#but i cannot help myself. i must write an essay every time i come across something remotely interesting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onecanonlife · 3 years

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Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that’s all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There’s nothing deeper at work here. There’s nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 6,249)

(first part) (third part) (fourth part)

——————–

Part Two

He tries to pen a letter to Phil. It’s more difficult than he remembers.

Dear Phil, he starts, and that’s good, that’s fine. All is well here in L’Manberg, he continues, and that’s good too. But from there, he’s stumped. What next? What does he tell him about? This is the part where he’d launch into a cute story, something Fundy got up to, or some trouble Tommy caused. But nothing comes to mind. Nothing recent, anyway. But the last letter he sent to Phil was—a month ago? Two, now? So he needs to write, because Phil’s far from a helicopter parent, but he still likes to know what he’s up to. Will still worry, if he gives him a reason to.

So, he needs to finish a letter. Needs to stop procrastinating.

He could write about Niki’s bakery. He can’t remember if he told Phil about it or not. He probably hasn’t, not if it’s truly been that long since his last missive. So he sets his pen to work, scratching out a few more sentences, and he reminds himself that he doesn’t need to be overly verbose. Phil doesn’t need an essay. Just a paragraph or two to assure him that he and everyone else are well, that he’s having fun, that he’s thriving.

Telling him about the bakery will work for that. Except, then, after a bit, he ends up writing, It eases my mind to visit. Truly, it’s one of the only places I let myself relax, and—no. No, that won’t do. That will make him sound as though he’s stressed, and he doesn’t want Phil to worry about that. There’s nothing Phil can do about it, and he couldn’t stand it if the admission led his father to think any less of him. He’s not going to—to start complaining to him. That would be ridiculous.

So he scratches the line out and continues on, except then, he writes, I worry that I’m shirking my responsibilities, but then, I’m probably doing that anyway, simply by virtue of not being, and he stops before he can finish that sentence, because, no. Simply, no. He is absolutely not telling Phil that.

He bites his lip. He’s already scratched out enough that he’ll probably need to start an entirely new draft anyway.

He sets the tip of the pen to paper.

I’m exhausted, he writes, but my mind won’t allow me to rest. Too many shadows in too many dark corners, I suppose. Too many thoughts circling. It’s like a hurricane in my head, and I should be in the eye, but I think the storm wall has caught me. I’m tossing in the air, at the wind’s mercy, and I’m afraid of what will happen when I fall.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I ever assumed that I did. And I feel afraid, because my inadequacies are failing everyone around me. I have to protect them, have to keep them safe, but sometimes I close my eyes and see everything aflame, or I see Dream and his friends flooding into the Final Control Room. We were betrayed, there. I’ve never told you this, but we all lost a life. Me, Tommy, Tubbo, and Fundy. I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Somehow, I never thought that dying would be terrifying for me, considering who my mother is, but it is. I was so scared, and I still am.

I think I’m a disappointment. I think that if this country fails, it will be my fault, and it will only be right if I go down with it. My people have little faith in me, and they’re right not to, but I can’t bring myself to step down, because at the end of the day, I’m addicted to the power and responsibility. I’m nothing without it. If I can’t manage this, then how can I deserve the trust and faith that others have placed in me?

Most days, I think that everyone hates me. Most days, I think they’re right to do so. I can’t trust anyone. Not completely, not fully, no matter how much I love them. I feel very alone.

He stops writing. Reads it over. Feels his lips quirk up into a wry smile. He’s certainly not sending that.

But the smile fades away after a moment. He supposes that he hoped writing it all out would make him feel better, but if anything, he feels more tired. Drained. Wrung out. Blank.

He fishes around for a new, unmarred sheet of paper.

Dear Phil, he writes, All is well here in L’Manberg. The city is thriving, and my people are well. I really do want you to visit sometime—but not yet, of course! We’ve been having a spot of trouble with creeper holes lately, and I don’t want that to be your first impression. Between you and me, it’s just a little bit embarrassing.

It’s been a while since I last wrote. I do apologize for that; I don’t know where the time goes. There’s always so much to be doing, and I’m more and more thankful for this chance every day. It’s a lot of fun, having a country of our own, and we’re all working to make it as good as it can be. You should see Niki’s bakery—you haven’t tasted heaven until you’ve tasted something Niki’s baked, I swear. She’s a goddess, really, an essential pillar of our society. Baked goods make the world go round.

Tommy and Tubbo are well, and getting into just as much trouble as usual. Fundy grows up more and more every day. I’m so proud of them all.

Be careful of undead infants, and tell Technoblade I said hello, if you get the chance.

All love,

Wilbur

He sets down his pen and rereads. He’s satisfied with that, and more importantly, Phil will be as well. Now all that’s left is to let the ink dry and—

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, opening the door to his office without knocking. He startles, violently. “How’re things coming?”

His heart shouldn’t be racing. It’s just Tubbo. But he came in without warning, which is—irritating. It’s irritating. That’s what it is. He feels himself flushing, just slightly, but surely it’s annoyance.

“There’s a lot of ‘things’ you could be referring to,” he says. “Are you going to be a little more specific?”

“Nah,” Tubbo says, meandering further into the room. But it’s not a regular meander, it’s a Tubbo sort of meander, which means that he’s here for a purpose. He just doesn’t want to reveal it just yet, or perhaps he’s figuring out how he wants to approach it. “Just wanted to know about general things. Big, vast things. Deep things.”

“Deep things,” he repeats, nodding. “Not much of that going on at the moment. Not a lot of deep things in paperwork.” He pulls the nearest sheet of paper closer to him; technically, that’s what he ought to be doing, not writing letters to a father that’s worlds away. He scans the words; it looks like something complicated about trade, something that sets his head to pounding already. The words swim, like they’re dancing, like they’re taking glee in the way he can’t comprehend them.

“I thought there were lots of deep things in paperwork,” Tubbo says, and he looks back up. “I thought that’s why the print is always so small.”

“Maybe,” he says.

“It makes sense to me,” Tubbo says. “Wilbur, is your hair really white?”

He freezes. “What?”

“Niki said that your hair is turning white,” Tubbo says. “Like an old man’s.”

Anger flares. He thought—he didn’t like that she found out about it, but he at least thought he could trust her with it. Thought that she would keep it to herself, that she wouldn’t let it spread to others, to others that might take it and try to use it as a knife to his jugular. But here is Tubbo, and Tubbo is so obviously staring at his hair, eyes flicking across his forehead and around his ears, and he won’t see anything. He double-checked when he arrived at the office; all of the white is under his hat. But he doesn’t like that Tubbo is looking, that Tubbo is actively trying to see, that Tubbo is treating him like some kind of curiosity, and that Tubbo surely must have some sort of opinion and that opinion cannot be anything but—

“Niki said that hair can turn grey or white if a person is very stressed,” Tubbo says, casually. “Are you very stressed, Wilbur?”

Oh—oh, fuck. Is that actually a thing that happens?

“I told her, it was a bad dye job,” he mutters, glancing back down at his paper. The words remain incomprehensible, but he’s not focusing on it. He nudges his pen with his finger, latching onto the light clicking sound it makes as it rolls and then comes to rest.

“Yeah?” Tubbo asks doubtfully. “What, were you trying to dye your hair white?”

He grits his teeth. “Was there something you needed, Tubbo?”

“Nothing I needed, really,” Tubbo answers. “I just wanted to see how you’ve been doing. Seems like forever since you came out of this office. Do you live in here now or something?” He keeps talking before Wilbur can reply, which is just as well, since he might as well live here, considering the state of his room. “And I think I’ve got a new design for a TNT cannon. Kind of streamlined, you might say, if you wanted to check it out. But I think you should just come and hang out with me and Tommy sometime. You never really do that anymore.”

He has a few feelings about TNT cannons. He doesn’t think about TNT too often, because when he does, his mind fills with fire and smoke, and his heart starts beating faster, climbing into his throat, and he wants to run, wants to run far and fast and away, wants to sit and shake until his body can’t move anymore, even when he knows very well that nothing around him is exploding, that his country is secure and his friends are safe. But some days, he can’t so much as smell smoke without a memory rising up to overwhelm him.

Once, he found himself zoning out in the middle of a conversation, a nearby campfire taking him far away from himself, and be barely returned in time to cover for his lapse.

He’s not a fan of TNT cannons, and he can’t bring himself to pretend to be, not even for the sake of Tubbo’s enthusiasm. And—

Hanging out with him and Tommy sounds nice. He misses them, he admits, and some part of him misses the old days, the first days and weeks and months on the server, when it was them and a dream and his fingers dancing on the frets of his guitar, his voice strong and steady and hopes high on the wind, words ready at his lips and Tommy a force of chaos at his back and Tubbo clever and quick by his side, and he just—misses it. Misses them. Misses it all, misses the days before so much was riding on his shoulders.

But he hasn’t the time.

“I’m sorry, Tubbo,” he says, and tries on a smile. “I’m a bit busy right now. Take a rain check?”

“Sure,” Tubbo says, and shrugs. “Later, then. You say that a lot, though, do you know that?”

He winces. Tubbo smiles. He means no harm. Probably. He thinks he would know if Tubbo meant him harm.

And then, Tubbo leaves, and the tension leaves him all in a rush, leaving him—exhausted. Exhausted, and near tears, for some reason, but he blinks those back. That can wait. He doesn’t cry in his office. That’s unprofessional; anyone could walk in on him, and then where would he be?

What was he doing before Tubbo came in?

Right. The letter. He glances it over, scoops it up, and tucks it away in an envelope. He’ll chuck it at the next crow he sees.

---

It’s Tommy who barges in next, a day later, though at least this time, he’s somewhat expecting it. Because if Tubbo knows, then Tommy knows. That is simply the way of the world. He has a difficult time imagining anything ever coming between those two, even information that would be better kept to oneself.

