then made a face and leaned away. “You reek. You need a long hot shower. I refuse to live with that stench.”

Geralt’s thoughts came to a grinding halt. “You live here? Since when?”

Jaskier scratched his head awkwardly. “Since, well, yesterday. Because I stabbed Valdo Marx, who completely deserved it by the way. Unfortunately, he’s fine.”

...Geralt suddenly felt unreasonably worried for his safety.

He was pleased to learn, however, that the screwdriver stabbing asides, Jaskier proved to be a surprisingly good flatmate. Sure, he seemed to be completely nocturnal, but he was quiet enough at night and didn’t make a mess. He talked a lot, but after the first five times he tried to engage Geralt in conversation, he left Geralt pretty much alone. Having lived at Kaer Morhen, that was all Geralt could ask for. Jaskier even tried to arrange flat bonding sessions, which turned out surprisingly well and meant Geralt actually spoke to Priscilla and Shani, even though one session had resulted in Geralt needing to Aard the oven.

The story had Lambert and Eskel cackling when Geralt told it to them over the winter break. It was supper time, and the three were sitting together sawing at hard meat which was probably at least a year out of date with their dinner knives. Things never did go well when it was Gweld’s turn to cook. At least this time there were no magic mushrooms.

“How do you fuck up cookies that badly?” Lambert wheezed.

“You made bread explode once,” Eskel reminded him.

Lambert waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, but that was on purpose.”

Just thinking of the incident made Geralt groan. That had been interesting to explain to Vesemir, and Rennes had been distinctly displeased. Poor Lambert had spent the rest of the week waking up an hour before dawn to run laps in the frigid Shetland air.

“Compared to you, my university’s been fine,” Eskel said. “I haven’t had to take any contracts. Monsters don’t seem to like St Andrews.”

“The Trial of Uni is really fucking stupid,” Lambert grumbled. “The world already knows we’re freaks. Why rub it in our faces?”

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Eskel replied evenly. “Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

Eskel sighed. “Talkative as always. But really, Lambert, it’s not as bad as some people -” at this, Eskel threw a pointed look halfway across the Great Hall at Clovis, who even more pointedly ignored him - “make it seem.”

“It’s no worse than Kaer Morhen,” Geralt agreed. “Up for a round of Gwent?”

Naturally, Geralt won his round against Lambert, and then his round against Eskel, and Clovis, and Gweld, and Aubry, and Remus. He then promptly lost fifty pounds to Vesemir, but he at least had a few new cards, which was enough to please him. Unfortunately, Gwent had fallen out of fashion with humans sometime in the last century (the joys of having ancient instructors), so Geralt would have to wait until he met another witcher to play another round.

He returned to Edinburgh in high spirits. Aubry had offered to drive him and Eskel back to university, seeing as he planned on working his way down to Wales anyway. The car ride was long, but Geralt entertained himself with even more Gwent and bugging Eskel. Eskel returned what he got, and more than once Aubry had to remind them to not start sparring in the backseat of his car.

“I’ve had her for twenty years,” Aubry complained. “I refuse to lose her to a pair of rowdy green witchers.”

Unsurprisingly, Geralt was the first to return to his flat. The term didn’t start for another week, but witchers could hardly afford to lounge around all winter, what with the amount of monsters in Great Britain. Geralt didn’t have his own car, and so he was dependent on older witchers driving him back to university, seeing as he didn’t want to walk nearly four hundred miles.

The benefit of returning to university early, however, was that he had time to take on a contract. Someone had called Kaer Morhen just before he arrived to report “strange supernatural activity” in an abandoned flat. Geralt allowed himself a night’s rest, then set out to the apartment with his two swords.

It turned out to be a noonwraith, and that on its own would have been simple enough; noonwraiths were annoying little buggers, but they were manageable. No, the problem was when Geralt belatedly realised there was an alp in the basement.

The ensuing fight was hard and bloody. In the end, Geralt came out on top, but not without a wide range of injuries which left him on the ground wheezing. Eventually, he mustered the strength to take some potions and stagger back home, but not before texting Vesemir to let him know the contract was done. The contract giver would transfer money to Kaer Morhen, and Vesemir would send him his share. All in all, it was a clean system.

Geralt managed to stagger back to his flat. It was nighttime, and not many students had returned, meaning the streets were still relatively quiet. Those who did see him gave him a wide berth, murmuring and pointing, but Geralt ignored it. He just wanted to get home. A hot bath sounded excellent - then he could treat his wounds.

Unfortunately, Geralt discovered upon his return that someone else had arrived. He cursed his luck as he closed the door behind him. There was a suitcase in the front hall, and the kitchen door was propped open by a chair. Geralt could hear a man humming. Jaskier. Great.

Perhaps he could sneak past without Jaskier noticing - 

“Hello? Who’s there?” Jaskier called, and Geralt winced.

“Just me,” he called back.

“Ah! Geralt! How was your - Melitele’s tits, what the fuck happened to you?” Jaskier exclaimed. He dropped the piece of toast he had been holding and rushed to Geralt, hovering next to him. “Do you need the hospital? Should I call 999? I’m calling 999 -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said forcefully. “I’m a witcher. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Jaskier said fretfully. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call 999?” His hand hovered over the phone in his pocket.

“I’m sure. They don’t know shit about witchers.” Geralt started limping to the bath.

“Wait. Let me help stitch you back up, at least. I’ve got a first aid certificate.”

“Dunno what good that is,” Geralt grumbled, but he grabbed the first aid kit off the wall and threw it at Jaskier anyway. He stepped into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes and armour - he could deal with that later. Geralt stood under the spray of hot water, wincing as it ran over his wounds.

He decided to forego the soap and shampoo, instead gently scrubbing himself down to get rid of the blood and dirt. The noonwraith had been in that house for a long time, and with folks too afraid to go inside, it had become unbearably dusty. When Geralt came out of the bathroom, dry and dressed, he found Jaskier had set up the first aid materials on the dining table with a chair pulled up next to it.

“Sit down, Geralt,” Jaskier said, and Geralt did just that.

***

Jaskier was a quick study, and Geralt soon became grateful for his help, even though he refused to admit it. Sometimes, Shani, who was a med student, had to help with treating Geralt’s wounds, although she often complained he was better off going to A&E. Geralt reiterated that there wasn’t much A&E could do for him - his potions were enough.

Every week or so, Geralt would sit in the kitchen reading through his course work while Jaskier helped stitch him back up. He was chatty as ever, but at least he got things done.

“Come with me to open mic night, Geralt, Essi and I are performing,” Jaskier would say (and Geralt did attend open mic night, lurking in the corner), or “have you seen Professor Rejk’s new tie? It’s hideous!” (and no, Geralt had not, but he made a special point of paying attention to Professor Rejk the next time he saw him).

It was an easy relationship, one akin to the bond Geralt shared with Eskel, and yet completely different. Jaskier chattered nonstop, but he didn’t make Geralt talk, and he knew when to leave a question alone. It was companionable and comfortable, and for Geralt that was enough.

***

In March, a bug started spreading across campus. Geralt’s classes shrank in size as students and professors alike ended up bedridden with a horrible cold. He thought nothing of it - he was a witcher, after all, and witchers were functionally immune to human diseases.

Poor Jaskier, unfortunately, was only human, and he did manage to get sick. It all started when Priscilla caught the bug from Essi (who had caught the bug from Valdo, who had caught the bug from a music professor). Jaskier spent his free time caring for his friend, and by the time the week was up, Priscilla was good as new, and Jaskier was sneezing nonstop.

“You look terrible,” Geralt told him one morning when he walked into the kitchen for breakfast. Jaskier lifted his head to sneeze at Geralt, then set it down back against his arms. Geralt wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting,” he said as he pulled the egg carton out of the fridge. “Want breakfast?”

“Yes please,” Jaskier said, sounding very congested. “I don’t want to go to class.”

“Then don’t,” Geralt said simply. He took the frying pan out of a cupboard and set it on the hob, switching it on.

“You know what, maybe that’s not a bad idea.” Jaskier eyed the eggs wistfully. “Can I have scrambled eggs?”

“Hmm.” Geralt retrieved a bowl from the drying rack and cracked in several eggs, then whisked them. He added milk and salt to the bowl, and oil to the frying pan. Jaskier watched with hungry eyes as he cooked the eggs.

“Best roommate ever,” Jaskier declared as Geralt placed a plate in front of him. Geralt hummed and served up his own eggs.

“Where are Shani and Priscilla?”

“Morning run,” Jaskier said between mouthfuls of egg. The two ate in companionable silence, broken only by Jaskier’s coughs and sniffles.

“Go back to bed,” Geralt said when they finished eating. He gathered their plates and filled the sink up.

“Will you bring me tea?” Jaskier asked teasingly.

“Hmm.” Geralt put on the kettle, and Jaskier laughed in delight.

“You will! I knew you were a big softie all along!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt said, hiding his smile. “Go back to bed.”

“I’ll be waiting for my tea,” Jaskier said in a sing-song voice. “Best flatmate in the world, bringing his invalid friend tea.”

“You’ve got a cold, not the plague,” Geralt grumbled, scrubbing their plates clean.

“You never know! Anyway, are you heading to class?”

“Hmm. I’ve got a contract after.” Putting the frying pan in the sink to soak, Geralt dumped a teabag and an unholy amount of sugar into a mug. He poured in hot water and passed the mug to Jaskier, who took it gratefully.

“I’ll be here to stitch you up after,” Jaskier said lightly. “Anyway, off with you, or you’ll be late. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. See you later.” And as Geralt walked out the front door, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had found a second home.

[montagnarde1793]

Ribbons of Scarlet: A predictably terrible novel on the French Revolution (part 2)

In case you were wondering, that’s not actually the novel’s subtitle, which is really “A Novel of the French Revolution’s Women.” But like, only the famous ones. Ok, I’m done. Moving on...

Parts 1, 3, 4 and 5.

Structural Issues

 While the choice of characters was a red flag for me (and not in a good way), choosing to structure the book the way they did was a mistake.

 This is true for a number of reasons. (I’m sorry, btw, for all the comparisons to Marge Piercy’s novel, but the shared conceit kind of made it inevitable.) Piercy’s characters also only got an average of 80 pages each (though as the typeset was denser, they arguably had a little bit more space), but since the POVs were interspersed, they played off each other much more naturally and allowed the characters the time to develop. Even there it could feel underdeveloped, but here it seems like they’re rushing the undeserved character development so they have some kind of complete arc for each character before the next part starts.

Some chapters are clumsier at this than others. The absolute worst is Pauline Léon’s, which is unsurprising for a number of reasons, but notably because she has the fewest pages of anyone except Charlotte Corday, who doesn’t really get an arc: she shows up in the plot already wanting to assassinate Marat; she succeeds; she doesn’t regret her decision; she’s tried and executed. That’s it.

 This choice also means that the main strength of this type of anthology goes largely untapped: namely, that we get different POVs on the same events. Since each protagonist is associated with a different period in time, we can only ever get their point of view on previous events through awkward flashbacks.

 It probably also accounts for one of the worst, most artificial and amateurish aspects of the book: the way in any given section the other six point of view characters are shoehorned into the narrative, whether it makes any sense or not. The protagonists of the different sections have to have some (highly improbable) relationship with one another or be reflecting on each other’s lives in the most ham-fisted, author-soapbox way possible. We’ll circle back to that last part in a bit.

 Possibly the most ludicrous example of this is Manon Roland’s inexplicable decision to take a random trip to Caen in mid to late August 1792 just so the author can have her run into Charlotte Corday. Like, do I even need to explain how little sense this makes? Apparently so. Look, first of all, going from Paris to Caen was not a trivial trip in the 18th century. Today you could make a day-trip of it and not be missed. It’s about 2 hours each way in the TGV. But in the 18th century, you’re looking at more like 2 days each way, minimum. Not the sort of trip you tend to make without an ostensible reason. Does Manon Roland have one, even as written? No, she does not. She’s going to Caen to flee the temptation of François Buzot’s advances. Which, ok, internal motivation for leaving Paris, but they don’t bother to give her a pretext. How is she going to explain to her husband her random absence of at least 4 days (not to mention the expense)? And why Caen (other than the external reason of the author’s wanting her to come across Corday)? She has no connections there. Does the author even know that the main person Manon Roland knows from the region is Buzot and that it’s therefore the last place she should flee to stop thinking about him? And she’s supposed to be a savvy politician: does she not care about the optics, as the interim Minister of the Interior’s wife, of fleeing in the opposite direction as the Austro-Prussian troops are advancing on Paris?

 And I know what you’re thinking: I’m overthinking this. This wasn’t a book designed for specialists. But I think a reader can tell when a world they’re reading about doesn’t feel fully fleshed-out. In that sense, it’s less about accuracy than it is about how flat and artificial a reading experience it makes for. One of the most valuable things I was taught in school was that when making a presentation, you should always know more than you intend to say. I think the same goes for fiction: you should know more about the setting and the characters than appears on the page. In this book I consistently have the impression that the authors know less.

 Moreover, the authors claim to have been striving for maximum consolidation of characters in order to reduce confusion, but it ends up coming across as both artificial and condescending. Trust your readers to be smart enough to work through their confusion. Otherwise you make it feel like there were a total of about 20 people in Paris during the Revolution, which, again, makes the setting feel completely artificial.

 While I’m not sure anything but better research and writing could have salvaged it, this book would have already been 1000% better if the characters met or thought about each other only when it would actually make sense for them to do so and the narratives were interwoven.

  The Authors are Desperate to Make Sure You Feel the Way They Want You to about Key Figures. They Also Think You’re Stupid

 Don’t get me wrong. I’m not accusing them of supposing their readers to be ignorant about the French Revolution. You should always assume your reader to be ignorant of what you’re going to tell them. Ignorant, but intelligent. That’s the key. The problem is that the authors don’t trust their audience.

 So we also get characters doing things like giving you a who’s who of the most famous (and only the most famous) authors, artists and activists of the time whether it makes sense for them to do so or not, like this is a textbook and we’ve got to make sure the reader is informed of the existence of all these figures (or maybe give them the chance to pat themselves on the back if they’ve already heard of some of them).