“Why the fuck is Tubbo going on about your hair, then?” Tommy says, with no preamble, and despite himself, Wilbur smiles. That’s Tommy, all the subtlety of a charging bull. And the question is just as irritating as it was yesterday when it came from Tubbo, but he’s more prepared for it this time. He looks up from his work—work that he’s actually doing, at the moment, and he feels rather proud of himself for it—and meets Tommy’s gaze squarely.

“I’ve had an unfortunate encounter with some hair dye,” he says. “The hair dye won.”

“What the fuck?” Tommy says, but there’s already a laugh in his eyes. Good. Tommy is fairly easily deflected, he’s learned. Because Tommy looks up to him, he knows, and that means he’ll willfully look away from any evidence suggesting that perhaps he is not worthy of admiration after all.

It makes him sick, the way he’s thinking about it. Makes him feel like he’s using Tommy, somehow, taking advantage of his affection, when really, that’s the last thing he wants to do. Tommy is his little brother, his little brother by choice, by years spent on the road together, by hushed conversations in the dead of night as the stars bear witness, by all the little intricacies they’ve learned about each other as time continues to pass. Tommy is his little brother, which means it’s his job to protect him, as best he can. He’s done a piss-poor job of that lately. Tommy only has one life left now.

So he can’t fail him again. And perhaps it’s selfish of him, but he doesn’t want Tommy to think he’s failed, either. If it ever turns out that Tommy hates him, he thinks it might kill him.

“Can I see?” Tommy asks, and he prepared for this, too, braced for it. With a long-suffering sigh, he sweeps his hat off his head and angles his face forward, letting Tommy take a good look.

“Satisfied?” he asks.

“Holy shit,” Tommy says. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

“Very impressively,” he says, and puts his hat back on. He’s sure to tuck all the white back under it. It’s a practiced motion, by now. “Or perhaps not very impressively, as it were.”

“Well, it looks sick,” Tommy says, and Wilbur glances at him immediately. He doesn’t seem like he’s lying. He seems almost—impressed? But he sees him looking right away, and immediately backtracks. “Sick as in disgusting, obviously. It makes you look old. Like an old, old man.”

Tommy’s joking, of course, is all bluster and smoke, no fire. But something in his chest stings, and he realizes that the words hurt, and more than that, they hurt because it’s an echo of what he tells himself. He doesn’t like to look in the mirror anymore—though he never did to begin with, actually—but he is well aware of what he looks like. The white hair is just one more symbol of his failing faith, his lack of ability to handle the job that he set himself out to take in the first place. He should be able to do this, and yet, he can’t, and the white hair—well.

After what Tubbo said, it can only mean that he’s weak. Physical proof of his incompetence. That’s really the only way to look at it.

“Shut the fuck up, child,” he says. “Why don’t you go and find a juice box to drink?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Tommy says, and the song and dance is familiar. Tommy rolls his eyes at him—the disrespect in this house is unbelievable—but he turns to go, and that means that Wilbur’s won.

What he’s won, he doesn’t know. Some more self-disgust, maybe. That’s what it feels like.

Lying to Niki. Lying to Tubbo. And now, lying to Tommy. What a stunning specimen of humanity he is. Working through them all like he has a checklist.

And then, Tommy stops in the doorway and looks back.

“Wilbur?” he asks. “You really are alright, aren’t you?”

And that gives him pause. Tommy’s not supposed to ask him that question. If anything, he’s the one who’s supposed to be asking Tommy that.

“It’s just that,” Tommy continues, “I don’t see you around so much, these days. Except for when there’s a problem, and you come out to try and solve it with, with your words and shit. Diplomatic shit, innit? You do that, but you don’t just—you never come to just spend time with us anymore, like how it used to be. And I just sort of miss that, you know? So I was thinking that maybe we could try and do that again, sometime soon? Just, hanging out, like the good old days?”

The good old days.

He doesn’t quite have the heart to tell Tommy that the good old days are long over, that they have been long over since the day Sapnap came to arrest them all for starting a drug empire and the forest around them was set ablaze, since the day they declared independence from the Dream SMP, since the day he in all his naivety declared that all they had to do was ignore the conflict and it would pass them by, since the day he was proven so very, very wrong. Since the day he learned that as much as he values his words, his diplomacy, his efforts toward nonviolence, some people only recognize power in iron and steel.

Since the day he watched his men, his comrades, his family die around him, and knew that he led them to that fate. Since the day Tommy traded his life and then his discs for their independence, and he knew that he couldn’t do a thing to help.

The good old days are long gone. The good old days belong to a different version of him, one that was young and hopeful and stupid, one that had no idea what he was getting into. And he likes to think that he’s still hopeful, that he still strives for a better future, but—

He’s learned. Nothing comes easy, here. There will be no more halcyon summers. The days are getting colder, and there will be no more rest.

“Sure,” he says, and this lie tastes far more bitter than all the rest. “I’d like that.” He gestures at his desk. “I’ve been really busy, but I would like to spend time with you. I’ll let you know when I can, alright?”

And Tommy believes him. He sees it in his answering smile, and he hates himself.

“Sounds good, big man,” Tommy says. “See you later then, yeah?”

“See you later,” Wilbur agrees, and then Tommy, too, is gone. He’s alone in his office, with his duties and his thoughts, and neither of them are kind.

Not that he thinks himself deserving of much kindness.

---

He waits two weeks before visiting the bakery again. It’s not completely intentional; he doesn’t have much time to get away anyhow. But part of it certainly is. He doesn’t want to come again so soon, doesn’t want to know how Niki’s going to look at him, doesn’t want her to poke and prod at something that isn’t important, that is a minor, irritating detail. He doesn’t want to discuss it, and he thinks that Niki might try, so he stays away.

But not forever. He can’t bring himself to take so drastic a step, even if his visits are a bit of a distraction. One that, perhaps, he can’t really afford.

So he steps inside and immediately wants to backtrack, because Niki’s not the only one here. Fundy and Jack Manifold are both sat at the counter, and both of them are looking at him now, having swiveled in their seats to watch his entrance. And that means he can’t leave, because if he leaves without saying anything, they’ll ask him why he did that, and he’ll have to make up something to avoid admitting that he’s been a little bit terrified of interacting with people lately. Because absolutely no one can know that.

Because it’s stupid. Pathetic. He’s pathetic, and he’s become quite accustomed to that word. It seems to live in his head now, like it’s made a nest in his brain, a little roost. Pathetic. Everything he does feels pathetic to him, and probably to everyone else around him.

“Oh,” Jack Manifold says. “Hi, Wilbur. Didn’t expect you in.”

Fundy doesn’t say anything. Just blinks at him, tail swishing. He finds that he doesn’t know what to say. But he needs to think of something, some reason for being here, and if he can manage it, some excuse for extricating himself quickly. The silence has gone on just a little too long, and he’s been standing in the doorway for a full five seconds now, and he needs to come in completely because it’s weird, what he’s doing, and they’re going to call him on it.

And then, Niki pops her head between the two of them, leaning far over the counter, resting practically all of her weight on it.

“Wil!” she says, and smiles. “I’m glad you came! I’m making honey bread, and I know you like that.”

And just like that, he relaxes. Not completely, but to ask that of him would be to expect the impossible. It’s enough.

“I do,” he agrees, and steps further in, letting the door close behind him. “Seems I have good timing.”

The tension in the air—imagined or real? He’s not sure—dissipates. Jack grins at him, raising a glass of—probably not alcohol? He doesn’t think Niki keeps alcohol stocked in here, or at least, none other than the cooking variety. Might be milk. And Fundy still doesn’t say anything, but his tail keeps twitching, and his eyes keep darting between him and the empty stool next to him, and he really hopes that’s an invitation, because that’s how he’s going to take it.

He slides onto the seat, letting his coat fall behind him. His hat, he keeps on. He’s not laying his face on the counter today. Not with other people here. He probably wouldn’t have anyway, tempting though it is. He always feels sleepier in here. It’s probably the warmth.

But he won’t fall asleep.

Niki’s gone back over to the ovens, inspecting her bread. He can smell it on the air, fresh and sweet, and his stomach twists. Has he eaten today? He’s not sure that he has. Though he definitely did yesterday—evening. He thinks. Definitely. A couple apple slices shoved in his mouth, swallowed without really tasting them. But it counts.

“What have you two been up to lately?” he asks. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Not too much,” Jack Manifold answers easily. “Mostly been hanging around Tommy and Tubbo. Getting into mischief, you might say. Nothing too serious or anything!” he is quick to add, seemingly remembering exactly who he’s talking to. “Nothing—I mean, nothing illegal, no, sir. Not us. But, you know, it’d probably be best not to share the details.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Fair enough,” he says. “As long as it’s not something that I’m going to have to clean up later.”

“We’ve already cleaned up,” Jack says.

“Good.” He looks at Fundy, and affection blooms in his chest, sudden, almost overpowering. His boy’s grown up of late. He can barely remember it happening. It seems that only yesterday he came up knee-high, and now, he’s a man in his own right. But still his little champion, always. “How about you? I know we haven’t been fishing yet. I’m sorry—you know that’s the first thing on my list when I finally get a bit of time.”

Fundy glances away. “I know,” he says. “I’ve been fine.”

“I’m glad,” he says, and Niki saves him from having to say anything else—though why he thinks of it as a rescue, he isn’t sure—by walking back over and placing some bread on the counter before them.

“Fresh from the oven,” she says, “so it’s hot. Be careful.”

It smells nothing short of divine. Niki smiles, pleased, as Fundy and Jack reach for a piece right away, and he isn’t far behind them. Though he tries to be a little more neat about it than the other two are being. The way they’re digging in, he’d think that they’re starving. Frankly, he can’t blame them for it, not when it’s Niki’s food on the line, but he still tries to have a bit more decorum.

“Niki,” Jack says, mouth full, “you are an angel among mere mortals.” Fundy doesn’t say anything, but his tail is swishing happily.

Niki rolls her eyes, and takes a bit of bread for herself. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she admonishes. “But thank you, Jack.” And then, her gaze drifts to him, and he finds himself stiffening. For no reason. It’s Niki. It’s just Niki. He trusts Niki. She’s basically his best friend, and he’s comfortable here. He is. This is a place of safety, as much as there are such places to be found. Safety, true safety, is not a thing that exists, not really. But here is as close as he can get to it.

Why can’t he let himself unwind?

Is it because Jack and Fundy are here? He hopes not; that wouldn’t be fair to them. They are his countrymen, his citizens, and more than that, Fundy is his son. What would that say about him as a parent, if being around his child makes him nervous? Not just nervous in a I-hope-I-don’t-fuck-up-my-kid way, but in a I-don’t-feel-safe-here way?

But his shoulders are stiff, slightly hunched. He can’t force them down. So he has to hope it’s not too obvious, that the lines of his coat disguise the hard set of his posture, a stance that indicates he thinks there’s a threat, if they know how to read him right. Which they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t.

“How about you, Wil?” Niki asks, and he takes another bite of bread. Small, so as not to get crumbs everywhere, and he swallows before answering.

“It’s as good as always,” he says. “Do I have to say it?” Though it sits heavier in his stomach than usual, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m glad,” she says. “It’s been a little while since the last time I saw you. You are eating properly, right?”

It’s concern, not an accusation, no matter how misplaced. The question shouldn’t raise his hackles. But it does, and all that’s left is to keep it from showing, to keep it from his voice.

“Of course I am,” he says, and before he can get anything else out, Jack laughs.

“Wouldn’t do to have our president starving on us,” he says, and his voice is light, full of laughter, joking. It’s a good thing that Jack feels comfortable enough to joke with him. He’s glad, because—he doesn’t know him all that well, definitely doesn’t trust him, not yet, but Tommy and Tubbo seem to like him, so it’s good that he’s fitting in, that he’s found a place, that he likes it here. Though liking isn’t always enough to stop the betrayal before it comes. He ought to keep a closer eye on him, just in case, but—that wasn’t the point of this.

The point is that, joking or not, Jack is completely right. It wouldn’t do to let his eating habits interfere with his duties. He’s already weak; is he going to add malnutrition on top of that? Never mind that he often doesn’t feel like eating, these days, that he really only has an appetite when he’s here, in the bakery. He needs to keep his strength up so that he can get things done. And he can’t force himself to sleep, so that problem is out of his hands, but he can force himself to eat.

Jack couldn’t have known what he was prodding at, of course, when he made the comment. But he takes another bite of bread anyway. It’s tough to swallow, even though it tastes delicious. He doesn’t know why. He’s never had an issue eating Niki’s food before. He hopes this doesn’t become a pattern.

And he hopes it’s not because there’s other people here. It would be an explanation, at least, but not one he likes. The implications there wouldn’t be—good, to say the least.

“Jack,” Niki says quietly, admonishingly, and he wishes she wouldn’t, because he doesn’t want Jack to examine what he’s just said, to analyze it as anything other than a joke. So he musters a smile, a quirk of an eyebrow, and Jack grins back at him.

Safe territory. Level ground, even footing. Relatively speaking.

And then Fundy pipes up.

“Hey, Wil,” he says, and Wilbur wonders, suddenly, where he picked up the habit of calling him ‘Wil’ or ‘Wilbur’ more often than he calls him ‘dad’. Not that he minds it, but it’s curious. Could it be from him? He himself calls Phil by his name more often than not. Perhaps it’s genetic. But then Fundy continues, “Is your hair actually, like, turning white?” and Wilbur is no longer interested in thinking about little details like that.

He’s tense again. Tense enough now that they can probably see it, even without looking too hard.

“Why is everyone so interested in my hair, lately?” he asks. “It’s just hair. Grows out of everyone’s head. Except for yours, Jack Manifold.”

“Point,” Jack Manifold agrees, but there is a gleam in his eyes, behind his glasses, that says he too is interested in the direction this conversation has taken. Not ideal.

“It’s just that,” Fundy persists, “it’s a little bit weird, right? If it’s turning white like that? Is that normal?”

“It’s not ‘turning white,’” he says, which might be a mistake, because he’s lying through his teeth, now. “It was a bad hair dye incident. Nothing you need to be concerned about.”

Jack laughs. “How’d you manage to fuck up hair dye that badly?” he asks, and the way the question is phrased is irritating; he doesn’t want Jack to start thinking he’s an incompetent fool who can’t dye his own hair properly. But he’ll also take this line of questioning over the other, so perhaps it balances out.

Except then, Niki splays both her hands on the counter. Any earlier levity that she had is now gone.

“Is that so?” she says. “That’s not what you told me.”

His heart is pounding again. He really, really hopes that he’s not developing a condition of some kind. He’d know if he were having a heart attack, wouldn’t he?

“I’m pretty sure that is what I told you,” he says, and Niki shakes her head.

“No, you told me that it wasn’t dye, when I asked,” she says. “And then you said that it was, but you were lying.”

She doesn’t sound angry, which is perhaps the worst thing about all of this. She doesn’t sound angry that he’s lied to her, taken advantage of her trust and fed her a blatant falsehood. Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact, and there’s a glimmer in her eyes that isn’t annoyance or betrayal or any of the other emotions she should be feeling. Instead, it’s concern. That blasted concern again.

He doesn’t deserve it.

“Really?” Jack says. “Huh. Well, what’d you do that for, then?”

He’s changed his mind. The worst thing about all of this is that there are other people present. That he’s not alone with Niki, which would still be an undesirable situation, but manageable. Jack Manifold and Fundy are both here, staring at him, expecting answers that he doesn’t want to give, and Fundy—

Why is his son looking at him like that?

“Why are you all so pressed about my hair?” he demands. “It’s hair. You don’t even see it.”

“I mean,” Fundy says, “like I said, it’s just kind of weird, right? I don’t think hair just turns white for no reason. Not unless you’re really old, which you’re not, I don’t think. So I guess we’re just curious about what the reason is.”

He doesn’t want to talk about this. This isn’t why he came here. This place, this bakery, these people, it’s supposed to be an escape from his responsibilities. The only one he allows himself, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s the one place where he doesn’t have to think about his own failings, where he can relax a bit and let himself be, if only for a little while, but here they are, pushing him on this, and he doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to be reminded of his incompetency. And they don’t know, can’t know exactly what they’re doing to him, but—

He slams his hand against the counter, sudden emotion boiling over. They all jump, the three of them. Niki’s eyes widen, and Fundy’s ears press back against his skull.

“Then don’t be,” he snaps. “Leave it the fuck alone. It’s really none of your business, is it?”

There is a moment of silence. The only sound is the crackling of furnaces.

“I guess not,” Fundy mutters, and he realizes what he’s done.

He’s just snapped, lashed out at his friends, his countrymen, his son, and for what? Because their questions are stressing him out? He should have turned around and left the moment he saw them in here, no matter what they would have thought, because this is worse. This is so much worse than that, and now he feels like an absolute shitstain of a human being. What kind of person gets so fucking upset over questions about his hair?

“I’m sorry,” he says. Too little, too late. “I didn’t mean—” Fundy is looking at him. They all are, and suddenly, he can’t bear it. Not any longer. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I really should be going. Thank you for the bread, Niki.”

It’s painfully transparent, and he is very aware of the fact that it’s the exact same way that he rushed out of the bakery when he was last here. Except this time, there are more people here to witness his shame.

History repeats itself, he thinks, bitterly. History repeats itself, and it only gets worse.

But he’s not staying here. He can’t. He just—can’t. Because he feels very upset over such a stupid little thing, and he’s upset that he’s upset, and now he’s upset other people, and he can’t stay here any longer, because if he does, the gods only know what’s going to fly out of his mouth next.

“Wil, please stay,” Niki says, but he’s already standing.

“Be seeing you all,” he says, and the door isn’t far, but it feels like miles, because he can feel their stares burning into his back as he makes his exit.

“Aw, wait, Wilbur, you don’t have to—” Jack starts, but he’s out the door. He’s out the door, and he lets it swing shut behind him, and the words cut off. He doesn’t have to listen to them. So if Fundy says anything, he doesn’t hear it, and he wonders why that makes him feel so much worse. Worse than he does already, which is no mean feat.

His stomach growls. He’s hungry. How many bites of bread did he take? Two? Three? Not enough to be filling. But somehow, he already knows that if he seeks food elsewhere, it will turn to ash in his mouth. And he can’t go back, not after the scene he’s just made, so he’s going to have to be hungry. Which is fine. He’s fine. He’s fine, even though he’s just fucked everything up, and he rather thinks he might not be able to show Niki his face ever again. So, no more bakery. No more safe place, and wow, he is being a dramatic fuck, isn’t he? But he can’t help himself. He never can.

He should have known better from the start. There is no such thing as safety. No exceptions. He should have tried harder to remember that. And he’s not angry, not anymore, not really, because they weren’t aware of the hornets’ nest they were stirring up; rather, he’s angry at himself, for losing control, for letting himself react, for not being able to handle a simple question with the poise and calm that is expected of him as president.

For being weak. That’s what it comes down to. His weakness. Persistent, and now, persistently on display.

He does a lot of screaming into his pillow that night. It doesn’t help. And sleep, it seems, is determined to continue its avoidance, so the night stretches long, and even his tears eventually run dry.

---

The next day, Niki comes to his office.