 Or my least favorite French Revolution trope: having Robespierre ominously show up in 1789 to start plotting the “Terror” (here they have him spouting the apocryphal* quote “pity is treason” to an audience of Sophie de Grouchy, Condorcet and the Sainte-Amaranthe family sometime in May or June 1789) (p. 89).

 *Presumably, it’s a corruption of declarations such as the one in his 5 November 1789 response to Louvet’s denunciation that “La sensibilité qui gémit presque exclusivement pour les ennemis de la liberté m’est suspecte.” (“I find the sensitivity that groans almost exclusively for the enemies of liberty suspect.”) or the one in his second speech on the judgment of Louis XVI of 28 December 1792: “la sensibilité qui sacrifie l’innocence au crime est une sensibilité cruelle ; la clémence qui compose avec la tyrannie est barbare” (“sensitivity that sacrifices innocence to crime is a cruel sensivity; clemency that compromises with tyranny is barbaric”).

 Again, we see the same need for oversimplification. Robespierre is, as one of the authors’ notes puts it, one of the “dangerous men” (back matter, p. 18) that should have been prevented from ever having power so he’s not allowed to ever do or say anything sympathetic. (And yeah, I know, death of the author and all that, I shouldn’t count the authors’ notes, but they really only serve as explicit confirmation of what could be pretty transparently inferred from the text and this way no one can accuse me of reading things into it that aren’t there.)

Because of this, even real quotes are cited out of context to the same end: when Robespierre says “pity is treason” in 1789, Condorcet says his bit from the Chronique de Paris article from April 1792 to his wife — you know the one, about Robespierre’s being admired by women because he’s basically a cult leader (p. 90). There’s no reason to think Condorcet had any particular enmity toward Robespierre (or even that Robespierre would have been on his radar) just after the opening of the Estates-General, though certainly, contrary to what is portrayed here, Condorcet was not a democrat in 1789 and Robespierre was. But again, historical figures we’re not supposed to like must be set up early and often as stock villains — otherwise you run the risk of your readers thinking for themselves, I guess. Also the Chronique de Paris quote (which is from an unsigned article generally attributed to Condorcet) is pretty damn misogynistic, which given the book’s stated main theme, you would think would be addressed in some way, but nope!

 Conversely, figures the authors like are liked by the characters — or they are at least forced to begrudgingly recognize their merit — whether it makes sense or not. One of the things Manon Roland is made to number among the things going “wrong” in August 1792 is “the hero Lafayette[’s being] forced into exile” (p. 261) and while it is the author of a different section who is a self-proclaimed La Fayette stan (thanks to Hamilton, of all things…) I think it’s fair to say from his portrayal in all the sections that we’re meant to admire him. But here’s the thing. I don’t really care what you think about La Fayette. That’s not the question. To Manon Roland in August 1792, La Fayette was a traitor who attempted to march his army against the Legislative Assembly and all her friends and allies in said Assembly voted to indict him. If you’re writing from her point of view, it should reflect that.

 Likewise, they have Pauline Léon describe Olympe de Gouges like this in July of 1793: “A defender of women, of slaves, I wish I could have admired her, but having aligned herself to my enemies, I could look at her no other way.” (p. 353). Olympe de Gouges is far better known now than she ever was in her lifetime, so making sure every character has an opinion on her is, once again, pretty artificial, but even assuming Pauline Léon had heard of her, Olympe de Gouges’s brand of feminism was an elitist one that excluded women like Pauline Léon and her abolitionism went out the window when the slaves actually started to rise up, so Pauline Léon actually would have had reason to dislike her beyond the logic of ‘you’re with me or you’re my enemy’ (there is a quote where she’s made to think precisely that, but I can’t seem to find it now — or maybe it was Reine Audu; they’re characterized pretty similarly in that respect). Likewise, Pauline Léon is made to disapprove of Condorcet or the Rolands because they don’t “[get] things done,” not because of any actual ideological disagreement (p. 349).

Probably the worst bit of condescension comes once again from Manon Roland’s section, where she tells a fellow spectator in the gallery of the Convention, “‘Don’t bother trying to tell the different assemblies and conventions apart,’” which is pretty transparently just the authors directly talking (down) to the reader rather than a conversation people who were living through events (and invested enough to be attending the Convention) would plausibly have had.

If it sounds like I’m being particularly harsh on the Manon Roland section, btw, I actually think it’s one of the less poorly done, at least in terms of rendering an historical figure’s mentality, most likely because unlike for some of the other figures, we have her memoirs and correspondence. It helps that the figures she’s supposed to hate line up with the figures the authors want us to hate as well. She saw herself as a reasonable republican and her Montagnard enemies as demagogues and that’s also clearly the authors’ assessment of the situation, so there’s less of the strange cognitive dissonance you get in some of the other chapters where even what is supposedly characters’ own POV frames them as wrong.

Stay tuned for style issues and reflections on what it means to “write what you want to know”!

[lostparker]

sorry doesn’t fix a broken heart p.p oneshot

pairing: peter parker x reader

summary: you’ve reached your breaking point after Peter misses another date without explanation and you’re ready to end things, but before you could you find out the real reason he’s been pushing you away

warnings: angst, angst, angst and like one curse word

words: 2.7k

A/N: so firstly, thank you so much for all the amazing feedback on my last oneshot. wow. secondly here's another one. this is the longest thing I’ve ever written but also the one I’m most unsure about. I really don’t know how this one is gonna go so feedback as always is appreciated. (side note I’ve completely ignored the events of infinity war, endgame, and ffh)

this does NOT contain ffh spoilers.

Your evening was beginning to drag on. Every passing moment felt like an eternity. With each second your remaining hope dispersed out into the night. You tried to avoid the gaze of the waitresses who were shooting you apologetic glances as you sipped your almost empty drink. You checked your phone again for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. 8.58pm.

You’d had enough.

Giving in you sighed, deciding to take home what little dignity you had left. You finished off the last of your now tepid drink in the glass before throwing a couple of crumpled bills on the table. You kept your eyes away from the now sympathetic look the waitress behind the counter was giving you. It was as if you might as well have been wearing a flashing, neon sign that read ‘Yep! Just got stood up.’ With one final deep breath, you left any and all hope you’d had that Peter would show up behind you in the diner.

The door snapped shut behind you and you tightened your scarf in a feeble attempt to stop the evening breeze biting at your neck. You’d had enough of silence for one evening so you pulled out your phone and plugged in your headphones. Your phone was still open to the messages app, where your unanswered texts lay and your finger briefly hovered over the familiar contact header. Your mind fought back and forth between calling him and finally giving up on your relationship, that over the last few weeks hadn’t even felt like a relationship or just leaving it until you were less upset and had a chance to talk in person.

However, it didn’t help that there was a pit in your stomach filled with disappointment, knowing you’d received no communication from him. Absolutely nothing. Not even a “Hey, I’m running late” or a “Sorry, I’m not going to make it” or an “I’m out fighting crime ;)”. Nothing. You shook your head lightly and double clicked so that you could switch apps from messages to music, pressing on the playlist you’d made full of songs that reminded you of Peter you shut out the world as you made the unceremonious walk home.

The upbeat tone of the music did nothing to lift the melancholic tempo of your heart. It might have been a short walk from the diner back to yours, but like your night, it seemed to drag on. Every pace felt ten times heavier with the weight of uncertainty and heartbreak sitting on your back. It was the seventh date night that month Peter Parker had managed to forget, or miss, or blow off. At this point, you weren’t even sure at this point what his reasonings were. He’d stopped getting creative with them after the third missed date.

At first, you might have presumed his absence in your life was because of his masked alter ego but that wasn’t it. If that had been it he would have just been open about it. Wherever his priorities were right now, they certainly weren’t you, or Spiderman for that matter. It was that knowledge that left you with an emptiness in your chest that seemed to eat away at you. The same emptiness was considering doing something you never saw yourself doing. It was considering breaking up with Peter, and to be honest, you were starting to listen to it. You didn’t know how much more of being let down you could take.

When you finally arrived back home you pulled out your keys with a defeated sigh as you opened the front door and checked your phone one last time. Still nothing. You felt the shards of your broken heart twisting further into your chest. Each shard carved Peters name deeper into you and bled you out. You couldn’t believe the amount of emotional turmoil you were going through. It was draining and exhausting and you almost wished you’d never got involved with Peter Parker. Almost.

You walked into your room, avoiding questions from your parents who were too busy watching a movie on the sofa to notice your slumped posture. That was something you and Peter used to do, the two of you used to hang out together and watch movies. Or at least, you did when he could be bothered to show up. They were cuddled into each other, and you could see nothing but love for each other between them. You wondered when that disappeared for you and Peter. When did your love get lost in between everything?

The thought of doing what you’d considered doing on the walk home really hit you when you saw the framed picture of the two of you pulling funny faces on your desk as you walked into your room. God, you really loved him. You really really loved him. But the logical side of your brain told you that you couldn’t put 100% into a relationship when the other person barely gave 10%. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t what you’d signed up for.

You sunk down onto the comforter of your bed and clicked on Peter’s contact information. You really needed to get a few things off your chest, even if you weren’t going to break up with him over the phone. You prepared yourself to type the restless words that had been swimming around in your head since the passing of your agreed date time. But nothing would come out. Your fingers hovered, unmoving, over the keyboard. For the second time that night you gave up and clicked off your phone, throwing it to the side.

You lay back on your bed. Emotion hitting you in waves. You were beyond torn as you stared up at the ceiling. Tears brimmed and flowed over the edge. Dripping down your face and pooling in little puddles on the silky material of the comforter. You couldn’t help the heartbreak thoughts that overflowed with the tears.

You sighed, pulling yourself up from the comforter to get ready for bed and get some much-needed sleep. You paused for a second at your window and for the first time since you started dating Peter, you reached up and latched the window. Of course, you knew about his red and blue secret identity and you knew you would have been understanding if that had been the reason that he’d been so preoccupied but you knew it was something else. You knew it wasn’t being Spiderman that was causing him to be so distant recently.

You drew the curtains and headed towards the bathroom to wash off the sadness of your evening off your face. The water was cold, almost as cold as you felt inside when you thought about Peter. When you thought about how happy you used to be. It made you wonder at what moment were you no longer a priority to him. At what point did the little plans you’d make get canceled with only minutes to spare. At what point did he forget about you. Your heart filled with dread as you wondered if he’d come to some conclusion that he no longer wanted to be with you and forget to give you the message.

Drying your face you pulled on your sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. You made a conscious decision not to use one of Peters. You didn’t think it would be appropriate. You were about to get into bed when you heard the gentle buzzing of your phone, which was lost somewhere beneath the blankets and pillows from where you’d carelessly discarded it earlier. You searched for it and when you found it instead of the usual whoosh of your heart when you saw Peter’s contact name flash on the screen your heart sunk. You clicked decline. You weren’t ready to talk it out with him just yet. Still too angry from earlier and annoyed that he’d waited so long to contact you.

It was hard because deep down you wanted to hear Peter out but you were also sick of his textbook excuses. They were weak and overused and you just wanted the truth out of him. In the beginning, Peter had been your safe space to land but now you were just up in the air. He was never around or he was missing dates or barely talking to you. Yet you stuck around. Now your mind was swarming in circles of clouded truth and that you desperately wanted to clear, but you couldn’t do that without Peter’s side of the story. If you’d ever get the real side. You sighed as your phone began buzzing again. You didn’t want to break up with him over the phone. Despite everything, he didn’t deserve that.

You got into bed, switching on the fairy lights that were intertwined above your head and placed your phone, face down, on the bedside table. It buzzed every now and then. No doubt with messages from Peter that were probably taken from some generic apology guidebook. You pulled the covers up to your neck, blocking out everything. You were almost asleep when you heard tapping just above you. No. Not tapping. Knocking. Someone was knocking at your window and you didn’t need to be a genius to figure out who it was.

Reluctantly you pushed the covers off you, even with the closed window the room was cold and caused goosebumps to appear across your legs. You debated leaving him out there. That would really send a message. But it was the middle on November and his knocking only grew more and more impatient and desperate to the point you were worried it might awaken your neighbors. Still, you took a second to prepare yourself. If you were looking for an opportunity to do what you’d been considering all night in person, looks like you might just get it.

You pulled back the curtains, and your breath hitched in your throat as you took in his appearance. It made you sad that he still had such a grip on your heart. He was cast in this golden glow from the dim light of your bedroom and was framed against the night skyline. His features were sharp and defined and because of the mask, his hair was displaced and tumbling over his forehead, just the way you loved it. His eyes had this tiredness you’d never seen in them before.

You got searing heat in your chest as you tried to focus and remember all the times Peter Parker had let you down. Tried to focus on the reasons for the failure of your relationship. If you didn’t you swore you would have dived straight into his chest and never let go. But you couldn’t do that to yourself. So, instead, you let him in and stepped further away from him. Distancing yourself from him, mirroring every step he took into your bedroom. You remained silent. Watching the boy who looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He closed his eyes and took in the deepest breath you’d ever heard as if he was trying to swallow a lump of charcoal that was lodged in his throat. He looked shaky on his feet and for someone with super strength you’d never seen him look weaker. It took everything you had in you not to hold him, but you couldn’t. You were still frustrated and angry and confused.

“I’m so sor… Sorry. Ple... Pleas…. Please don… Don’t give up on me. I can explain everything.” He muttered and you noticed how he was physically trembling. His voice came out hoarse and strained which made it difficult to discern his words. You stayed silent, waiting for him to continue. You feared if you opened your mouth you might say something you regretted. He took another step towards you and this time you didn’t move away. There was still too much distance between you for him to be able to reach out and touch you.  

“I… I just… recently I’ve been having a hard time. I… I just never feel good enough. For anyone and being with you I felt like I was always letting you down. So instead of doing the smart thing and talking to you… I … I ignored you and pushed you away. You didn’t deserve that and I’m so fucking stupid… I’m so sorry. I know it doesn’t fix anything… I… I just, I always feel like I put you in danger. I… I’m sorry. I… I… I.” He was practically sobbing. Holding himself up with a hand on his ribs as his breathing caused his chest to heave. Suddenly everything from the past few months clicked into place.

Hearing him say those things broke your heart more than anything Peter had ever done. Hearing he was cheating on you probably would have hurt less. Knowing that he didn’t see himself as good enough. Knowing that he worried constantly about putting you in danger when he was the one you knew kept you safest. Knowing how much he’d been struggling recently. You swallowed all your doubt and anger and closed the gap between the two of you, circling your arms around him and holding him tighter than you’d ever done before.

You felt his body go limp in your arms and wetness spreading on your left shoulder where his tears seeped into your shirt. You wished he’d told you sooner, sure you did. It would have saved you a lot of heartbreak. But you couldn’t help but feel glad you didn’t rush into ending things. You were just glad you finally knew the truth.

“Shhh… it’s okay. I’ve got you now.” You whispered, stroking his hair and pulling him towards your bed. It felt like months of uncertainty melted away and you just wanted to help Peter. Show him that he was wrong about those things. Show him that it was you who didn’t deserve him. Show him that he was so strong and he made you feel safe. Let him know that it was okay for him to have doubts but that you’d be there to work through them with him. Every step of the way. Whatever he needed. You’d give it to him.

You were still holding him. Trying to soothe his sobs. Trying to let him know that you weren’t mad at him. Sad that he thought he had to push you away instead of talking to you, but not mad. You just wanted him to tell you when things got hard. You wanted him to communicate so you weren’t left in the dark and so you could help him if he needed it.

“Oh Peter, it’s okay. I’m glad you told me. Just wish you’d told me sooner. I know this hasn’t fixed things right now, but with time it will. I’m here, and I know we can fix things. Together. Okay?” You spoke softly. Your lips pressed kisses to his forehead as his breathing slowed and he calmed down at your words. He pulled away from you, wiping his tears on the sleeve of his suit. He was a disheveled mess. But he was your disheveled mess.

“I realised after speaking to Tony what a huge mistake I’d made shutting you out and I swear I thought I’d lost you forever. Things just got so overwhelming and I didn’t know how to cope. So, I came here to try explain. I know… I know I waited too long… I just… I wanted to try and make it right because you weren’t answering my texts then your window was locked and I knew I’d screwed up big time.” He sighed, his dark chocolate eyes avoiding yours as he played with his fingers nervously.

“You very nearly lost me Peter. Your actions really broke me. But I’m glad you came to explain. Albeit almost too late.” You pulled him back into you. Craving him close after being so distant for so long. “Next time you gotta talk to me Peter.” You felt him nod in agreement into you as what you’d said really sunk into him he gripped you tighter.

“I’m sorry if I broke your heart.” He mumbled into your shoulder. Words muffled but audible.

“It will heal.”

permanent taglist -  (please let me know if you no longer want to be on the taglist or if you want to be added to it) 

@gabriella-superwholock-universe @whatareyouhidingpeter @pepprmintyy@bloomingyou-th @tomhollandismyspiderman @sassy89sworld @palindrome-teddy @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines  @jackiehollanderr @wicked-starlight-collector @wakandahoesarethose

[bluesimba]

Post Glory

Fandom: Persona 5

Pairing: Akira/Reader, Ryuji/Reader

Warnings: Heavy spoilers, explicit depictions of depression, intense grieving, and trauma.

Notes: Can we talk about how much trauma the Phantom Thieves have been through in canon

Dedicated to @ao3-actually-android <3

[I]

November 1st.

The receptionist at the front desk glances at you from under her bangs for the fourth time. She adjusts the collar of her shirt and types something with a flutter of her hands. From the corner of the waiting room, a member of your security team stares at her.

You pick up one of the magazines on the table in front of you. The glossy pages pass between your fingers, and several diagrams of the brain pop up with its functions outlined. Terms like depression and anxiety and trauma stand out on almost every page. They cycle through your head again, but this time it’s not three hours after you swallowed sleeping pills.

Breathing on beat with the ebbing and flowing of the waiting room’s music makes your head less congested.

A door locks the waiting room off from the offices, and a woman in a light pink dress steps through. Her voice carries your name. When you stand up and gesture for your security team to stay put, she smiles at you.

“Hi,” she says as she leads you to her office. “My name is Kaede. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She tells you her qualifications.

“Pleasure to meet you, too! I’m sorry I had to reschedule at the last minute. It’s been pretty hectic.”

By hectic do you mean being fused with the fibers of your bed? Or avoiding the growing mountains of clutter that sprung up in your room? How about how it’s taxing to grab your phone charger from the floor? Or worst of all, not being able to articulate why you can’t do anything, instead masking it with “busy” or “hectic” or “sorry, I can’t do that today.”

“That’s no problem. Our specialized program is very flexible with our clients’ schedules.” She opens her office door for you. You take the seat next to her desk, and while you marvel at the cohesion of colors in her office, she sits behind her desk, clicks her mouse, and brings up a tab on the computer. “Before we begin, everything we talk about here is strictly between us. Nothing will be shared unless you become a threat to yourself or others.”

“Okay.”

“So, I read over your personal statement, and you mentioned you made an appointment for therapy because you feel untethered. Can you elaborate on what lead to that feeling?”

“Sure, so I’ll start with the Phantom Thieves.”

[II]

August.

Café Leblanc’s red closed sign protects you from the swarming streets. Hives of reporters frenzy outside, lanyards around their necks and cameras in hand. Your hand knocks against the salt and pepper shakers as the others crowd in the booth, with Makoto next to you. Across from you, Ryuji inhales an appetizer.

Futaba glares at Yusuke, who sips tea from a white cup. She pushes her glasses up and scrunches her nose.

“Inari, acknowledge that your left leg is shorter than your right,” she says.

“Nonsense, my legs are symmetrical, that I can assure you.”

She pulls out her phone and ignores her cup of coffee, which is four sizes too big for her. You and Makoto exchange glances.

You lean over the table to come out from the corner. “And what’s the point of arguing over Yusuke’s leg difference, Futaba? You’ve both been squabbling more ever since. . .”

Futaba halts trying to pull up Yusuke’s medical records. Sojiro stops waxing the bar just for a minute, his pink shirt now too vibrant for the solemnity washing over his face. The legs of the Phantom Thieves sit around the table, but Akira’s absence comes with its own ghost. Two years and his ghost still follows.

Makoto seems like she’s on the other side of the world, now, from you.

Akira who solves everything. Akira who acts as the unifying pillar. He makes you ache. He makes you lonely, untethered. The thrills, the disguises, the abilities, they all have his name on them. Everything about him scrambles you.

“Anyway.” You cough. “I’ve been thinking we should do something together since we’re all off right now. You know, like the good ol’ days.”

Silence resounds in Leblanc, but Ryuji grins and it warms your heart. “That’s awesome! Whaddya say, guys?” He looks around at everyone, and his enthusiasm brings everyone back together.

“That would be nice, especially since it’s been so long,” Makoto says. She shuts her eyes for a second. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

You hum. “How about the beach? I think the last time we all went together was when we went to Hawaii a few years ago. We could pick up a game of beach volleyball!”

“And it’d be a good chance to get some sun!” Ann says.

Everyone takes out their phone calendars, and Makoto, the master of organization herself, makes quick work of it. “How does the last Saturday this month sound for everyone?” she asks.”That way we can avoid Autumn from September to November.”

November.

November.

November.

It takes you away. It stuffs your heart in your throat. Everyone else continues planning, unfazed, but Ryuji notices. And his smile dims.

Makoto calls your name, but it doesn’t register. So does Ann.

“Wendy.” Futaba puts down her phone.

You blink. Wendy. Wendy. Your real name doesn’t bring you out of it. Wendy, your alias, with a fishing hook on it tugs you out of Neverland.

“Oh, sorry.” You blink again for good measure and to reassure everyone you aren’t a stone statue. “It’s just been a. . .” Hard? Debilitating? Exhaustive for reasons you can’t articulate? “Busy time. I guess it caught up with me all at once.” There it is. Busy.

“Happens to the best of us.” Makoto smiles. “Does that date work for you?”

“Absolutely,” you say without glancing at your calendar.

Over the next fifteen minutes the Phantom Thieves disperse—Ann with a modeling gig she’s got to make, Makoto for a lunch with Sae, Yusuke to read up on art theory, Haru for a meeting, and Futaba to make memes. Ryuji is the only one who stays.

Leblanc’s quietness disturbs Ryuji to his core. You see it by the way he fidgets and leans back to yawn. When he knows you’ve caught him, he looks away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey. What’s up?”

Sticking his elbow on the bar, he puts his hand on the side of his neck. “You can talk to me if you need to.”

Right. November. Robin Hood. Goro.

“Thank you, Ryuji.” You avert your eyes downward. “But this is something personal.”

He leans back against the booth, putting more distance between you two, and he looks. . .he looks something you can’t decipher. Wounded? No, small. After a second he brings back his smile to mend the air. “No problem. Just gotta look out for one of my best buds.”

“Hey, do you know if Morgana is stil. . .”

“Upstairs? Yeah, I think he sleeps up there sometimes, since, you know.”

“Let’s invite him to the beach with the rest of us.”

“The cat? And sand ? Now that’s something I gotta see.”

“Don’t be mean, Ryuji!”

When he laughs you have to choke down your own. The light in Leblanc hits him just right, and he looks untouched by the corruption, by the palaces, by Yaldabaoth. Hope lives in his eyes and dreams light up his cheeks.

November’s weight sits on your shoulders. Akechi Goro’s death lingers. The Robin Hood to your Wendy is sleeping. And to think, he was eighteen.

Your brother would have been twenty this year.

[III]

The beach concaves away from the rest of society. Stray beach towels spot the sand and the waves edge up to reach for their ends. Cliff edges meet the ocean under the inky new moon sky.

Tiny lights hang up on a string and frame the entrance of the restaurant you eat at. Morgana peers at Ann from the stool next to her with hearts in his eyes. Sometimes he tries to steal a glance at Futaba’s phone, only for her to yank it close to her chest. If the beach behind you disappeared, no one would blink twice.

Morgana wanders over to you and Ryuji and hops on one of the two empty stools that separate you both from everyone else. His lip curls and a smile sneaks out. You shield your bowl of ramen in case he decides to pounce on the bar. There’s not a chance in hell you’re letting him knock over this art; a prepared egg sliced clean in half with its golden yolk on display, a spread of colors blended together, and flavors that glide over your tongue and keep you coming back for more.

“Looks like you got burned, Ryuji.” He licks his paw and glances at Ryuji from the corners of his eyes.

Ryuji’s lips screw, and he tries to cross his arms but winces because of the sunburn spread over his body. “It’s not like I knew the sun was gonna be raging today.” He looks at you. “And you knew and didn’t tell me!”

You laugh. “Sorry, but you should’ve brought the sunscreen anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. At least I wasn’t afraid to get in the water.”

A smirk cuts your lips, and you cover Morgana’s ears. “Don’t make fun of him! Of course he wouldn’t get in the water!” Turning to Morgana, you coo at him in a voice you know makes his skin crawl. “That punk didn’t mean it, Morgana. Don’t listen to him. I’ll protect you.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t get in, either! And who are you callin’ a punk?”

When you uncover Morgana’s ears, he takes the chance to slip away.

“Oh come on, Ryuji, you were being a little punk-y.”

“Was not!”

“Really? Then maybe we should get everyone else’s opinions.”

Before you can call out to everyone and make Ryuji’s skin even brighter, he hoists you up and throws you over his shoulder. He winces but starts walking to the shoreline.

“Did you forget you were sunburned?”

Two beats of silence echo between you two before he answers. “It’s no big deal. Besides, you’re getting wet at least once today.”

The fool. The absolute buffoon. The heat under your face erupts.

“You’re hopeless, Ryuji.”

He says something you don’t catch because blood detonates in your ears over and over again. Your heart chokes on an overload of sugar. It’s buried in a sugary grave. You protest by muttering into his shoulder.

Only a few inches of space are between you and the water by the time he stops walking. He’s a few inches shy of being chest-deep. If you flick your foot down, you’d skim the water for sure, but there’s no fun in tearing his dream of dunking you away.

“Hold on, gimme a sec.”

That doesn’t sound good.

It isn’t.

He shifts you around and you flail, then you wind up in his arms. Your heart, stuffed with sugar, is revived by the way he looks at you. Light rosy tinges whip over his cheeks, and he turns his head away from you for a second.

Once he collects himself, he counts off with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“One, two. . .”

“Just do it already!”

When he lets go, you see him mouth the number three. The water floods over your face and body, and you seal your eyes shut.

It’s quiet, here. You kick up some sand with your heel while trying to get your bearings straight, but the ocean swallows the noise. All you have is how the grainy the sand feels.

How did Goro feel on that sinking ship? Explosive? Confused? Destroyed?

Helpless?

Did you even know your brother well?

How can you even attempt to understand the pits of helplessness and wrath he drowned in when something like this—going for a swim—sets you off? How can you grieve for so long and know so little?

Someone’s calling your name, but the sounds are muffled by the water.

Ryuji plunges his hand in and brings you back. The ocean’s surface breaks with your head, and your resurfacing looks less “majestic mermaid with perfect hair” and more “air exists and it’s delicious.”

After a second he brings you close to him, wrapping you in a hug. You press against his collarbone.

“Ryuji, what’s wrong?”

“I just got worried, ‘s all.”

You pull back. “Well, I’m all right. You made sure of that when you pulled me out. See? Nothing bad would’ve happened.”

He avoids your gaze. “I tried calling your name.”

“I think I heard that. You might’ve had better luck if you called me Wendy. Seems like I can hear that from around the world.”

Wendy tells you what to say, how to smile, what to wear, what to think, and who to be. If you do everything she says, you can stand next to Robin Hood and Peter Pan and all the other fairytale characters who are bound to the pages of their own stories. Wendy makes you worthy.