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siriuslyloonylove · 3 years

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One Rule, and One Rule Only by siriuslyloonylove

Sirius Black has one rule, and one rule only, about his feelings: “never, ever bother someone with your feelings if they’re busy”. And he’s always stuck to this rule, for example when James has a quidditch match the next day, he won’t wake the boy up if he has a nightmare, or if Peter’s eating, he doesn’t talk about how his parents starved him over the summer.

But the most important person he doesn’t want to bother is Remus, the boy whose problems seem worse than Sirius’, even though Remus repeatedly tells Sirius that it’s okay. The raven haired boy doesn’t want to bother him because what if he thinks badly of me for complaining about my stupid family while he never complains about turning into a werewolf every month?

Sirius knows he’s being illogical with that last bit, but when are feelings ever logical? He logically knows that Remus would do everything in his power to help him, even on the days before and after the full. He logically knows that being in a relationship means having someone to lean on when you can’t stand by yourself. He logically knows that Remus is the only one, besides James, who can help him when he’s feeling down about his family.

But he irrationally thinks that no one loves him, even after Remus spends an hour every night before bed kissing each and every one of Sirius’ scars, telling the boy a different thing he loves about him for every scar on his body, and has yet to repeat the same reason twice even after a year of doing it. He irrationally thinks that he’s only James’ friend because of coincidence, even after he took Sirius in as his own brother when he ran away from home and held him when he woke up in sweats from a particularly bad nightmare. He irrationally thinks that Peter is only his friend because James is, even after Peter smuggles freshly made blueberry muffins from the kitchens when Sirius is having a bad day.

He logically knows that he thinks irrationally, which leads to him bottling up his feelings until one day they explode and there’s nothing anyone can do to calm him down other than getting Remus, because everyone knows the only person he’ll listen to in this state is the boy with scarred skin and curly blond hair.

The explosion happens on a late fall evening of seventh year in the Gryfinndor common room after an eventful meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore.

“Headmaster, you wanted to see me?” Sirius announces himself to the room after walking up the spiral steps that lead to the Headmasters office. He can hear his great-great grandfather muttering curses about Sirius from where his portrait hung on the wall, but chose to ignore the hateful man.

“Oh yes, thank you Mr Black for meeting me on such short notice, please sit” Dumbledore said, gesturing towards the chair sitting across from his desk. Sirius nodded politely and sat down, looking around the room to take in his surroundings as this is the first time he’s been in here without knowing he was in trouble - I haven’t done any pranks this month, so am I in trouble?

As if reading the boy’s mind, Dumbledore laughs and says “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble, I just wanted to have a chat with you about a pressing issue.”

Sirius sighed in relief, shoulders untensing for a short moment until he remembered what the man had said. “What issue? Has Regulus done something? I swear I don’t even talk to him anymore, well he doesn’t talk to me.” He said, nervously playing with the rings on his hands.

“No, no this isn’t about your brother, well it is but it is more about your family in general - I received some unsettling information this morning about the whereabouts of your parents and wanted to gauge your reaction.” The old man vaguely said, leaving the boy confused.

“Okay?” Sirius started, “Have they done something bad-well something worse than usual?” He corrected himself mid sentence.

The old man chuckled at his response, shaking his head in surprise, “I see you already have a gauge for their actions,” he smiled sadly, “But yes, they have done something that they don’t see is wrong.” Dumbledore said vaguely, again.

“Okay? So why am I here, I mean I’m in no contact with my family other than the occasional howler sent to me when Walburga is drunk.” Sirius says as a matter of a fact, not understanding why he has to be here when he could be spending his time with his friends, sadly not with Remus because he has an essay to write in the library with Lily.

“Yes, Mr Black I am well aware of those howlers - we really need to block those coming in, that’s on me - but I am also aware of the fact that you don’t speak with them.” Dumbledore agrees, making Sirius even more confused, “Can you tell me your feelings on that?”

This catches Sirius by surprise, no one has even dared to ask that question in fear that they might get hexed, and he can’t very well go on hexing the Headmaster, so he shakily answers, “Well Sir, it’s not really something that I know how to describe - I wasn’t surprised when they disinherited me, I saw it coming from the moment I got sorted into Gryffindor, but I was surprised when they disowned me, not the family itself but Reg, because that’s when I knew that he had picked a side and it wasn’t mine.”

Dumbledore nods solemnly, “Yes, and who’s side are you on?”, which was the wrong thing to say.

“Are you asking me this because I’m a Black? Are you asking me who’s side I’ll pick in the end because I have incestual blood running through my veins, or is it because dark magic was taught to me before I could speak? Maybe it’s because you think I’ll choose my brother over my real brothers - which you must know that family doesn’t mean blood, love does. And if you think that I’ll pick Voldemort's side, then you’re not who I thought you were, because I’d rather die than let my friends die.” Sirius says defensively, not caring that he’s mouthing off the Headmaster, who doesn’t even have the audacity to look surprised.

Before Dumbledore can even open his mouth, Phineas shouts, eerily calm, from his place on the wall “How dare you speak to your Headmaster that way you filthy little blood traitor, I cannot believe you come from the Noble House of Black-”

“-Silence” Dumbledore booms from where he’s sitting at his desk before Phineas could spit more curses at him. If he wasn’t so angry, Sirius would’ve poked his tongue out at him just to piss off his great-great grandfather even more.

“Now Sirius, I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be, but that doesn’t give you permission to talk to me like that because all I’ve done is help you.” Sirius fights the urge to roll his eyes because he knows damn well that Dumbledore only does things that will eventually benefit himself, he’s heard the exact words come from his parents. “However, I am glad to know that you feel this strongly about the war.” Dumbledore says, smiling.

“Of course I feel this strongly about the war, I’m right in the middle of it and I learned a long time ago that I can’t push myself to the sidelines because someone will get hurt.” Sirius shivers, remembering The Prank.

“Yes, and I should’ve thought of that before having you come here, well now that I know how you’re feeling, you are free to go.” Dumbledore says, making Sirius sigh in relief.

But just as he’s about to get up, he remembers what started this conversation, “What did my parents do?” he asks, looking Dumbledore strongly in the eye.

“Nothing for you to be concerned about.” Dumbledore lies through his teeth, and if Sirius would’ve been more clear headed, he would’ve pressed on but instead he nods and gets up, walking towards the staircase.

“Oh and Sirius,” Dumbledore says as Sirius is about to walk down, “I’d be more careful about who you choose to shout at, you never know if you choose the wrong person in the end” He finishes vaguely. Sirius furrows his brows but chooses not to question it, just nodding and walking down the stairs.

When Sirius gets back to the common room, he immediately goes and sits down on the comfiest chair available, not even noticing his friends trying to get his attention. The only thing on his mind is wishing that Remus was here, but Sirius knows that he won’t get to see his boyfriend until after Remus was done with his prefect rounds after the library.

“Padfoot”

“Pads”

“Paddie”

“Siri”

“S”

“Sirius”

“Black!”

“Sirius Orion Black-Potter!” James says, exasperatedly, finally catching Sirius’ attention with his name changing.

“Huh- did you just call me Sirius Orion Black-Potter-Lupin?! Me and Remus aren’t married, and why did you add Potter?” Sirius says, looking confused.

“Yes! You weren’t listening so I had to get your attention!” James says frantically, moving his hands around in exasperation. “And one, you are a Potter, two you and Moony will probably get married before me and Evans will.” James says seriously.

“I second that last one!” Marlene shouts from across the common room, stopping snogging Dorcas for a second before going back to it. Get it Marlene!

“See!” James shouts happily, excited that someone agreed with him for once, before realizing Sirius’ solemn expression. “Wait what happened? Did you just get back from Dumbledicks?” James asks, reaching up to fix his glasses on his nose.

“Yeah.” Sirius responds, “But it’s fine, I promise, we’re not in trouble” he adds shakily, quickly standing up from his seat, “I’m going to go upstairs and lay down, I’m kinda tired” Sirius ends, walking towards the stairs before anyone can say anything, especially since it’s a Friday.

He hears Peter asking James what’s wrong, but doesn’t stay long enough to hear the laters response. Sirius quickly enters the dorm room and closes the door before taking off his shoes and getting in Remus’ bed and under the covers, taking comfort in the smell of soft vanilla and chocolate.

The tears don’t come immediately, but Sirius also doesn’t realize when he starts crying so he doesn’t really know how long he’s been crying by the time he does realize it. All he knows is that he’s clutching Remus’ pillow in his arms and crying into it because I’m so overwhelmed.

Why would Dumbledore even ask me that? Doesn’t he know how much it hurts to hate someone you love? Doesn’t he know-

Sirius’ thoughts are interrupted by someone opening the dorm room door, making him settle deeper into the bed wishing that whoever it is thinks that he’s asleep. His wish goes unheard when the person sits on the bed next to him. He slowly opens his eyes to see James sitting next to him with a sad smile and Peter standing behind him with a warm muffin in his hands.

“Hey Pads, we brought you a muffin” Peter smiles sheepishly, blushing pink.

“Yeah, and we brought you a cup of your favorite tea, we had to bribe the elves with helping do the dishes for the next week.” James and Peter smile proudly, which makes Sirius start to cry even more. “Oh no, Pads don’t cry! We don’t mind it, it’s worth it to see you feel better! Well I hope you feel better…” James says, looking scared.

“No, I- thank you, I know, I just had a really hard meeting with Dumbledore and I just feel overwhelmed” Sirius hiccuped through his crying, quickly wiping away his tears. “I promise I’m fine, I just needed a moment, but siriusly thank you guys” He tries to smile at his joke, though it comes out more like a grimace.

James smiles at him softly, reaching out to gently pat Sirius’ arm and move the comforter higher up. If Sirius were clear headed, he would push James away because he’s such a mother hen, but right now it comforts him.