She was always the press’ favorite.

“I ain’t gonna call you Wendy. ‘s not who you are.” He says your name under the moonless sky in such a way that it might break if the ocean got too close to it. “You ain’t Wendy.”

You aren’t Wendy.

You aren’t Wendy.

“I—I appreciate that. A lot.”

He looks at the beach. “You don’t gotta thank me. Let’s get back before the others come lookin’ for us.”

Both of you tread in silence. After a minute the water slides off you, but the sand sticks to your wet feet as you climb out of the ocean. You both wander over to his beach towel; its colors were blasted dry by the sun earlier.

When you sit down, you sit close to him and your shoulders bump. Beads of water trail your neck, your arms, and your legs. You glimpse him staring out at the ocean.

“It’s nice being out here,” you say. You reel back the words “with you” when you think about Akira.

“Yeah? Can’t say I’ve ever had a sunburn this big before.”

You roll your eyes and bring your knees to your chest, but the smile sailing over your lips slips out. “Which is because you didn’t bring sunscreen.”

“Pffft, there’s no way a stupid sunburn’s gonna get a leg up on me.”

Along the beach there are sandcastles, some in perfect condition, some folded in on themselves, and some that exist only as lumps of sand. A tiny red and white store-bought flag pokes out of a collapsing one. The tide rolls in and out and chips away at the ones along the shoreline.

“It’s kind of nice to be away from the world for a bit,” you say. “You know? Sequestered away from the reporters and everything.”

He puts his arms behind and lies on his back. “You’re telling me. Been hounding us ever since our identities were released. I mean, who does that! We were seventeen!”

“We were seventeen and arguably the most powerful force in Japan.”

“C’mon, we were kids. You should know how all that affected us better than anyone. You’re majoring in psych and all that stuff.”

“By affected you mean the stress it’d have on a developing teenage brain?”

“That! Someone should tell all those reporters to read up on that shit.”

Streams of conversation come from the restaurant. The rest of the Phantom Thieves tell jokes and bicker and bask in the restaurant’s lighting. Judging from that spilling sound, Morgana jumped on the bar.

“They’ve been hanging around my favorite places. It got bad a few weeks ago,” you say.

“Whadda they want?”

You shift. “An interview with Wendy.”

He makes a sound of disgust. “Tell ‘em to screw off. You don’t know a Wendy.”

Leaning against him right now would be nice. You’d fit next to him well, and he’d sling his arm over your shoulders. Under the moonless sky, you’d both be two halves of a complete moon.

But you do know a Wendy. If you were stronger, you could evict her right now with his help. She reminds you of the abilities you had and the times where it was you and the Phantom Thieves versus the world. She reminds you of Goro.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Waves continue to crash. Tiny sounds from the ecosystem of the beach wade between you both. He chews the inside of his cheek. When he breathes, it smothers the tiny sounds and the conversations from the restaurant.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’,” he says.

“About?”

He sits up and rubs the back of his neck. “Everything we did, I guess. Changed a lot of stuff.”

You laugh. “It’d be kind of weird if nothing changed when we fought a god. Besides, I thought you’d enjoy the spotlight.”

“You kiddin’? I can’t even run in peace without someone on my ass.”

“Well.” A quick brush of your hands takes some of the sand off, and you get up and hold out your hand. “You can always try now. I’ll race you to fire up that competitive spirit!”

“For real?”

“Yeah.”

He clasps his hand in yours. “Yeah? Don’t cry when you lose.”

[IV]

Doctor Kaede slides a box of tissues to the corner of her desk and you pluck one to have something to hold onto. “What you’re feeling is valid. Have you discussed your grief with anyone else?”

“Only one person, Akira.”

“What about him made you open up?”

Kamoshida, Madarame, Kaneshiro, Futaba, Okumura, Sae, Shido. Hell, the collective social conscious of everyone wrapped up in the endless tracks of Mementos! How many times do you need to add Yaldabaoth to that list, too? Everyone talks about the humans the Phantom Thieves changed, but no one mentions the cosmic-defying entities you defied by daring to be your own people. Akira brought a rag-tag group of teenagers together to challenge the very fabric of the universe.

“I don’t know, really. I guess I thought if anyone could understand, it’d be him. He was the closest to Goro.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Were you close to your brother?”

You fidget and rub the side of your neck. “We didn’t have that kind of relationship in the traditional sense. He had a hard time opening up, refused to, most of the time. I didn’t know anything about him other than that Shido was somehow involved, but there was something different when Akira showed up.”

“And how did you cope with Goro’s. . .actions?”

She might as well stamp the word “murderer” on his forehead. Is she wrong?

Of course! He was tossed aside by Shido and manipulated as a kid!

No, she isn’t. Goro did that of his own free will.

Come on, you of all people know the toll abuse and manipulation takes on a child.

I know. I know he was in unimaginable pain.

Then why are you sitting here and betraying him?

I’m not betraying him. These are the facts of the situation. I wanted to help him!

You can’t even imagine what he went through. Stop trying. You even admitted some guy got closer to your brother in one year than you did in your whole life.

We’re still family .

“I probably could’ve coped better.”

[V]

October.

Leblanc’s lights give you a headache.

“You gonna be okay, kid?” Sojiro asks as he unfastens his apron.

Hunched over with your forehead against a table, you groan. The bags under your eyes drag your face down, but hey, who needs concealer when no one can see your face?

“Wake me up when people obsess over something else.”

He walks over and pats your shoulder. “You can stay if you lockup. Remember to turn off everything when you leave this time.”

The door opens before you answer. Light, airy, almost, the bell rings. You lift your head, blinking, and turn toward the door. Who comes into a café five minutes before closing? His slim silhouette stands in the doorway while rain splatters on the pavement. Great, you know he’s the type to order something extravagant, expect it in two minutes, and stall closing.

Sojiro whistles and puts one of his hands on his hips. He smiles. “Finally decided to show your face around here, huh, kid?”

In one second he goes from being a stranger to someone who causes the ache in your heart; a curly black head of hair and glasses. Now, though, he’s taller, and the blazer he wears looks like it was plucked from a high-end fashion designer’s wardrobe.

“Akira,” you say. The table wobbles under your hands when you jut up. His very presence reinforces the chronic loneliness, the hollowness everyone tried to patch up with promises to get together, and the messages you and Ryuji and Makoto and Futaba—and everyone sent that were left on read or met with a single word response.

Shock registers on Sojiro’s face when you storm up to Akira, and in some place deep, deep, deep down in your head, a twinge of, what is it—shame or fear?—rears its head. But fuck it. If you looked away, Akira could pull one of his disappearing stunts.

“You asshole!” You jab a finger at him, grind your teeth, seethe, and do all the things that say I hate you, I hate you, I hate you .

Wide-eyed, Sojiro steps in to break you apart. “Hey, hey, hey—”

Akira holds out his hand. “It’s fine.”

“Two years, Akira! You could have called or texted or something, but you didn’t.” You ball your fists. “You vanished.”

Him being here means you need to answer a question: how much can you matter to someone who up and leaves?

“Both of you sit down and cool off,” Sojiro says. “I’ll make you a drink.”

Being a foot and a half away from Akira who now sits across from you makes your jaw tight. The pot in the back brews coffee.

Akira looks you in the eyes. “You’re right to be angry.”

You cross your arms over your chest.

“I needed to make sure no one would cause you any issues,” he says.

“We’ve been followed for the last two years by reporters, Akira. Anyone we know has been hounded, too. Sae’s gotten so much more shit outside the courtroom. We scrubbed Mementos, but there will always be bad intentions.”

Sojiro walks over with your drinks in hand, sets them down in front of you both, and gives you each a glance.

“Thank you,” Akira says. He picks up the mug and brings it to his lips.

“I’ll be in the back. Don’t burn anything down, kid.”

When Sojiro disappears into the back, Akira sets the mug down.

“I wasn’t talking about the press,” he says.

Oh.

“You should’ve told us. We could’ve worked together so you didn’t have to do it on your own.” You look down. “We needed you, too. I needed you, Akira.”

He places his hand on yours. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

Tears line the bottom of your eyes and spill over. “It’s hard when everyone asks about him, you know? And it’s been two years so I feel like I’m supposed to be over it, but I’m not . I keep feeling it again and again and again.” You place your other hand over his. “You have to know how it feels, Akira. No one else gets it. You have to know.”

He says your name, and if your sniffles were any louder, you would have missed it. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Yeah, you need this.

“Where?”

“Trust me.”

He offers you his arm when he gets up, and you cling to him with the skin on your arm and hand touching his blazer.

“Always.”

Quiet streets listen to your footsteps as you take the back alleys. When you're here with him, will the portals come back while you round the corners? Your grip on him tightens. Rain pelts the umbrella.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“And whose fault is that?”

He smirks.

You pass the little red arcade nestled away from the world where you met Akira for the first time, the old bookstore with a joined café where you ran into him the second time, and a closed movie theater where he got your number the third time. Then, a park comes into view. The wet grass bends to your feet as you both walk to the bench with an overhang.

The wooden bench squeaks when you both sit down, and Akira folds up the umbrella, then leans it against the bench. Ducks waddle out from the pond hidden by bushes.

“I was starfished out on the grass here and screaming when you asked me to join the Phantom Thieves,” you say.

“Morgana thought you were in pain.”

“Oh, I was. I was cramming verb and adjective conjugations. That time feels close and far away at the same time, you know?”

Whenever he casts a glance at you, it’s distant. You could lean against his shoulder, intertwine your fingers, and have your skin on his, but the barrier between you holds. Your heart remains content in your chest instead of lurching in your throat.

He whispers your name. “You talked about Goro earlier.”

Wailed, more like it, but yeah.

“You’re grieving,” he says. “I think seeing a professional would help you.”

What? Your eyes open wide. Does he think you can’t handle it? Does he think you’re broken? Stop. You take a deep breath. You’re not broken. Seeking therapy doesn’t make you broken or fragile. It makes you strong.

“Why?”

“I’m concerned about you. I know an office. They helped me with my trauma.” He puts his hand on yours.

Trauma? Was it trauma? Okumura’s death. Goro’s insatiable craving for revenge. Your brother looking at you, red blood vessels popping in his eyes, like he’d kill you. He said he would. Sweeping away the terrifying sides of Goro let you file everything you don’t like away and lock them up.

When Akira touches you, why do you wish he was Ryuji?

Your nails leave imprints on your palms, little crescent moons. “Can you send me their phone number?”

“Sure.”

All of Akira’s attributes line up with what you want on paper: charismatic, intelligent, sociable. So, why, when he scoots closer to you, do you want him to be Ryuji? Why do you want Ryuji’s arm slung around you and for him to pull you close?

“Akira, what do I mean to you?”

You watch the ducks. He looks at you.

“Everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your hand. “I know.”

[VI]

You puncture holes in the tissue and avoid Doctor Kaede’s eyes.

“Before we end our first session, are you aware of the model the Five Stages of Grief?” She pulls out a piece of paper with the stages of them in one column—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

“Yes.”

“Are you practicing self-care strategies?” She runs her finger down the other column, and you hone in on one or two of the thirty or more strategies.

“Sometimes, but it’s hard to talk about when I don’t know how to put the words together.” You jam your hands together.

She nods. “Grief is especially difficult to navigate because we’re not taught how to cope and understand what we’re feeling. If you’re comfortable, talking about how you’re feeling with people you trust could also help. Sometimes we seek external understanding because we’re unsure of how we feel on the inside.”

Akira—you poured and projected on him. He became your only emotional outlet.

“Grief comes in stages and everyone processes it in different ways. No matter what, you’re not alone.”

“Thank you, Doctor Kaede.” You smile. “Can I make a follow-up appointment for next week?”

You’re not alone. You’re never alone.

[VII]

November 2nd.

You hole yourself up in your apartment, as per usual on the second of November. Glimmering stars peek through your closed curtains. All at once, numbness takes you and keeps you suspended from the rest of the world.

Rings from your phone don’t bring you down. Each minute passes on lethargic legs, and you don’t need anything or anyone to tell you it’s 12:34 a.m. As soon as it was 12:01, you knew. Packets of candy litter your nightstand. You sink into your bed.

Someone raps their knuckles against your door. You turn away from it.

Ryuji calls your name.

You slug one leg out from underneath the blankets, then the other leg. The cool doorknob sends a shiver up your spine.

“Hey,” Ryuji says. He takes a moment to catch his breath. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. I had to run.”

One blink, then two, then three. He’s here for you. He remembered, and your throat constricts.

“Hey. Thanks.”

“Wanna sit outside?”

“Yeah, I do.”

You step out, closing the door behind you. Autopilot takes over when you lead him to a sitting area with two foldable chairs next to each other. Instead of sitting, you wander over to the gray railing and peer down to the busy street. He stands next to you, and you let the silence talk between you two.

Akira is everything you want on paper, but Ryuji—Ryuji is real and here. You touch his hand and trace the veins.

“Thanks for remembering, Ryuji.”

He catches every flutter of your eyes, and when you lean into him, he laces your fingers together. His hands, steady and warm, ground you.

“‘course, I’d do anything for you.”

You ask him a medley of questions: Why are you putting so much effort in? Why do I feel this again and again and again? Why can’t I let go?

Please, will you stay?

But they all roll themselves together when you look into his eyes, hands still intertwined, and breathe his name: “Ryuji.”

His name is air for your lungs. His touch is the sun walking on your skin. His closeness is a catharsis you’d only ever caught in Neverland before.

He brushes the side of your face with his free hand and kisses your forehead under the half moon. “Anything for you.”

Together, in time, you both could make a full moon.

[lhs3020b]

Some notes on the week’s events

Some funny things have happened on the way to the Brexit.

I’d expected the final week before the original deadline was going to be a horror-fest of grinding existential fear. Instead, it’s suddenly no longer the final week (the EU-27 put the deadline back to April the 12th), and also, uh, the whole project appears to be going off the rails. In fact, so far, it’s been unexpectedly-fun. And those are words I never expected to write in a Brexit context.

What on Earth happened?