“Okay Pads, do you need anything else? I can take over Remus’ shift if you need him” James offers, which makes Sirius start shaking his head muttering ‘no’ over and over again, he sits up and starts quickly mumbling about how Remus is busy and he doesn’t want to bother him, James can barely make it out.

“Okay Sirius, okay, settle down, I won’t get Remus” James promises, wrapping his arms around Sirius gently trying to get him to lay back down, noticing that the tears are falling faster down his face. James looks at Peter with a look that says “go get Moony” who responds with a quick nod and sets the muffin on the bedside table before quietly leaving the room.

“Please, you can’t get him Prongs, he’s so stressed with his essay and his rounds, I don’t want to bother him, please” Sirius cries out, grabbing onto James’ wrists and looking him in the eye. “I can’t let him know how sad I am, please”, his voice breaking off.

“Okay, calm down love, I won’t get him” James says, heart breaking at the sight of his best friend crying. Sirius nods frantically, letting go of James’ wrists to latch onto the pillow again.

Remus can’t see me like this, he just can’t. Would he think that I’m weak? I mean he breaks and rebuilds his bones every month and he doesn’t complain about it, this isn’t nearly as bad as being a werewolf - family issues happen to everyone, they have to, right? What if he breaks up with me because I’m selfish and crying over something that isn’t that bad?

James can sense that Sirius is overthinking everything, so he lays down next to him and wraps his arms around the shaking boy. Fifteen minutes pass of Sirius crying in James’ arms, the later hiccups every once and a while but relatively stays silent, sobbing quietly.

The door finally opens and he gently lets go of Sirius and stands up to give Remus room to climb into the bed, James nods at him, smiling sadly. Remus just looks at him with sad eyes and gets into the bed, wrapping his arms around a panicking Sirius.

“James, you promised!” Sirius exclaims, starting to shake even more, trying to push Remus away out of fear of rejection.

“I did promise, but I said nothing about Wormtail!” James said sheepishly before running out of the room and shutting it behind him and a flushed Peter.

“Fucking dickhead” Remus hears Sirius mutter, making him chuckle sadly.

“Hi, mon étoile” Remus softly says, making Sirius blush even through the tears. Sirius lets go of the pillow and cuddles closer to Remus, laying his head on his boyfriend's chest, even though the irrational part of his brain is screaming at him for it.

“Hi, mon loup” Sirius says, blushing even more at their terms of endearment before crying a bit more.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on?” The curly haired boy gently says, running his fingers softly through Sirius’ hair, making him cuddle more into his chest.

“Not necessarily” Sirius whispers. He would never admit it, but having Remus there makes him feel a lot better even though his mind is racing with irrational uncertainties.

“Can I tell you what I think is going on, and you can tell me whether I’m right or wrong?” Remus says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Sirius’ head.

Sirius takes a moment to think about it, what if he’s mad at me? Or what if he pities me? But what if he loves me anyways? Sirius’ curiosity takes the best of him and slowly nods his head.

“I think that Dumbledore said something upsetting, or inferred something, about your family and you’re overwhelmed and think that I will think badly of you for having feelings, which by the way is bullshit because your family sucks and I love you no matter what.” Remus says, surprising Sirius, because that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

“What the fuck Moony? Are you reading my diary or some shit?” Sirius says while smiling, wonder and tears filling his eyes while he looks up at Remus to see his face.

“Sirius, I know you, I’ve known you for seven years and have loved you for every single one” Remus says, making the boy in his arms blush, “I know you think no one truly loves you, but I’m here to prove you wrong, for almost the billionth time by the way, because I love you and you’re allowed to have feelings. I know you’re scared that I’ll think you're weak, but you’re not. You’re the strongest person I know, stronger than me, and not to compare trauma, but hateful parents is a lot worse than my furry little problem.”

“But Remus-”

“No, you can’t change my mind about this, you are so unbelievably strong and I’m so proud of you. I don’t know what happened in the meeting, but I do know that it hurt you a lot. Fucking Dumbledore, he better stay away from the shack this next full or the wolf’ll tear him to shreds and I wouldn’t even care.” Remus interrupted him.

“Moony!” Sirius exclaimed, laughing while still crying.

“I’m serious!”

“No, you’re Remus, I’m Sirius.” Sirius said proudly, the tears stopping in favor of being proud of his joke that got old years ago.

“Fuck I walked straight into that” Remus laughed.

“You’re gay.” Sirius said feigning seriousness.

“Sirius! Stop!” Remus said, now crying from laughing so hard. “I’m trying to be- well you know what I’m trying to be, but really, I love you and nothing can get in the way of that, not your family, Dumbledore, not even Azkaban.” Years later they both would look back at this, one hoping it’s true and the other hoping the other knows it’s true, but for now they laugh with tears in their eyes.

“I love you, mon étoile.” Remus says, reaching up to wipe the tears from Sirius’ face and resting them on his cheeks.

“I love you too, mon loup, so much, thank you” Sirius says, wiping Remus’ tears away and leaning up to press a soft kiss on his lips, the love overpowering the sad feelings.

⭐︎

second post for the night! i'm not really sure i like this one, it didn't turn out how i wanted it to and didn't even come close to what my original prompt/idea so yeah that sucks but it's alright. plus i think it was very fast paced and weird but oh well, please tell me what you think though! some people seemed to like it on ao3 (i still don't know how to link it in this post) so i decided to post it on here too :) i think i'm going to rewrite this sometime because it's not my favorite and i think i can improve!!

edit: bahahaha i accidentally named this the wrong name, it's supposed to be "only rule, and one rule only" lmao not "explosive feelings", i mean it was the original title but it didn't really fit so yeah sorry lmao

#wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius black needs a hug #panic attack #comfort #angst #i really don't like this #james potter #lily evans #peter pettigrew #peter is nice in this #my writing #siriuslyloonylove writing #oneshot #explosive feelings #but not really lmao #didn't turn out right #it's fine

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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

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The Servant and The Prince | Two

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki, chapter two

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: LMAO kinda smut? No- I don’t know how I managed to do this in the second chapter but I did and I don’t care, they’re soulmates, sue me- it is not graphic and it is important for the plot I swear

Tags: Fluff, again kinda smut but in the least graphic way, a touch of angst near the end

Word count: 5.2k (why can’t I write essays this fast?)

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Master List

The ride to the capitol takes three gruelling days. Each night is spent at a different tavern. It is the same story each time; Estrid and Anna spend the night in a lavish bed and Y/n is left with the horses, curled under her thankfully baggy cloak. It is neither warm nor comfortable, sleeping on the bench seat of the carriage. She never really falls asleep, she only dozes in and out of consciousness. It is almost always interrupted by footsteps or the murmurs of animals or her own mostly empty stomach growling into the night. That one is twofold- usually her stomach is in so much nauseating pain that she cannot sleep but, on the off occasion she can, she is then awoken by the loud roars it makes.

When she does sleep her dreams are plagued by nightmares of drowning in water that tastes of salt. It is always the same, her body sinking slowly to the bottom of what she can only assume is the sea, her lung filling with more and more of the saline water. She has never been to the sea but she has heard stories. She always wanted to go but now she is not so sure.

Each morning she wakes at the crack of dawn, sneaking out of the carriage like a mouse scampering away from the booming footsteps of a prowling cat. Of course she is not allowed to be sleeping in the carriage but it is a liability she must take. She would much rather be punished by Estrid than found by a drunken stable boy. Who would have thought she would miss her simple bed so much. It is just a worn mattress and the last of her mother’s quilts but she longs for it more than anything. She longs for a lot of things in the passing days.

With everyday that passes the anger grows stronger too. She has never been a restless girl but in less than three days it feels like everything she thought she was is wrong. Even while sitting still she feels as though she is pacing in a room that she is completely unfamiliar with. Granted it could be the rocking of the carriage- three days is a long time to be shaken up so- but still it feels different. When she squeezes her eyes closed hard enough she can see those differences. A bed with emerald sheets and a desk pushed against a window. And a man. A tall man who is shrouded in darkness. No matter how hard she squeezes her eyes she cannot make out his features.

She can see what he does sometimes though. He likes to sit at the desk and let the sunlight pour over him. That is the only time she does not feel the overwhelming anger, like daggers, slicing down the insides of her throat. She feels peace in those moments- almost like she is with him, her skin absorbing the sunshine as well. If only it was sunny during the night then maybe she could get a proper night's sleep.

The sunshine is not the only time she feels him, though. It is the best but not all. She can also feel when he digs his fingers through his hair, pulling so hard on the invisible strands that her scalp begins aching as well. She can feel it when he throws his head back, the soundless roar bubbling in her throat. His voice is a mystery to her. Somewhere deep inside her she knows what he sounds like, she just cannot describe it. It is there though, ingrained into parts of her that she also cannot describe. In those moments, if she could scream and know that her voice would sound exactly like his she would do it, if only to truly remember. That is what it feels like- forgetting. She is forgetting something gravely important.

Or she is just losing her everloving mind.

She cannot explain it, whatever it is; all she knows is that she does not understand. The anger is hers but not. The pacing and hair tugging are hers but not. The twinge of familiarity in everything that she sees in her mind. It is all both her own and not hers at all and it is infuriating. What is even more infuriating is to be so angry without reason. If she is to be angry all the time then at least she should know why. She would chalk it up to her situation- there is more than enough in her life to be angry about- but she had never really been angry before. Achingly desperate and mournful, yes. But angry? Before these past few days she never really understood the word.

The anger, then, must be his. But, if it is his, why then is it also hers? This time it is her who slams her hands against her head, digging in desperately. Why does none of it make any sense at all? She squeezes her eyes shut, so hard she sees that little spark of white that must mean her eyes are not supposed to be used so carelessly. She pushes past it- right now it does not matter. She is on a mission to find something out- to find anything out.

Only seconds later does the blackness behind her eyelids shift and she is no longer on the back of the carriage but rather back in his bedroom. The sunlight is pouring in through the window again and she sighs. Thank Odin. The last of her remaining senses that anchor her to the real world fizzle away as she scampers towards the desk where a figure cloaked in all black sits in a wooden chair. One of his shadowy hands is propped up on the desk, his fingers twisting through the rays. For a moment it feels like he is beckoning her to him, curling his fingers like an invitation meant only for her.

Of course she goes to him.

She barely registers the feeling of her feet hitting the stone below her- probably because she is not actually in the room walking towards him. That does not stop her from pretending like she is, gliding to meet him in the sunshine. She stands next to him for a moment, her heart galloping steadily. For once it is not from fear; there is nothing about him that she is afraid of. She wants nothing more than to climb onto his lap and let her body soak in the sunshine as well. It is not fear that makes her heart pound; it is anticipation. It is the looming sadness. She will try to climb into the sunshine- just as she has tried for each of the two days prior- and she will feel nothing. She never feels the warmth of the sun or the warmth of his darkened body. Still, she will try- it is all she can do to try.

She takes a deep breath, the faintest- almost nonexistent- aroma of pine trees and salt tickling her nose. The carriage must be close to the sea. She tosses the thought aside, bracing her hands on the side of the desk. Her fingers land how they are supposed to, splayed against the top, but she cannot feel the smooth plains of the mahogany. Her fingers stop with resistance but it is not tangible. Like every day before, she lifts herself up, placing her knees on either side of his dark lap. She braces for the same easy resistance of air to keep her hovering steadily above him. It will feel almost like nothingness- like only the memory of him is there instead of a real man. It is blissful, like coming home, and devastating, like being barred from entering said home, all at the same time.

She holds herself for a moment longer, not quite ready to feel nothing at all, and that is when it happens- his shadowy face snaps up and she can make out the faintest hint of icy blue in his otherwise misty eyes. She gasps, her heart beating even faster. Can he see her? Can he feel her? It is as though his eyes are boring into hers through her little daydream. It feels so real- like he is actually there and not just a figment of her imagination.

Her hands slip from the edge of the table, her knees jolting against the wooden chair almost painfully. There is a dull thud as she sinks down. That has not happened before. She snaps her gaze down to her legs, her mouth falling open at the sensation of her thighs spreading and pressing against leather. Yes, not the air that she has grown so used to but buttery leather and two warm legs that are covered by the folds of her dress. She could moan from how delicious it feels against her skin- both the supple leather and the feeling of finally being allowed back into her home- but of course she does not. Both because she does not want to risk the man hearing her wanton breaths and because he beats her to it.

Shadowy hands curl over her simple dress, fingers squeezing against her hips. She pulls her gaze back to the man's face, stifling another moan when he does again, almost as if testing the newness of being able to feel her. She supposes that is the answer she is looking for- he can definitely feel her. She watches as his lips- still shrouded in darkness like the rest of him- move frantically. No words form, not even hisses of air. She cannot hear anything he is saying. She can only feel him and his hands as he pulls her higher onto his lap, spreading her thighs even further until she is pressed harder into him. Her body molds into his with each shift, matching each dip and curve with her own, like two puzzle pieces clicking into place.

His mouth keeps moving, his faint icy eyes flicking across her face. Can he see her or does she appear like he does to her- a black mass of nothingness? She tests it the extent of her presence, placing her hands on his chest. Her heart is in her throat as her fingers smooth against the same supple leather, feeling the warm plains of armour and the way his chest heaves when she presses harder. His face tilts down, towards where she touches him, before snapping up to gaze at her. Again he tries to speak, his hands crawling up her back. His touch is heavenly- blissfully gentle against her injured spine- and she sinks back into him. She may as well soak in her daydream to its full extent.

She slides her fingers up to cup his cheeks. She cannot cannot make out the color of his skin but she can feel the heat rolling off him. His stubble bites at her palms, scratching her softly. She giggles, running her forefingers over it, exploring the contours of his face. Her thumbs drag over his cheekbones and he says something again, turning his face into her palm. His lips move against her skin and she wishes more than anything she could hear him. She wants to hear everything he is saying.

She draws his eyes back to hers, shaking her head slightly. He stops talking, his head cocking to the side. She cannot see it but she is almost certain his brows knit together. She is also certain that this man is beautiful, despite having only seen his eyes. If only her imagination were strong enough to fill in the blanks. Perhaps she is damaged- why else would she not be able to fill in a man of her making? His mouth opens again.

Y/n taps two fingers to her mouth and then to her ears, shaking her head. “I cannot hear you.”

She doubts that he will be able to hear her as well but she tries anyway. Her voice comes out soft, jarring against the silence. It is quieter here that she realizes. As expected, his eyes fill with confusion, narrowing slightly. One of his hands moves from her back and she swallows a whines at the rush of cool air that meets the place he had been holding her, immediately longing for the lost contact. Her bottom lip puckers out without her consent. Perhaps he notices, his gaze dropping low. Perhaps his eyes fall past her lips as well, though.

His other arm, the one still around her waist, tightens, sliding until his fingers curl around her opposing hip. Her knees slide even further forward with his actions, knocking into the back of the chair as her chest bumps into his. She shoots her hands out again, grasping onto his sturdy shoulders to keep from toppling off his lap, her thighs squeezing harder around him. Her skin drinks in the buttery material once more and this time she cannot stop the moan from rolling off her tongue, pleasure spiking up her spine. It is like nothing she has never felt before; a bolt of lightning striking right between her legs where her body nestles into his. It zaps her from the inside out, the most blissful heat pooling in the pit of her belly. Gods, the things she would do to hang on to that feeling forever.

He freezes under her, his shadowy arm around her hips stilling. Their faces are inches apart and it is as though she can almost feel his breaths against her lips. That is impossible but still the strange memory of his breath tickles, her mind filling in the blanks with what she assumes it would feel like. She can just barely taste the peppermint, somehow sharp through her dream.

Her hands squeeze harder against his shoulders as she sinks further onto him, her soft body molding again to fit against his hard one. The feeling repeats itself as she does- that wonderful bolt of pleasure- and her eyes flutter closed for a moment, her head falling back. Her mouth draws open as she clings to the growing heat between her legs. She has no idea why it is building or what will happen when it finally overflows but she is more than willing to find out.

His hand finally skims across her cheek, his fingers dipping behind her neck and curling, locking her in place against him. His hand is just as warm as the rest of him, adding a certain heaviness to her eyelids, one that she had been missing for days. He nudges her face gently and she pushes past the sleep and pleasure to meet his stare. He does not speak this time; he must have learned that it would not work. Instead he squeezes her hip, his icy eyes glancing down to where her legs are wrapped around him, before boring back into hers. He shifts again, pressing up and against her, sparking another round of that marvellous lightning in her belly, this time even stronger.

Her veins fill with fire and for a moment she can feel the sunshine on her back and hear the creaking of the chair underneath them as if she were actually in the room with him and not just locked in her own imagination. It does not last long, her newly unlocked senses, and as he relaxes back into his seat the fire in her blood mingles with desperation. She slides her fingers up his neck, tangling them in his soft hair. There is no hint of color, only the same shadows. She needs to see more- feel more.

“Please,” she draws his face up towards her, furiously pulling his darkened body towards hers. The contrast of her skin against his shadowed cheeks increases her drive- she has to see him. “Please do it again. I need more.”

It is futile, her little cries. She knows they will fall soundless on his ears. She can only hope that her actions, choked and frantic as she clings to him, can convey everything her lips cannot. He stares down, his crystal eyes locked on hers, his lips pressed together. His stillness makes her heart hammer rapidly against her ribcage. Please, by Odin, understand; I need you.

She pulls him even closer to her, falling until her back hits the edge of the desk and she is caged between it and him, still perched on his lap. Her dress bunches around her hips, her bare legs secured around his waist and squeezing him to her. Still he does not move, his eyes dragging down until his head is bowed between them, gaze locked on where their hips meet. His hand around her neck tightens, his eyes snapping back to hers, the blue visibly more brilliant. Glowing. He raises a shadowy brow, nodding slowly. Yes you oaf, yes! She would have screamed at him if she knew it would not be pointless. Instead she nods back at him, tugging gently on his hair. When he still does not move she finally snaps.

She springs forward, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her face pressed against the crook of his neck. She really has no clue what she is doing- at this point she only knows one thing; she wants to be here with him and will do whatever she has to in order to make it happen. She gently runs her nose along the side of his neck, soaking in his warmth, her fingers twisting once more in his silky hair. His chest heaves against hers again and she smiles. That must mean something good, right?

She starts slow, her lips barely glimpsing his skin, testing his reactions to her.

She presses a soft kiss below his jaw.

He wraps his other hand back around her hip.

She brushes her lips lower, harder, kissing his throat.

He squeezes her softly, rolling his head back and revealing more of his neck to her.

She sucks some of his skin into her mouth, letting it go with a pop that sounds as though it echoes through an actual room and not just through her mind.

He pulls her flush against his chest with a groan that just barely grazes her ears, sparking the jagged pieces of her memory to fill in his luscious voice.

She tugs his earlobe into her mouth, biting down a little less gently.

He stands with her still wrapped around him and presses her back against a now fully formed tabletop.