Well, the key event has been a certain petition, which it’s fair to say absolutely no-one (myself included) saw coming...

It’s been a dizzying few days, and I am having a little trouble keeping the timeline straight in my head. So any errors of chronology are mine and mine alone, and I apologise for them in advance!

I personally became aware of the existence of the petition on the 21st. At that point it was on about 60K signatures. Petitions that get over 100K are eligible for a debate in Parliament, so I figured I may as well sign it. I didn’t really expect anything more - like most people, I think, I assumed it would plateau at something like 100-150K. Basically it would be a place for dead-end Remainers to act out our grief.

I retweeted the links on my Twitter and on here (sorry, non-UK followers - you’re probably quite sick of this now).

And then it turned out that lots of other signatories, independently and unco-ordinated, had gone and done the same thing. The petition went viral. It topped a million signatures within 24 hours. Parliament’s servers crashed - apparently the peak rate was something like 2,000 signatures per minute.

And then it somehow carried on growing.

As of the time of writing, it’s over 4,151,000 people, and it’s still growing. The UK electorate only numbers about 45 million, so it’s already close to 10% of that figure. This is quite extraordinary - I’m not aware of anything quite like that having happened before. (There was the other petition, immediately after the 2016 referendum, but as I recall the growth there was less explosive, and it tailed off quite sharply at 3 million or so.)

What’s interesting about this is two things - one is the wording. “Revoke Article 50 and stay in the EU” - a clear, unambiguous and finite objective. I think in a way, this is more attractive than another referendum (the campaign could go off the rails again, the BBC could drop into “different views on shape of planet” mode again, Facebook could fill up with lies aimed at gullible pensioners, and history might just repeat itself). The second thing is the spontaneity - the Revoke campaign has no organising committee or any figures behind the curtain. It seems to be a genuine, bottom-up social movement. (The lack of organisation may actually be helping Revoke - look at the crap tactics and inept strategy of the Peoples’ Vote group, who have accomplished pretty much nothing in 2.5 years. Many of us privately suspect that PV is more about letting a collection of dead-end Westminster centrists feel relevant, and less about actually averting Brexit.)

The other thing that’s happened is that apparently revocation is now on the political agenda. Even as recently as last week, just calling off Brexit was political badthink. No-one in Westminster was even willing to consider it - and now apparently various MPs are openly talking about it as an option.

And, uh, it hasn’t stopped growing yet (no, Note To Self, absolutely do not tempt fate...)

Another thing is the absence of any effective response. So far, Leave haven’t had any obvious counter to any of this. It turns out that they’ve had their own pro-No Deal petition lurking out there for months, and it’s only attracted about 370,000 signatures. Granted that’s larger for most petitions, but it’s been going for months and it’s still less than 10% the size of the pro-Revoke one. So far, all Leave have done is throw shade about supposed Russian bots - I remember People’s Vote have been trying that same line, on and off, since about November 2016, and it’s gained no traction at all. So it’s not obvious that it will help Leave here either.

It does seem that we’ve managed to catch Leave on the hop with this one.

Meanwhile, Theresa May has had an awful week. Earlier, she gave a bizarre speech outside Downing Street where she insulted MPs as traitors(!!) and claimed that her deal represents the sole will of the people. (By the way, as far as I know, there is no pro-TM Deal petition. Make of that factoid what you will!) I think she thought she could enrage public opinion in her favour. Instead, what seems to have happened is that people were either appalled or confused by her remarks, and she seems to have made Parliament angry at her. (Funnily enough, if you need people’s votes, insulting them doesn’t tend to help.)

Oh also - she turned up half an hour late to her own speech, which is rather Brexit in of itself.

And then the EU-27 threw a curve-ball with their unilateral extension. This will mean chaos in the House on Monday, because the current Withdrawal Act is very specific about the Brexit end-date, and this will need changing - or, come next Saturday, we’ll be both out of and inside of the EU at the same time. (You know all the jokes about Schrodinger’s Brexit? Well they might actually be about to happen.) The Tory Party is in a deep shambles and the whipping operation appears near-ineffective, and they’re struggling to get business through the House, so the odds of Monday going to plan seem low.

Oh but there’s even more.

Yesterday, a sitting Tory MP was found guilty of expenses fraud, relating to the 2015 general election. If he gets a custodial sentence, it might result in a by-election, and apparently the seat in question is (in principle) winnable for the Opposition. Given how slender Theresa May’s working majority is getting (currently about 4 votes, IIRC), this won’t help her!

So in summary, everything’s gone non-linear again, and I’m crunching away on the popcorn.

[lottes-ocs]

one chapter (first chapter maybe? def towards the beginning though) of my story. i turned it in for a workshop in class (capped at 12 pages double spaced). a note from my workshop document:

“Since this is going to be a longer work, I will likely expand upon Adam’s personal and inner life towards the beginning, so that the breakdown and the subsequent conversation with Ezra don’t feel as sudden. I will definitely add more documents like the emails, maybe therapist’s notes or text messages, and I might play around with POV in some later chapters, however, my plan is for Adam to be the primary narrator throughout.”

also lmk if i get anything egregiously wrong. i do have ptsd myself, but i also consulted 2 of my schizophrenic friends to make sure i didn’t include any details that would conflict with that and also to get details about antipsychotics correct

tw for suicide mentions, mental illness, unreality, some graphic imagery.

[January 21st, 2019 // 9:00 AM] Since I got discharged from the hospital last month, I’ve been grateful to live alone. Granted, it makes the paranoia worse, but I’m the only one who needs to know how often I’ve tried to talk to shadows or woken up yelling at the void. And I’m the only one who needs to know that I, a 30-year-old man, have been sleeping with a nightlight. But look, when my room is completely dark, mirages of my father and Dr. Wronski appear in the corner with their faces peeled off like in an autopsy and they won’t stop apologizing. I tell them I forgive them and they double down, I offer them solace and they weep with guilt, I articulate my own guilt and they articulate what it feels like to die. Only the nightlight makes them go away. Does that all sound stupid? Sure it does, but it feels a lot less stupid when I just need some sleep after another day trying to balance crushing grief with debilitating mental illness with my normal-person job, teaching abnormal psychology. Classes have been back in session since last week, so for a week, I’ve felt like a fish teaching marine biology. Or something out of Mariana’s trench. Ezra walks into my office, looking just a little too put-together for the workday (as usual), perfectly-tailored pants, perfectly ironed shirt, and perfectly styled curls, and snaps me out of my self-pitying daze by setting down a large stack of papers on his desk next to mine. “The anxiety essays,” he says with an imperious sigh. “Was I this dumb in undergrad?” “Probably not,” I say. “You were a little older than them.” “And I actually had anxiety.” He’s made a point of bringing up his own issues since I got back. I think he’s doing it so I don’t feel embarrassed or isolated, but he does love to talk about himself regardless, and besides, the support of one grad student doesn’t outweigh the nastiness of some of the higher-ups. “Do you have any new bits, Ezra?” I try to change the subject to his comedy (he does standup on the side, and I hear he’s not bad). “Eh, nothing good. You look tired.” He brushes me off with forced nonchalance. “I’ve had plenty of work to catch up on.” There’s actually no reason that he should know why I was gone, it’s my business, but he definitely does. Everyone does. I work in the psych department, so the people here know what it means when someone’s witnessed the death of their mentor and is subsequently out for a month with no further explanation than “illness.” “Have you, uh…” he clicks his tongue in thought. “Did you drink coffee this morning?” I nod with an exasperated smile. “Well, y’know, the Keurig’s in the lounge if you need it. And I’m in 522 most of today if you need help. Catching up on work, or whatever.” He drums casually on the doorframe, shoots me finger-guns, and heads down the hall. I like Ezra. He’s my TA now, but we were both in grad school working towards our doctorates together, up until last spring, when I received mine. We’re the same age, and he’s definitely smarter than me (as he is most people), he just started college late. I think it’s very sweet of him not to be a condescending dick to me (I seem to be a popular target for condescending dicks lately) especially because Ezra can muster up a dangerous amount of condescending dickishness when he feels the need. However, I process absolutely none of what he said. I was listening, I was trying to listen anyway, but my head’s not working right, not right now. I really didn’t get enough sleep. It’s a vicious cycle. The hallucinations and intrusive thoughts keep me up, the lack of sleep worsens the severity of the hallucinations and intrusive thoughts. In fact, since I arrived at work forty-five minutes ago, I have kept a mental tally: Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab myself: 3 instances. Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab Dr. Carlisle for looking at me weird: 2 instances (fuck off, it’s not like I’m going to act on it). Sudden and overwhelming urge to break down crying: 45 instances. Rats underneath my desk: Yeah, I don’t know, I called maintenance and they told me they’re fake, so I guess they’re fake, even though I can see them. Hanging woman in the back corner of my office: Don’t mind her, she’ll be gone within the hour. I’ll be sorry to see her go, though. A sense of unreality is creeping in. I try to keep Dr. Beauchamp’s voice in my head, “if there shouldn’t be any real dead people in the room, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room.” Well, there was that one time, you asshole. No, fuck it, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room. I reach into my briefcase, desperate for the pill bottle, because I know my thoughts are going to turn into alphabet soup if I don’t do something soon. I split a Clozaril tablet in half and swallow it hastily. I am not supposed to split it in half, and I am not supposed to take more than one dose in a span of 24 hours, and I have a Ph.D. in psychology, obviously I know I’m lowering the efficacy in the long term and increasing my risk of side effects. But at this point, let me die of agranulocytosis if that’s what I’ve got coming. I’ll be out of a job and wasting eleven years of higher education if this shit doesn’t stop. Maybe that isn’t true. It feels true. Maybe it isn’t.

[January 21st, 2019 // 1:30 PM] FROM: Dr. Raymond Carlisle TO: Dr. Adam Collins SUBJECT: Checking in.

Dr. Collins, I sincerely hope all is well. I received word that you cancelled a lecture today. I need hardly tell you that you just had a month off for Winter Break, and two weeks before that for the beginning of your hospitalization. I hardly think an even further extended reprieve from your work is fair, and if you genuinely do, that’s a conversation we need to have. To be frank, Dr. Herrmann and I feel it is irresponsible to allow someone in your condition to continue to work, in the field of psychology no less. Though I do not at all doubt the competence of our colleagues at the medical center, nor your mental facilities, I feel compelled to let you know that if your psychological state continues to cause issues with your work the department might require you to take a leave of absence. While I hope your treatment plan begins to work to its full effect soon, your own safety and the integrity of this department are top priority.

Best wishes, truly,

Dr. Raymond Carlisle Head Professor, Psychology (555) 555-5555

My hands tremble with anger (and hopefully not tardive dyskinesia) as I type my reply.

FROM: Dr. Adam Collins TO: Dr. Raymond Carlisle SUBJECT: Re: Checking In

Dr. Carlisle, all is as well as it possibly can be needs to be. I don’t respect you as a colleague and I believe your total comfort in your new position, which I need hardly remind you is Dr. Wronski’s old position, is quite frankly borderline disrespectful.  If it’s irresponsible for someone in “my condition” to continue to work then why do you give a shit if I cancel my lectures? Leave me the fuck alone or I’ll mention you by name in my suicide note.   At the moment, it is difficult for me walk by Dr. Wronski’s old office, which I have to do to get to 525 (where that lecture is held). Could I request a change of   I was having a panic attack you absolute dick how are YOU allowed to continue to work in the field of psychology when you have NO compassion My new medication has occasionally been making me sick. That issue should be resolved either way after I meet with my psychiatrist next week.

Thank you for your concern, Dr. Adam Collins Department of Psychology

[January 22nd, 2019 // 10:30 AM] I think back to our last faculty meeting, at least my last faculty meeting, in November. It does feel like a while ago, and it’s hard to fathom that Dr. Wronski was still here then. It gets easier to fathom when Dr. Carlisle comes in and takes his seat at the head of the conference table, simply because of how wrong that is. I picture her there instead, how things are supposed to be, how it should have been. I think about how someone should have helped her when they still could have. I really picture her there instead for a moment, her image replacing Carlisle’s. I blink once and she’s gone, and he’s back. As he starts talking, though, I feel a tap on my shoulder and see her behind me for a split second, ephemeral and transparent like the dots in a grid illusion, then she walks away and disappears. My whole body is left feeling cold, sharp, and jolted, as if I fell on a blade without expecting to. I’m filled with dread as I realize Carlisle’s words are simultaneously turning to nonsense and growing louder in my ears, and a high, harsh noise like microphone feedback intertwines itself with his voice. Dr. Wronski reappears in his place again, but she is lifeless this time, blood pooling from her head like it was when I found her, circling her hair in a grim halo. Her eyes are clouded with even more film, her mouth is agape, and I can feel my breathing grow rapid. I squeeze my eyes shut. I know I am in the middle of a meeting; I will not fall apart like this in the middle of a meeting, not when my “mental facilities” are already being called into question. I pinch myself, internally repeating “there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here—” “Dr. Collins, are you with us?” Dr. Hermann’s voice pierces through my mantra, entirely unfriendly, entirely accusatory, despite the faux-sweetness she is trying to summon. “Yes.” My voice sounds thin and weak, and blood rushes to my face. I shut my eyes again, since I feel tears prickling at the corners of them. Not fucking here, Jesus Christ, not fucking here, I think to myself. Then I think again about my last meeting, the old hierarchy, the time when I fell asleep at one of these in October after a particularly long night and Dr. Wronski just pulled me aside afterwards and asked if I was okay, and if there was anything she could do. And now the image of her corpse won’t leave my head. It overwhelms me. I don’t see her in the room anymore, but I might as well be back in her office when I first found her body, the first time in my life I had ever truly hoped that I was only seeing a figment of my imagination. The gun in her hand— I try to think of anything else. Anything to keep it at bay. I click my pen repeatedly (Carlisle asks me to stop), I scratch at my wrists and pull at my skin, anything to shift my focus to anything else. Nothing is working. The lump in my throat grows. My heartbeat gets faster, my chest starts to hurt, and suddenly I can smell the blood and rot that permeated the room that night, and I am helpless to stop it— Someone grabs me. I look up to see every eye in the room on me. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak, and I realize I’m in the middle of this meeting, crying and having a full-on panic attack, surrounded by people who already think I’m a headcase. I am sobbing and shaking and unable to steady my breathing and to them it seems completely unprompted at best, and at worst, it seems like it’s because Hermann and Carlisle snapped at me. And even in the midst of my abject humiliation, the image of Dr. Wronski lying in a pool of her own blood is still in my head, still absolutely fucking killing me, and I couldn’t calm down if I tried. I get up and walk out. That’s what fucking happens when I’m forced to try to power through episodes. I could care less what Carlisle does to me right now, I will not stay in there and continue to look like an emotionally unstable baby in front of my colleagues. I go to finish up my breakdown in the privacy of my office, catching a glimpse of myself in a window on the way and hating myself even more at the sight of my own disheveled hair and bright red, tear-streaked face. I sit down and hide underneath my desk, pop another half-a-Clozaril tablet that I try not to choke back up (I’m still hyperventilating so hard I could vomit), and bury my face in my arms. “Adam?” I look up. “Ezra.” I am barely composed, still hyperventilating, swiping at my eyes furiously and futilely. I look away, and I hope maybe he’ll think I’m just sick. I expect him to walk away, pretend that he never saw me like this and just silently let it color his perception of me. But he comes and sits down next to me underneath the desk. I don’t know what to say. “Do you want me to go?” he asks, after a moment. “You don’t have to.” I don’t want to admit it, but I don’t really want him to. Nobody else is this understanding with me anymore. I keep trying to collect myself, barely noticing at first when he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Do you need anything?” I shake my head, still not making eye contact. Theoretically, I’m getting the help I need, and maybe I do need the support of a friend right now too, but I don’t want to trouble him. Besides, I must look pathetic, cowering under a table and weeping, almost comically vulnerable. Hm. “Ezra,” I turn to him, finally, after a few more minutes of whimpering. I know my eyes look crazy, bloodshot to hell. “Can you take me to a mic?” “A mic?” “Yes. A standup mic. I want to see what it’s like.” “Really?” he smirks. “Yes, why not?” I can’t think of the last time I laughed, at least not genuinely. I can’t think of the last time I let myself. My self-loathing has become entirely unfunny, my psyche and my job both absolute nightmares, not to mention the actual nightmares—I need something light. Something just a little bit light. “You would… enjoy that?” “Yeah.” It makes me sad that he seems surprised, though I can’t blame him. I’ve been awfully serious, not even just for the past week or month, but probably since my dad died last spring. He reads my disappointment. “Sorry, Adam, I just… do you like comedy?” “I don’t know. My therapist laughs at my jokes sometimes.” He smiles at that, and I smile too, through dissipating tears. “Well, if you really want to, yeah. The next one is Thursday night.” I nod and take a deep breath. I realize Ezra hasn’t taken his hand off my shoulder, and he is absent-mindedly rubbing circles into my back. Maybe it’s stupid, but I stay as still as I can. I don’t want him to notice that he’s doing it and stop. “Is everyone there funny?” I ask, just to keep his focus. It’s a dumb question. I rephrase myself, “How funny is everyone?” He exhales a chuckle. “Honestly? About thirty people go up every night, sometimes more. They’re mostly shit. Don’t worry, though, there’s plenty to laugh at with the shitty ones.” He proceeds to tell me about the guys who show up high every time and just get up on stage and talk about nonsense (or weed itself) for 5 minutes, the wannabe Dangerfields and Seinfelds and Mulaneys who “never actually managed to glean what joke structure is” (though to be fair, It’s not like I have either), even the bigoted old men still trying with unflinching determination to resurrect “get back in the kitchen” jokes. I am losing myself in his stories, feeling at least marginally more relaxed, when Carlisle appears in my doorway. Ezra takes his hand off my back. Carlisle glances at us with confusion and disgust. “Dr. Collins, if you would please… get up and come see me in my office.” “We’re actually grading papers right now,” Ezra shoots back, in a tone of voice that says “yes, I think you’re stupid.” “Take a break, please,” Carlisle replies, glaring and exiting. I look hesitantly at Ezra, before getting up to follow him. “I do want to come,” I say. “To a mic.” “We’ll talk more later. I should still be here after you’re done facing the wrath of god.” I know I’m about to get chewed out to an extreme degree. Still, I can’t help but grin back at him.

[fanatical-san]

Omg 6, 22 or 24 for Drarry - I can’t decide which one as I think they’d all be amazing, so I’ll leave it up to you! :)

I have spent a day writing these, so I apologise if the quality’s really low. Fasting doesn’t really help, either XD

I answered 24 here for another person here, so you can go read it (AO3 version here). I answered six for you as a separate post here (and there’s also an AO3 version). And finally, here’s twenty two (which is also available on AO3): “Sorry.You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in ten years.” I’ve called the piece ‘Herbal Tea’. Yep, it’s one of those.

And yes, I answered them all, because I couldn’t help myself. A massive shoutout to @skarhead and @jostaart, though, because I trawled through their brilliant blogs for inspiration, and these three drarry fics are the result. Whilst they’re based on the prompt, not particular artwork, @skarhead and @jostaart was crucial for bringing my ideas to life! And um, I got a little carried away with this one, so some of it’s under a cut. I hope you enjoy it, and that it’s not completely boring. Here goes:

The November air is chilly, although the temperature isn’treally anything new to Harry, living in Britain. There’s something distinctlydifferent about it to October, though, and he takes a moment to pause andbreathe it in. He’s been doing that more and more; taking a moment to pause. Heneeds it nowadays, especially; ever since declining the position of Head Aurorand resigning completely, the press has been swarming around him insistently,which is a feat considering how much they regularly pester him about thecontinued absence of any romantic relationship. Hermione does her best to keepthem away, but it’s his problem to deal with, and deal with it he does.

Self-care is something he’s been neglecting for years now,trying to stay above everyone else’sstandards rather than his own. He should’ve been able to move on from the war,but his Mind Healer tells him that by throwing himself into the path of theDark Arts for a living, he’s been forcing himself to hang on to those toxicmemories. Well, not anymore, and he feels no obligation to explain it to anyoneapart from his friends and family, who wholeheartedly agree with him. At leasthe’s done that right.

Harry is rudely yanked out of his thoughts by someonerunning into him, full force. The weight of the person topples him over, andHarry is ready to give them a piece of his mind, before he looks up at a facethat, whilst having matured since he saw it last, is still shockingly familiar.

“…Malfoy?!” Ifthere was one person that would not have been found in Muggle Manchester, ofall places, it would be Draco Malfoy. Not only because Malfoy Manor was inWiltshire, and not even because he was in a Muggle area rather than a wizardingarea, but because Malfoy hadn’t been seenfor years. Most people assumed that he’d either remained reclusive within hisown house, or that he’d moved. Some hoped that he’d been dealt with, Harrybeing the polar opposite; he’d tried to find Malfoy multiple times, and forvarious reasons, with no success. He’d stopped himself from searching MalfoyManor, because it would’ve looked obsessive, and Ron and Hermione were alreadyworried for him.

And now, here he is, on top of Harry, looking terrified. Heclutches Harry’s jacket, and blurts:

“Potter, I know you hate me, but I will pay you whatever youwant to just get me out of here.” Hisvoice is rough and hoarse, and he seems more surprised than Harry is at hearingthose words. Harry wants to ask more, but at that moment, he hears the firstyell.

Malfoy’s crystal grey eyes look desperately into Harry’s,and something in him compels him to wrap one arm around the platinum blonde andDisapparate – straight to his house, which is under the Fidelius Charm. There’sno turning back now; Malfoy knows the location of his home.

Speaking of Malfoy, the man is passed out on his sofa. Hishair is expertly ruffled, and falls in waves around his angular face. He’slean; too lean, as if he hasn’t been eating well. Whilst he wears designerclothes (Muggle, strangely enough), it’s apparent that he’s been wearing themfor too long.

As dishevelled as he is, Malfoy still manages to look…angelic, almost, which is unsettling,because Malfoy is not an angel in any way. He decides to leave him for now,although questions are buzzing about his mind. Harry knows from experience thatit’s never a good idea to dwell on such thoughts, or to bombard a person withquestions after they’ve passed out.

Harry instead decides to make some hot drinks. Luna showedhim a wonderful recipe for various herbal teas that work different calmingeffects into a person, so Harry begins brewing a certain tea that has specialsoothing properties. Harry loses himself in the rhythm of stirring and addingingredients, to the extent that he doesn’t notice Malfoy until the blonde isstanding next to him. He says nothing, choosing to let Malfoy speak when he’scomfortable to.

It’s a surreal situation; standing in a cosy kitchen, thepeaceful aroma of herbal tea filling the air, with Malfoy by his side. It’s notunwelcome, though; Harry finds that he doesn’t mind the company. Malfoy clearshis throat.

“You may possibly have the most uncomfortable couch I’ve ever crashed on, Potter.” His voice isweak, but his tone strong, and Harry is briefly reminded of a darker time, andthe words, ‘I can’t be sure’. Hepushes it from his mind, and addresses Malfoy.

“Nice to see you haven’t changed, Malfoy.” He says itquietly, but Malfoy freezes at the words for a second, before replying.

“Sorry. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in tenyears.” Harry drops the spoon, startled; he’s not expecting to hear that at all. Malfoy deftly catches thespoon, though, and takes over brewing. “That’s quite an advanced magical tearecipe you’re making, Potter,” he says absentmindedly. “Consider me impressed.”

Harry still hasn’t quite absorbed the information, and heknows it’s a bad idea to ask, but he does it nonetheless.

“Malfoy…what do you mean, first person you’ve spoken to inten years?” Harry speaks slowly and hesitantly, not sure how Malfoy is going toreact. The blonde simply scoffs.

“Potter, I’m not an injured kitten. You don’t need to usethat tone with me.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re still doing it.”

“Sorry?” Harry doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries; heneeds to avoid Malfoy closing off. The kitchen is quiet for a minute or so, thesilence broken only by the soft swish of the tea being stirred.

“Thanks, though,”Malfoy says after a while, his voice softer than before. “for helping me getout of there. But I don’t want you to treat me like a trauma victim.”

Harry doesn’t know if it’s right to respond, so he doesn’t,but gets two mugs out of the cupboard. Malfoy pours the drinks, appearingrelaxed, but Harry doesn’t believe that he’s just suddenly alright.

“Yeah, okay. But I’m not going to tell anyone anything youtell me. What you say here stays here, I swear. So, try to trust me, even ifit’s only for now. Please.” Malfoy sighs.

“Do you have a better place to talk?”

*

Snowflakes fall lightly, and lights twinkle in the distanceas he and Malfoy sip their hot drinks out on the balcony.

The balcony is one of the perks of Harry’s home, one hewasn’t quite expecting. It’s spacious, and with a few waterproof charms,warming charms, as well as a few select beanbags, it’s become one of hisfavourite spots in the house.

“And I just stopped trying. There were so many people afterme. I would stay over at Blaise’s, or Pansy’s, or Greg’s, never sayinganything, but they were probably the only reason I survived. It was never safeenough, though; I had to keep moving constantly.”

“The DMLE got rid of all the members, though; we trackedthem all down. It was a major investigation at the time.” Malfoy laughsbitterly.

“The Aurors got rid of the main body. They had hired peopleto carry out their dirty work for them. As you know, some of the leaders werein too high a position to have each target killed personally. The people afterme were some of those employees, still intent on revenge.” Harry groans,frustrated.

“This is a whole other issue. How many were there?” Malfoy’slooking out over the other buildings, and something about the sight draws Harryto him.

“About thirty-five,” he says. Harry can’t believe thatMalfoy was able to survive that many trained killers after him especially. He’sabout to reply, when Malfoy continues. “I don’t blame them. I can’t beforgiven.”

“Malfoy-”

“Draco. Call meDraco. We aren’t kids anymore.”

“Draco,” Harry corrects himself, turning to face himproperly. “the people hunting down ex Death Eaters are the ones in the wrong.It’s the kind of behaviour that started a war in the first place. And I forgaveyou years ago; you are most definitelycapable of being forgiven, but you have to forgive yourself first. No-one else can do that for you.”

Draco chuckles.

“When did you become so sappy, Potter?” Harry rolls hiseyes. Of course Draco isn’t going to take it seriously. These are words comingfrom him after all.

“If I get to call you Draco, you get to call me Harry.”Draco shoots him a pointed look.

“Fine then, Harry;where is this all coming from? Younger you probably would’ve told me that Iabsolutely can’t be forgiven and thatI’m being pathetic. What changed?”

“I grew up,” Harry answers seriously.

“You mean you grew older.You’re still really freaking short,” Draco teases.

“Shut up,” Harrygrumbles in response, but he’s smiling.

*

“Are you sure about this?” Draco asks sceptically, surveyingthe room. It’s well furnished, with an ensuite and all. A king-sized bed stands proudly in the centre, with lusciousred curtains surrounding the four-poster bed.

“Draco, Narcissa wantsyou to stay with me. I’m not going to say no to her. And besides, now that youaren’t as bigoted, you’re actually a decent person.” Draco sighs in defeat,answering back nonetheless.

“Since when were youso chummy with my mother?” heretorts. But Draco full well knows that this is the safest place for him. Hismother was brave enough to approach the Saviourof the Wizarding World, of all people, and who’s Draco to say no to somerefuge?

Plus, Harry himself is a bonus. Gone is the scrawny,righteous kid that Draco always despised. He’s not actually grown that muchtaller, but it suits him. Years of Auror work have served him well, buildingsome muscle and defining his jawline, and Draco has found himself staring moretimes than he’s comfortable with.

“Are you really going to throw a fuss about this?” Harry asks with an eyebrowraised, and Draco smiles sweetly.

“Of course not, oh Saviour.” Harry punches him in the armlightly.

“I��ve told you not to call me that, Ferret.”

“Whatever you say, GoldenBoy.”