She gasps again, not expecting the vast switch but not angry about it either. In fact this is the first time she is not unreasonably angry and she wishes she could hold onto this feeling. This happiness. She giggles up at him as her skirt pools higher around her hips, her body no longer upright and squished between the desk and him. One of his dark arms lands next to her, sliding under her head. The other hand slips under her skirt, his rough fingers a delicious contrast against her smooth skin. He presses down, his thumb circling her hip bone softly, holding her against him. She sinks her head back into his hand, unable to tear the smile from her lips. This must be what home feels like.

She squeezes her thighs, connecting their bodies. He rolls his hip against her, finally giving her the pressure she has been craving, and the building inferno inside her roars back to life. She arches her back off the desk, trying to get even closer to him, and he leans down to meet her, pressing his stomach against hers. He bucks against her again and she can taste the peppermint for real this time- the salt and the pine so sharp that there is no way she can be imagining it.

The lightning spikes through her each time he juts against her. It crackles through her nervous system, flashing in her eyes. With every spark the colors around her become more vibrant, her senses overflowing. She catches glimpses of the emerald bed behind him and some jade strips of leather in his armour. She can hear the steady rocking of the desk, the scraping of the leather against her thighs. Her little sighs are clear, she no longer has to wonder if they are only in her head. She still cannot hear him but she can see the pink in his lips as they form around his words. They look soft and capable and it is all she can do to roll her head back into his hand and pray that he understands the invitation.

He does.

Unlike her he does not start slow. He leans down immediately, pulling her skin into his mouth feverishly and biting down. Her eyes slam shut as he does so, one of her hands falling to the arm anchored beside her. She curls his fingers around his bicep, forcing herself to remain still in the face of one of the most intense experiences she has ever had. She did not know that a mans lips on her skin could feel this way. The sensation is completely foreign- otherworldly. So is the moan that carves its way out of her throat, filling the space between them. It is loud and aching- much like the rest of her- and it rewards her with something that she is not expecting in the slightest. A laugh.

His laugh.

She pushes herself up as soon as the small sound falls against her ears, musical and elegant, her eyes peeling open to the sight of sharp green leather and raven black hair. His skin is still cloaked in the darkness, his hands two shadowy masses as they snake to her thighs, but she relishes in the details that her mind grants her. Her mother’s words ring through her ears. You are so powerful, little dove. That is exactly how she feels right now; powerful. She will pull him through the darkness, little by little, until she can hear the air in his lungs and see the blush in his face. She will do it if it is the last thing she ever does.

He goes to pull away from her, his face dropping and hands releasing. His icy eyes a tinged with worry. As he takes a step back the color in his lips begins to fade, the pink dulling to a soft grey. No! She uses her legs to drag him back against her, hard enough to make him slam his hands onto the desk next to her hips. The sound thunders through the room and she smiles, the whoosh of air that accompanies his movements like a warm summer breeze chasing away the cold spring. The fire in her belly drinks it in, layering it on top of the lightning like a blanket. She wraps her arms around his shoulders again, clinging to him completely.

“Stay please.” She holds his gaze as she pleads with him, every word making the blue in his eyes brighten even more. “Please-” She does not know what to call him, he has no name that she can recall. Only one word sparks in her mind- an old word she used to hear her mother use occasionally- “Surtr.”

Dark one.

His back straightens as the word slips from her tongue, pulling her up with him until he is standing. It is like something inside him snaps- much like it had earlier in her- and he presses her against the stone wall, using his hips to hold her in place as he all but rips the straps off her arms. His mouth finds her skin again, feathering kisses down her shoulders and over the tops of her breasts where they spill out of her loosened dress.

She digs her heels into his back, encouraging him to press harder against her. He obliges, sparking the fire once more. This time, when the lightning strikes she can taste the smoke in her throat. She is so close to overflowing; right there on the edge. The smell of pine trees is overwhelming now- like she is in a forest surrounded by them. The salt is almost as strong. She licks her lips, drinking in as much of it as she can as she meets his thrusts. The only thing she can think is that the feel of the leather between her thighs is her new favourite thing.

“You are the one who must stay.”

His voice is like honey, dripping slowly down her skin. It is utter perfection; sweet and low. Everything she had been imagining and so much more. He lifts his face, now only thinly veiled by the shadows. She can see bits of his skin, flushed but rosy, peaking through. His raven hair falls forward, tickling her cheeks and nose. She drags her fingers through it again, pushing it away from his face. Something inside her roars to life at the sight- at the sounds. His groans and the hitch in his chest and the little slap he gives her thigh that makes her giggle again. All of it combines with the final jut of his hips against hers and then next thing she knows she is falling, like a star from the sky, spiraling straight into the sweetest oblivion anyone has ever known.

The pleasure that fills her body is like nothing she could have ever imagined. That is how she knows it is real. She is not creative enough to manufacture the desperate sounds he makes against her skin nor the feeling of them both sinking slowly down the wall into a pile of woozy limbs and panting breaths. She does not influence the way he curls around her, shielding her as she muffles her screams into his chest- no dream could feel as strong and soft as his arms as he glues their shaking bodies together. No; this is real.

He is real.

But for how long?

“How do I stay?” She intwines her body with his, wrapping around him once more as the pleasure begins to wane. “Please tell me.”

Even as she speaks she can hear her voice fading, losing the sharp edge it had moments ago. The warmth of his body begins to lessen as well, even as she fights to bring herself as close to him as she can. She pulls her face out of his neck, meeting only the faintest of blue in his eyes this time. They dart over her face, his hands fisting in her dress, tugging her closer too. He is fighting as well. She opens her mouth again but no sound comes out, only a hiss of air as she tries to scream. Do not leave me! Tears pour down her cheeks and for once she does not try to stop them. For once there are more important things.

The room around her begins to blur, hazing in and out of focus. Her fingers slip against his hair, no longer able to hold onto him as he, too, fades. That does not stop her from trying to dig her way through the darkness to get him back. Even as the room begins spinning she keeps clawing at his body, searching for anything that she can latch onto. Any little bit of him that she has left. Her fingers catch on something cold and she wraps her fingers around it, saving it from the disintegrating world. She squeezes her eyes shut when everything blurs so fast that bile rises in her throat, the nausea being too much.

“I will find you.” It is the last she hears of his honey voice and, like everything else, she holds onto it, hoping it will be enough to permanently sear him into her memory.

When Y/n cracks her eyes open she is no longer in the room- she is on the back of Estrid’s carriage. She is shaking still, the last dregs of pleasure- the last reminder that it was real- fizzling out and mingling with the motion sickness. The rocking of the carriage does nothing to stave it, she has to rest her head against the metal to keep from wobbling off.

She blinks a few times, clearing the haze from her bones and the blinding light from her return to reality. When she does, she is almost as breathless as she was moments ago. Instead of the usual meadows that she has gotten used to seeing in the last few days, she is greeted with glittering golden towers. They rise all around her, reaching towards the sky like flowers reach for the sun. She has to hold her breath as she her eyes trace up their iridescent stems, dizzy at the mere thought of being at the very top. She has never been that high before. Well, besides this today. That can only mean one thing- she is in the capitol!

She cranes her neck, trying to absorb as much as it as she can. All around her are other carriages. For miles it had been only Estrid’s but now there are dozens, each one just as ornately decorated. Even more so. They are drawn by white stallions that huff at her when they pass, their muzzles ruffling like they have never smelt a servant before. She does not blame their caution- by the looks of things they are probably used to the finer things. She is quite the opposite. If she was a horse perhaps she would huff at herself as well.

The streets are immaculately decorated for the upcoming festivities. The pillars that line the streets are strung with scarlet and jade banners, the railings roped with gold silks. There are little stands selling candied fruits and chocolate. Along the festive streets people mingle in and out of the towers, dressed in fabric more colorful than she has ever seen before. It is the same golds and scarlets and jades that make up the decorations. It looks velvety and luxurious to the touch- perhaps almost as soft as his hair had felt in her hands.

She squeezes her fist at the thought, something hard biting into her palm. Her heart stops. The slight pain draws her focus away from the crowds- most of which she has noticed are comprised mainly of young women. It is incredible how many girls are trying their luck the same way Anna is. That is a thought for another time though, one when she is not preoccupied by magical phenomenon. She glances down at her palm. There is no way. She peels her fingers open slowly- anticipating the let down. She must be dreaming this- she must have dreamt it all.

But no, there it is, a little gold band with a deep set green emerald sitting atop her palm like a little reminder. Like a plea. It sparkles in the brilliant sun, warming on her skin. It calls to her in a voice so honeyed she flinches.

Come find me.

She peers back up at the towering city, her heart clenching. She wants to more than anything and she will do it- she knows she will. There is only one problem.

Where does she even begin to search?

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki x y/n #loki x reader #Loki fic #loki layfeyson x reader #loki layfeyson imagine #loki imagine #mcu #mcu fic #mcu imagine #prince of asgard

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im-the-punk-who · 4 years

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Hey, I was wondering if you have a book rec

Okay so in full disclosure, I have a really hard time reading books. My brain sometime around six years ago just decided that wasn't its style anymore, so I don't read a TON. A lot of these aren’t going to be recent releases. However, here are a bunch of books I would absolutely recommend checking out! I tried to include a variety of genres but I have uh.....five bookshelves in my apartment so if you're looking for more of a certain genre let me know!

Theatre:

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead - Tom Stoppard

Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett

These are my two favorite plays - they're both absurdist, humorous, and have some fun things to say. They’re both by old white guys but like....I love both Tom Stoppard and Samuel Beckett DEEPLY and they have all of my love and respect.

Non-Fiction/Educational:

Why are all the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria by Beverly Daniel Tatum - this is considered a 'classic' on the psychology of racism, and was particularly helpful for me as a white person in arming myself against 'reverse racism' thoughts and in dissembling my own prejudices. This is mostly a rec for other white folks, but Tatum also addresses 'having the courage to sit at the black table' as a way of claiming your own identity outside of the stereotypes the dominant society expects of you.