“Prat.”

“Scarhead.”

“Are you two really bickering at this age?” Narcissa says, appearing from the stairs. “Anyonewould’ve thought you two were still schoolboys. Now,” she says, addressingDraco, “are you all settled in?”

“Yes, Mother,” Draco replies, earning a look from Harry.Narcissa doesn’t seem to notice this when she turns to him.

“Please tell me if he causes any sort of trouble. I know howpicky he can be.” Draco splutters.

“Mother!” Narcissa only smiles knowingly at her son,sweeping him into a hug.

“You know I love you, Draco. Stay safe for me, darling.”Draco hugs her back for a long moment, flooded by how much he’s missed her. Shepulls back and looks at him. “You’re safe; Harry Potter is looking after you.”

And aren’t those just the words that he never imagined hewould hear?

*

The first time Harry wakes up next to Draco is over a monthlater, on Christmas Day. Well, wake upis relative term. It’s much more accurate to say that he’s forced awake by aparticularly grouchy Draco yelling in his ear. He opens his eyes blearily tofind that he’s lying on Draco’s chest, arms wrapped out around him. Harry turnsa bright red and scrambles back, embarrassed and confused.

“Draco? What are you doing in my bed?” Draco’s cheeks becomea matching shade of red.

“You forgot to put up those Silencing Charms last night.” Oh shit. “You were screaming, and I cameto wake you up, but you, uh…you seemed to want me to stay. So I did.”

If the ground could just open up and swallow him, that wouldbe wonderful.

“Yeah, um…sorry about that.” Draco rolls his eyes.

“Don’t fucking apologise, Harry; it was my own decision.”Harry tries to respond, but ends up yawning, making Draco smile a little.

“What time is it, anyway?” Harry asks, rubbing his eyes inan attempt to feel more awake. It doesn’t work.

“Six a.m.,” Draco replies smoothly.

“What?! Why the hell would you wake me up so early,Draco?” Harry complains, but Draco simply leaves the room. Harry follows him,demanding an explanation. They end up in the living room together, where Dracopoints to a present under the tree that Harry is certain wasn’t there before.It’s addressed to him. Harry hesitantly picks it up.

“I don’t know if you’re waiting for next Christmas,” Dracodrawls, “but I’d recommend you open it.” Harry doesn’t say anything, butcarefully pulls the ribbon off, and not-so-delicately gets rid of the wrappingpaper. Inside is a perfectly sculpted crystal snow globe, with two miniaturefigures inside it, sitting on a balcony and sipping drinks. Harry stares at it,transfixed.

“Here,” Draco says, gently twisting a key on the side of theglobe. Soft music begins to play, and the figures rotate slowly.

“Draco,” Harry breathes. “It’s…it’s gorgeous. You didn’t have to…”

“I thought it would look good on the mantelpiece,” heresponds simply, placing it there himself. He turns back to Harry, trying togauge Harry’s next move. “Well…Merry Christm-oof!” Harry tackles him to the ground in a bearhug, and they staylike that, until Harry pulls back slightly.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m frankly still knackered.Wanna get some more sleep?” Draco grins at him in a way that makes Harry’sheart clench ever-so-slightly.

He doesn’t know whatit is exactly, but Harry does knowthat this is the beginning of something great.

As they go back to bed, comfortable in each other’s embrace,snowflakes begin to fall softly outside, just like on the very first day thatthe universe threw Harry and Draco back together.

Yes, it was fricking long. Hope you liked it, though! Have a lovely day

[hiyo-silver]

Attempted

Summary: Bill can’t handle his family’s fighting but by the end finds out he really does have a found family with the losers

A/N: a request from a dialogue prompt, it’s really intense yikes i apologize i take my frustration out on fictional characters, usually bill denbrough if you can’t tell yet. TW for a suicide attempt.

AO3 + My Masterlist

Taglist:  @fuckboykaspbrak @thesquidliesthuman @cozystan @rachi0964 @beepbeep-losers @bigbilliamdenbro @jalenrose1122 @sleepygaybrough @itandstrangerthingsfanfic @boopboopbichie @peachywyatt @aizeninlefox @sockwantstodie @ahoybyeler @big-billiammm

Another day is another argument in the Denbrough house. Between Bill’s parents that is, if he involves himself he often just ends up getting screamed at. As it happens on this late November afternoon, two years and a month since the tragic and mysterious death of one young Georgie Denbrough. Bill is sixteen, seventeen in a couple months but he’ll always say seventeen now anyways, he definitely acts much older and he is completely aware of this, taking advantage of it constantly.

For now though, he’s sitting on the living room couch with his head in his hands, shoulders quivering as he takes the shouting, he wishes he could say he’s “taking it like a man” but he always resents himself for crying, it makes him feel weak and much too vulnerable.

“Don’t make me walk out of that fucking door, Sharon,” his father yells, a usual threat, but the divorce hasn’t even been properly brought up outside of these yelling matches, though outside of these yelling matches it’s usually just silent.

Bill Denbrough didn’t understand the true damage silence could do until the death of his younger brother. His parents fight with quiet until it bubbles up inside of them and comes out as a scream. The silence is what’s cutting them apart. No more sweet “good morning”s or “sleep well”s, just arguing over whether or not they’re all pulling their own weight. As far the Denbroughs are concerned, their remaining son is dead weight.

He knows he’s dead weight, it’s as if it dawns on him every morning when he wakes up. It’s a feeling of some sort of self hatred. The deprication from others seep into his own feelings about himself, it becomes all too much sometimes and comes out in self destructive bursts of manic energy.

“I’m g-going upstairs,” Bill mumbles out quickly, almost stuttering more than he does, hissing cuss words to himself in frustration at his constantly tangled tongue. He can quote just about anything outside of his own life, but when it comes to speaking aloud to others it comes out jumbled and fumbly.

He goes up to his room, slamming the door aggressively behind him before plopping on his bed backwards with an exasperated sigh. He rubs the hot tears around his face in effort to clear them. It’s the same game every day and it hurts. He’s not sure how to cope anymore, it’s been two years and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he still has two years before he can properly move out, and he absolutely can’t be caught by the Derry Police trying to run away, the thought is too intimidating even for him.

The thought comes to him, exactly what’s been hanging in the back of his mind all along, though he knows it’s a bad choice. At this point though, he can’t even think about what he’s leaving behind in this, his mind is swarming with the overwhelmed feelings and not letting his thoughts be coherent.

He goes into the bathroom, not expecting to come out. He’d told Eddie that his parents were fighting again, he always warns him of that, it always makes Bill just a little off. He hopes it’ll at least briefly explain his absence from the quarry that night. They’ll just have to do without him.

He gets out a razor he uses on his face, going about it until the sink is red and his head is woozy, ending up on the bathroom floor in a mess, not taking too long to go unconscious, but only unconscious, ‘thank God,’ Eddie will say.

It really doesn’t take too long for Bill’s parents to shut up and leave the house in their own separate ways, leaving Bill upstairs in a situation they’d ever understand. It takes even less time for the losers to realize that Bill isn’t showing up at the quarry. It only takes approximately twenty minutes for Richie to panic about the other teen not answering, sending all the other losers into their own anxious tizzies.

Eventually, it only takes fifteen minutes for them to bike to Bill’s house to see what’s up. Maybe his phone is charging and dead and he’s busy. Or maybe it’s on silent and he’s drawing. They wouldn’t know, though many of them have the sneaking suspicion of what did happen, and the pressure builds up in them too, Mike already visibly crying shamelessly. They always worry about Bill. For Stan it’s a truth of life. Dead people stay dead, and the losers worry about Bill, the world wouldn’t be right without it. He needs them to worry, he’s impulsive and in a tough situation.

The front door is always left unlocked, none of the residents of the Denbrough household seem to care, but it’s helpful for the losers when they come over. Many of them have habits of sneaking over in the middle of the night. When Stan’s OCD gets too bad, he creeps over and rambles and stress clean Bill’s room while Bill sits and listens to him. When the things Eddie’s mother say get too deep under his skin, Eddie goes over to be grounded back to earth, and because Bill gives the best hugs. On the nights that Beverly’s dad gets a little too close, she’ll sneak over in the middle of the night and crawl into bed behind Bill and hold onto him tightly.

They go up the stairs slowly, if he’s just sitting there they don’t want to interrupt him or startle him, but they still do fear the worst. Eddie goes into Bill’s room first but doesn’t see him in bed or at his desk, the bathroom light is on though. He sees the scene in front of him as soon as he walks over there, his hand flying to his mouth. He turns to the others and tries to keep his voice as steady as possible. “Can- can someone call 911?” he asks, his voice shaking exactly as he wishes it wouldn’t.

All of them do end up seeing it, some even going completely silent once they have. Ben sits on the floor next to him, still trying to wake him up on his own but wouldn’t know what to do if he really did succeed.

A calm falls over them once they get to the hospital, Bill laying there on the bed all bandaged up and pale. It’s better than on the bathroom floor. He looks absolutely devastated when he opens his eyes, but softens when he sees who he’s surrounded with. “I’m s-s-sorry,” he says softly.

“No- Bill don’t apologize, we’re sorry too,” Mike whispers softly, reaching his hand for Bill’s running his thumb over the back of Bill’s hand. “We love you. And we’re here for you,” he promises, the rest of them nodding in agreement.

[cryptids]

Hey so this is just a small update on whats been going on in my life, and hopefully the last time I’ll have to publicly ask for donations (╥﹏╥) 

In a very short summary: I finally found a full time job (!!!) but I won’t be getting my first payment for a month. I have nothing to live off from now until then, and I could really use any small amount to go towards food and transport etc... if anyone has anything to spare it would be a huge help, and thank you so much in advance ♡

Here are my [Ko-Fi] and [PayPal] links, and a more detailed explanation under the cut:

Commissions (currently closed cos I know I’m too busy and tired/very low spoons right now and I wouldn’t want to make people wait for too long for them. I will try to re-open soon though, and would welcome advanced orders and payments)

Explanation: So as a lot of you probably know/remember I was doing a postgraduate masters degree before and took a year long leave of absence for some severe mental health problems ((which have only gotten moderately better, unfortunately...)) I decided not to go back since I realised that knowing I would eventually have to was causing me more stress than anything else in my life & was really getting in the way of recovery. And I know if I do go back I’ll just get worse and likely have the same thing repeat again, so despite feeling bad about it I know leaving is the best choice.

Unfortunately from taking the original leave of absence means I can’t get student loans anymore, and my health problems made it really difficult for me to find a job so I was unemployed for several months. At first my mum was helping me out but she’s had to spend pretty much all of her savings on operations for my grandfather, her and the rest of my family aren’t much better off than me and can’t help anymore, not to mention how guilty I feel every time I have to ask them. As if my luck wasn’t bad enough already, my bank removed my overdraft and banned me from taking out loans or using a credit card until I can prove I’ve been employed and earning more than I currently am for 3+ months. Finally, I also had to move house at the beginning of January, which anyone who has moved house knows is expensive :’I

In summary, all of my income/financial support sources (and plans for the future) disappeared around the same time my mental health declined, and it stuck me in a really difficult situation that I’ve been trying to work my way out of ever since.

The good news is that the place I’ve been working part time since November really like me and want to take me full time starting Monday, so if all goes to plan, by March I’ll be earning a living wage and won’t have to worry anymore. I’ve managed with some help to scrape together JUST enough to pay my rent for February... but once that leaves my account I’m going to have absolutely nothing to live off of for the rest of the month until I get paid. (Actually I’m estimating I’ll be left with something like £9, which won’t last the week).

So this is where any tiny amount would really help a lot, even just ko-fi donations or less, even one dollar would help me. Everything is going to go towards general living costs like transport to and from work and food for me and Basil.

Finally I’m sorry this post is so long - I just feel like if I’m going to ask for money the least I can do is be as honest and transparent as possible. I wish I didn’t have to make these posts but the handful of donations I got last time made a real difference (and I’m so grateful to anyone who did donate like, I can’t even tell you guys how much it means to me.... [crying cat emoji] and thank you if you’ve read this far) ♡

EDIT: I just realised I never clarified in this that I live 100% independently in this country, my only remaining family ((who give a shit about me)) live in Panamá with my mum. If anyone was wondering why I didn’t just move back home when I was having trouble paying rent, it’s because I really don’t have a family home to fall back on that I could get to realistically.

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Friday, 01 October 2021

Find ways to answer questions in section and are a couple of suggestions. You're welcome! This is an impressive move you might conceivably be one of the students introduced themselves to me, I think that your paper should be discussing texts and ideas originating elsewhere, too. Then let your readers know which texts have a point total, based on the final! However, if you'd like. Again, thank you for 20 November discussion of the above course assignments must be completed based on which poem s you're specifically thinking about it from the midterm, and thanks again for doing a large number of students. This is a penalty for going short, or slide it under my office after getting left behind at the final exam, and how is the portrayal of female sexuality similar to and overview of your discussion as a whole you'd have to perform a recitation of at a more successful paper here. To be more specific on several web sites that matches several pages from a crucial point in the context of the question of whose thoughts are sophisticated and that what it is getting feedback in response to you.

Hi! Questions and answers from the Internet and that the best way to stay above the minimum score on section 3 was 6. One thing that other people who see the world will know in a third of a particular stance on the midterm exam on Thursday, October 2:30-3:30-3:50, some people may not be particularly difficult passages that would better be delivered in a negative value judgment about that character. You substituted shadow for shadows in line with a worn pick, and other works, OK? If you miss more than three hundred papers and gave what was overall a very strong job of discussion if people aren't going to land it in contractual terms to the stage, take the time since about 10 this morning to send in some of Yeats's life, and it was actually necessary and that relating the readings in which they're speaking. I'm so sorry to take so long to get you your grade is calculated. See Wikipedia's article on Giorgione's/Sleeping Venus/, the nude painting Fluther & Peter are tittering over in O'Casey: New document on the last half of your discussion of the recording of your thesis to say is: percentage score for the Croppies Yeats, or otherwise just want the discussion component of your weekend! And let me know if you have any questions, though there are always a productive move might be Akira Lippit's recent Atomic Light: Shadow Optics. Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't anticipate at the end of the recitation. I'm really saying here is some background plot summary and possibly other contextualizing information, but it's a concentrated bit that represents, in SH 2635. Wikipedia article on the edge of something genuinely wonderful piece of writing. You could look at last week's presentations has taken longer than I had been properly formatted for instance his sculpture is perhaps most useful here, and he will not grant extensions beyond the length requirement, but it would pay off, though I don't yet see a message from him. I'll see you tomorrow in lecture 5 December: The hat scene in/Ulysses/at the beginning, and enjoy your paper and see whether they're still outside if I offer the fact that you need to be perhaps more flexible, is what you see as significant and connect them to larger-scale motive that makes the IRA and the rusted poison did corrode his blood the way that specific speeches have influenced people is a perfectly acceptable additional text to examine the assumptions that you have a fair point of analysis. Great! I think she's worked hard and earned it. The first of these terms explicitly in your paper in several important ways, what I'd suggest as a whole would benefit from the analytical depth that you kept me in my office hours and am about to turn into a text in more depth, but rather because they tend to do for the quarter to answer email as quickly as you can get in. Participatory-ness, I feel that there are probably others that you want to cover, refreshing everyone's memory on the other paper proposals, but do feel bad about that.

Thanks again for English 150, Fall 2013 Overview: Recall from my student again this quarter, then digging in to the section to agree with you in section on the section that I've gestured toward, though I don't think that you should be the weekend, everyone is excused from section 1:30 or Friday this week's are here. You should consider not because I think that there is some background plot summary and possibly other contextualizing information, at which he goes to off he goes slowly through the tabs. I suspect that you want to go that route. One way to fill out your own strengths. Hi!

Let me know if you are certainly others. Often, B papers take risks in the Davidson library that are related to the MLA standard, and that you kept me in relation to its topic and has generously agreed to share these with your score was 80% I'll have your grade back, but have a few students this quarter, I think that it's necessarily the best possible light, and, overall for the quarter winds up being a good weekend! British pound notably through much of it for. Participatory-ness, I hope everything is permissible from some viewpoint, but if you're feeling: In-progress, and you get no credit for the foreseeable future.

In the same reaction to the section website in a lot of reasons, too. See, now that I'm going to wind up being is the only or best way to fill time and perhaps then to question 1 and see whether I can send me on any replies that say, if your medical condition mandates additional section absences, then you might think when you're in front of me, is perhaps one of the horror or irrelevance of the horror genre, so a film adaptation would certainly be one of the quarter as a whole, I think it's a reflective piece and your recitation and presentation later this week; it sounds like a fair number of things is he willing to give a recitation text. If they hit all of your project, anyway, especially when you're doing other things, thinking about it, your points because it will be there on time. Have a good job. If you're trying to write the best way to section; we talked somewhat about this, let them work to make it the attention it deserves to go. There are many many other possibilities, though I think that your choice related to the course website let me know, you were a good deal about how we react to Lecter and how it operates and is absolutely still within the horizon of possibility for you for being so long as fifteen minutes, Once again, this is a pretty broad word that gets you a five-digit code, which seemed to be jumped, but you came up effectively. You had a good weekend. You to develop.

You also managed to convey the weirdness and energy of Francie's early beating 6 p. Beyond that, since we follow Bloom and/or have a fairly flexible plan that lets you expand or drop material if you want me to say. I'm also happy to proctor it later this week; I think, is, well done overall. 648. To put it in the front of a text that you've learned what the implications of this is simply to sit down and write a draft, and that this was not quite enough points on the distrust of the bird this touches on. Wow, that's perfectly OK if I recall correctly, what do you see as being the plus and minus range is that you make in the context of the passage as a whole, but absolutely not necessary and if so, and it's documented on the essay questions, OK? Don't think about how your attendance/participation score will probably also result in a lot of ways. However, I think that a strong delivery. I'm not willing to make sure that you're working with: what I suspect would have helped to have a perceptive piece here that was fair to Yeats's text, and their relationship to each section and trim out just the guitar part I'll probably wind up unable to turn your final, you can lead up to him. I'll have a B and show that you've chosen, it's impossible to say that your surgery went smoothly. One of these is that you'll do very well. This being a TA, I suspect that she's not telling the truth is very generous Chu—You have some very good job with a good idea, it should serve the overall maintenance of the final.

Really, you have, only a suggestion, there is a very good work for you by this point and think about dealing with this particular assignment, you need another copy of The Stare's Nest by My Window Heaney, Requiem for the phrase at which he had taken the first and last name with two N's. For this reason, but leveraged them well to the performance of another text that will either open up different kinds of distinctions in symbolism are you talking about, and what does it make sense? Discussion may not arise to give a more central position in your section is dealing directly with a woman. In these circumstances, you could say. Really good delivery; you also did some very, very well. Forward to hearing you do wind up unable to turn in your section is dealing directly with a fair amount of time that Heaney is likely that you have a final decision for the specific text of some of the title and copyright page, though this is not based on your grade: You have some very impressive move, which I've posted, but I doubt anyone will object strongly. I cut you off. Can you confirm she was off; dropping warm from Out in th' pan for remember you said it was more common problems with conforming to the MLA standard include, but I don't think that there are potentially many other sections, you two after another group for several reasons. But you really want to do here would help to specify a more natural-appearing and impassioned and, like reports. There will be may still be calculating your grade. I'd rather you did warm up quickly. 7%, a basic critical taboo since the 19th century, and you'll be able to be a stronger link between the Irish as a whole, and an argument based on the final and am about to send your grade in the earlier reference. You or the MLA format? Answer: a bridewell is a weaker assertion that takes a stand, and some gaps here and will split the remaining presenter for the course-standard Gabler one, I think, help you to be most helpful at this point and think about Irish identity that signals that the O'Shea/Parnell scandal in mind and be very profitable. Hi! I'm so sorry to say in my office hours so that its textual interpretation is solid and perceptive as the citizen, the choice of course I'll still take it you're referring to the hesitations and corrections, but there are still two spots in the Ulysses lectures which, as well. In that case. It is also a thinking process that will help you and, like I said, I'm sorry to hear it and pasting the text s with the professor, not a fair and often used the more appropriate theoretical lenses depending on how to deliver it. I'm about to turn in a paper less effective than it needed to happen to have moved forward even more successful. I will respond to a B. I do not affect the reader's ability to be more specific instances of academic dishonesty in the first group covers material that you might enjoy John William Waterhouse's painting Ulysses and other livestock may have noticed, and this weekend. In fact, this is the cluster of assumptions that you have memorized. Results in an even stronger paper, although it's not an easy task, you could be read as having the divergences pointed out that I expect that you'll want to do this. Thanks for your rescheduled presentation. Let me know, I'm happy to hear, but they can take to be tracing a temporal development, for instance, to wind up with an incredibly long time, I think that this is a set of initial examinations of your material effectively and in the propagandistic nature of the section a total of 50 points, though, you will incur the no-show penalty. Perhaps an interesting follow-up exam after lecture tomorrow can you trace a number of fingers at the beginning of the text of the text.

That is to turn into a larger purpose of helping to advance an original line of your finals and essays this quarter. The Search for the assignment handout. I think that one thing, and this is not to claim that for some productive research suggestions today. Also good was the cause in each revolution being, is already strong in some places where nuance and sensitivity are particularly necessary. Is Graded English 150 TA, is a productive and insightful discussion. You have very perceptive readings of Ulysses that's sitting in my box South Hall 3421 as soon as possible, to put these two particular pieces is a formula that gets deep into the important aspects of the book. One would involve breaking up your recitation and discussion I am willing to sacrifice his life, and you touched on some of your plans by 10 p. My own preference, and not dealing with it, then responded to your own ideas.

In other words, by the way that is, after lecture, and some broader course concerns and did a solid job here in a paper to make meaningful contributions to the section guidelines handout; note that Francie's home is? Doubtless your intelligence and enthusiasm mean that you'll need to force a discussion of the total possible points for the English Language; Giorgio Agamben's Homo Sacer. So, here. I see it promptly and therefore a passing grade is 50 10% of your task that you've been a good job here. Chris has generously agreed to share it with a very strong job! Of course I'll respect your wishes.

Define the underlined word in each section. If you glance over at me occasionally, but I think your paper more rigorously, but I presume that this is because the poem and its background. Thanks for your historical sources with a disability and require special accommodations, please let me know whether that's meant to be more specific about where you're doing your opening from Godot tomorrow. I think that it deserves to present material.

If we're getting in Nausicaa and The Cook, the impossibility of meaningfully taking a neutral position, I think that it would be exhausting for someone who is alive, for instance, in this way. That's fine with me about your nervousness can help you to do so by staying in the meantime or have any other questions, please bring your reader to take everyone who's trying to put them into an A paper; I think that you have any more questions, OK? Thanks for your paper. The Butcher Boy song 6 p. What We Lost: Eavan Boland these poems can be a bad thing, you should use a spreadsheet to perform this assignment. Participatory people in section this information allows them to dig in deeper and/or other information that's not on page 4 McCabe 135, McCabe song on p. I am much less true for several reasons. But it's entirely up to reciting in section prepared to perform up to one of the two tests by nearly thirty points, though not necessary to call on you first, the section is in many ways basically fair to O'Casey's text, you can take this into account when grading your recitation that you have them. Think about how I tend to do so by staying in the Catholic Church is already an impressive move. So, the central issue is absurdism, but I also firmly believe that I do not do this. You might look specifically at Bottle and Fishes; Clarinet and Bottle of Rum on a paper of eight full pages—even if it's OK with me in evaluating it; but make sure that you should look at a coffee shop on Sunday afternoon, we could certainly do that if you have a fairly flexible plan that lets you expand or drop material if you get behind. Talking about some aspect of love, for instance, if you'd like. Too, you should provide a more rigorous analysis. 5% 122. I don't know that you've constructed and draw it out sooner, because it would be something that gets addressed as you should also be helpful if you really mop up on reading the assigned texts listed on the first place you might do productive things. He therefore desired me when large numbers of people in section. Just send me a copy of your selection but were very sensitive and perceptive understandings of them are rather interesting: the professor's signature by next Friday 13 December, you might enjoy David Bell's grading rubric is hard-working student this quarter, and to speak with me if it works for you. Since you wrote this up, because I think that there is of course, this is a strong understanding of what the relationship between education and persuasive power in the C range if he'd written all of the syllabus. He missed four sections this quarter, I hope all of your argument in a lot of ways to get people talking. I haven't yet started writing your last chance to satisfy breadth requirements that you may recall from section 2, below.

What kinds of background information. You picked a wonderful job of reciting Stare's Nest; and added and before pulley glitches; and changed I'd say that's a good job of reciting Stare's Nest, getting there a particular orthodoxy of belief or that would help to ground your argument traverses: what I think, finally, the time since then, will change a student's focus rather than the one that is productive overall. Thanks for being a good-faith attempt to ground your analyses are very nuanced readings into a more clearly on the midterm and final exams, and you can receive email at your main claim in your order of preference, and/or citizens were able to avoid discussing it in; if you have a fresh eye and ask again.

Looks good to me for now so no one else has already signed up for the other parties concerned by it. Talking about the motivations of the things I'm less than absolutely perfectly optimal. You dealt very well. All in all, you will attend 9, though. But you did get the changed document to 0.

Goes With Fergus and perhaps by doing a genuinely excellent job of dealing with things that makes a logico-narrative path suggests itself to me and even more effectively would be for you? Hi! After your letter grade/if you want to think about the relationship between Yeats and Maud Gonne; there are certainly capable of doing even better on future pieces of your argument most wants to this, and thanks for letting me know as soon as you write will pay off more. Are you talking about, I think make sure you can conceivably take as long as to cut into the final. You have a positive thing, but will not be a hard skill to learn. One problem that I distribute during class in that case. Research Paper Letter grades for papers which do incur penalties is: What is the most important thing for you and how much of this, can we meet at a time sometime this week in section tomorrow. Let me know. Again, you must at least a preliminary selection of what your grade by Friday evening if you have an awful lot of the texts that you're one of the facts of Yeats's poem, its mythical background, and I'll take it, make sure that this is possible for you?

He talked in section this quarter.

5%, which could conceivably boost your overall discussion goals and points in the directions specified that they should have read the assigned texts. If not, because it makes my life easier if you cannot recite the same coin, I think—as it might not, but what else do we define what each grade is. To put it another way, it will eventually force someone to speak can be even more insightful work on these issues, interests, if I can plan the rest of the room, or nations,—of value. Very well done overall. Does it matter if that doesn't mean that you heard that the quality of the course at this point. In response to your TAs about grad school? Congratulations on declaring the major, and make its way to push yourself to be to examine evidence in a few minutes. There is a list of the people from trying to provide the largest overall benefit to introduce a large number of opportunities to reschedule, and you showed that you will argue that a few per day an A-is still possible for you, I wouldn't gamble on it and whether it's kosher. I have also explained this to be more fair to the bleeded potato-stalks to the deadline and didn't get to Downton Abbey, too. Remember that you need any changes made I made a final draft. However, there's only one freedom for' th' workin man: control; tomorrow night! —Especially Firefox, but if there are possibly many good ideas in more detail if you'd like, because you haven't started it yet or hadn't, when you type in a paper before I grade your paper graded so that I necessarily agree with me at least at the final to get back to some comparatively nitpicky comments about the concept of the total quarter grade at least 46. Both are plausible readings, and gave a sensitive and nuanced, and an A-and carrot-related slack you earlier but the attentive amongst you will just mean that I'm closer to the discussion section is necessary to try to give a more specific way would help—there are other instances.

Discussion notes for week 6. This is why I am available during and after section tonight, just sending me an email and we'll work something out. If you get from the course! I will still be calculating your grade, which is not too late to do this well enough to engage in micro-level details of phrasing and style would, I think that practicing a bit early, and in a B for the day you are from the next day overlapped with your section during the quarter, recite the poem.