Daring Greatly by Brene Brown - Okay listen I just really REALLY love Brene Brown, she is a therapist most famous for her TED talk about Vulnerability and this is just...listen I really like to read this book when I am sad and feel like shit because it makes me feel strong. I reread this book at least once a year.

Imagined Communities by Benendict Anderson - This is an absolutely fascinating read on the rise of nationalism. It’s a bit dry and wordy, but the ideas and use of history as propaganda, spinning the story of a nation to pit it against or on the same side as other nations, and the ways in which these tactics shaped cultural history is just!!!! Amazing.

Gay New York by George Chauncey - This is just one of the most informative and interesting reads of queer history in New York that I’ve ever come across. It’s one of the ‘must reads’ of queer history and has so many interesting tidbits that I have to recommend it. It’s a bit old(published in 1994) but I still find it relevant and interesting to read.

Personal Fiction/Autobiographical Fiction

White Girls by Hilton Als - I went to a reading of this book when it first came out. It was so much fun and so eye-opening for me as a baby queer in NYC that I bought the book there. I wanna be really clear that Als does not pull punches and a lot of people don’t quite like it, but I love Als’ style of writing. The stories and essays in this book are amazing and funny and heartbreaking and informative of queer experience - particularly black queer experience - that I always feel like...honored? to experience through writing? This is one of those ‘you’re gonna suffer but you’re gonna be happy about it’ reads - it can be hard to face because of how very hard the pills are to swallow but like....gosh I just love this book and it’s interesting and hilarious and great.

Confessions of an Economic Hitman by John Perkins - this is my tin hat favorite. It hits....ugh. This is one of those books that came out and like every government agency freaked the fuck out over it. It’s an interesting look into the quote-unquote dark underbelly of capitalism; how and why countries manipulate each other through economic policies. Super interesting read with a nice style of prose.

The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to become the Smartest Person in the World by A.J. Jacobs Okay so full disclosure I have not finished reading this, but I’m far enough through to rec it. This book chronicles the author’s attempt to read the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica from front to back, and it is just as kooky and hilarious as it sounds. I am very incredibly and deeply offended this author stole both my schtick and my initials, thereby preventing me from doing this exact thing. I read through the phone book in its entirety when I was three. I had it in me. Anyway, this is basically the author just listing weird interesting facts he’s read about and connecting them to his daily life, but it’s a fun read, and you learn a lot of totally useless facts, which is absolutely my jam.

When Skatboards Will Be Free by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh - HI I LOVE THIS BOOK. I’ve read it maybe three times over. It’s so fun and interesting. You may notice that a lot of the books I rec are very absurdist in their humor, and this is no exception. This book is full of the dry wit and just weird goddamn shit you could only expect from the child of a revolution that never came. You want to read a book about someone who Went Through Shit? Read this book. It’s funny and heartbreaking and just. AHHHH. Seriously I cannot recommend this enough.

Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosch - FIGHT ME ON THIS. I love this book.....so much. Yes it’s technically a comic book but the stories are so INTERESTING and hilarious and full of exactly the dry absurdist humor I eat the fuck up. Also! Allie Brosch recently released a sequel of sorts called Solutions and Other Problems that I recommend without even reading it.

Poetry

Pansy by Andrea Gibson - IF YOU ARE NOT READING THE POETRY OF ANDREA GIBSON WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING WITH YOUR LIFE. I cried seven times reading this book. There are only like 14 poems. Please please read this to break your own queer heart :)

Bloodsport by Yves Olade - This is a tiny book full of absolutely devastating poetry. Most of it has to do with the grief of relationships, but like....gosh I love all of Olade’s stuff. (Also!! This is available as a pay-what-you-wish pdf!!)

Bright Dead Things by Ada Limón - This book focuses a lot on the author’s experiences of loss, and knowing that loss is going to happen. I’m completely devastated every time I read this.

Science Fiction/Fantasy

The Bartimeaus Sequence by Jonathan Stroud - So what if I am a dumb millennial I love this series. It’s another dry and deadpan humor, with weird additions and Stroud’s use of footnotes to absolutely crack me the fuck up means I gotta rec this. I just gotta. Four(I think?) books following the deeply unlikeable Nathaniel and his Djinn Bartimaeus, who just wants to eat humans and have a deeply enjoyable enemies to lovers plotline with his arch rival.

The Magic's Price Trilogy by Mercedes Lackey - Okay I know I’ve recced this before. I will rec it again. This was the very first series I ever read that featured a gay protagonist and I was. Devastated? Reformed? I latched onto Vanyel Ashkevron and I am never letting this depressed emo boy go. Try me, I bite. Seriously, this book was released in the 80s and yet it is still relevant, I still cry - god i LOVE this series SO MUCH. And, MERCEDES LACKEY actually invented unbury your gays, sorry I make the rule on that one. :) Also there are magic talking horses??????? Seriously please read this series I love it so much.

Fire Bringer & The Sight by David Clement-Davies - This is another series that was absolutely formative in my baby lexicon. These are books about magical animals and their inner societal workings and both books address the ideas of good, evil, darkness, compassion and good will, and destiny. I am obsessed with these books, they are some of the most interesting of the genre I’ve read, and so incredibly intricately written. LOVE these books.

Vampire Earth Series by E. E. Knight - The Witcher before it was cool. Sort of but like...there are schools of Cat, Bear, etc and it has COOL VAMPIRES I LOVE THSI SERIES. Basically, earth has been taken over by a race of alien ‘Vampires’ and follows a human involved in the resistance. The writing in this series is...wow. It’s so intricate and interesting and involved. I own the whole series because I love it so much, including the after-series hardback novels. I’m so messy and I love it.

Kindred by Octavia Butler - You know how people are like ‘YOU SHOULD READ OCTAVIA BUTLER!!’ ? You should absolutely do that. This novel is mindblowing and interesting and the pace and narrative are so so so interesting. Heartbreaking, god, horrific. Butler is an amazing writer and this novel, while my personal favorite, is not by any means the only of her books I would recommend. STORIES. STORIES!!!!!!!

Fiction

The Ballad of Barnabas Pierkiel: A Novel by Magdalena Zyzak - This book is so fucking good. It’s imaginative, funny, intelligent....it’s honestly one of the best fiction novels I’ve ever read. Again, dry, absurdist humor, this book sort of reminds me of Terry Pratchett’s style of writing.

The Call of the Wild by Jack London - This is a classic, a true classic. The social commentary of this book is so so good, London’s style flows and, personally, as a dog and animal expert, the anthropomorphisation of Buck and his fellow animals is just so well done. I love this book, it’s quite an easy read, and I reread it at least once a year.

Rolling the R's by R. Zamora Linmark - Okay. Okay okay!!!!!! I gotta take a deep breath about this one. This book is. Yuh. This is a bit younger leaning than the other fictions, focusing almost entirely on high school level characters, however the experiences and commentary is just so so good. Focusing on a diverse group of characters growing up in Hawaii in the 1970′s, this book addresses the intersectionalities of gender, sexuality, race, immigration, education, and how we define who we are. I’m obsessed.

A Separate Peace by John Knowles - A heartbreaking novel about war, innocence, adolescence, and how we hide from our truths. It’s...so good, this book hurts me a LOT okay. The prose is phenomenal, the story is poignant, and it feels like I’m ripping my own heart out with a fishhook every time I finish it.

The Toss of a Lemon by Padma Viswanathan - This is one of those books I half recommend because it’s so good, and half because of the deep wealth of knowledge it presents the reader. The author’s use of her own culture is just....goddddddddd. Intricate and interesting and so delicately included in the narrative that you can feel the love the author has for it. It’s a long read and it took me almost a month to get through reading every day, but god. It’s so soft and amazingly written I both wanted to read it all at once and take my time with it. This is another one that deals with the duality of humanity and how we connect with one another. Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!

P.S. Your Cat Is Dead by James Kirkwood Jr. - I love this book I love this book I LOVE THIS BOOK. It’s fucking hilarious, entertaining, I literally laughed out loud at every single chapter. Hilarious and poignant and surprisingly deep, this book literally follows the journey of a man in which literally everything that could go wrong does. It’s fucking hilarious.

I hope that helped and gave you some new books!!! <3

#long post #book recs #milo writes

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tinyshe · 3 years

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[copy, save and share censored information; fight for freedom of information]

COVID-19 Injection Campaign Violates Bioethics Laws

Story at-a-glance

Safety data analysis and reporting in clinical trials of the COVID jabs appear to have been manipulated in at least some cases. One method for manipulating randomized clinical trial safety data is to only analyze the “per protocol” treatment group (those who completed all doses and were fully compliant with the study design) as opposed to “intent to treat” which would include all patients that have signed informed consent

For example, if a participant only accepted one dose and trial protocol called for two, under a “per protocol” analysis, adverse events they experienced would be dismissed and not included in the safety analysis. This is a classic way to manipulate safety data in clinical research, and it's usually forbidden

Since the COVID shots only have emergency use authorization, they are experimental products and, as such, they are not authorized for marketing

Bioethics are written into federal law. As an experimental trial participant, you have the right to receive full disclosure of any adverse event risks. Full disclosure of risks is not being done, and in fact is being suppressed

Adverse event risks must also be communicated in a way that you can comprehend what the risks are, and the acceptance of an experimental product must be fully voluntary and uncoerced. Enticement is strictly forbidden

As the inventor of the messenger RNA (mRNA) vaccine platform, Dr. Robert Malone is one of the most qualified individuals to opine on the benefits and potential risks of this technology.

His background includes a medical degree from Northwestern University, a master's degree from Salk Institute, a bachelor's degree in biochemistry from UC Davis, a Giannini fellowship in pathology and a post-graduate fellowship in global clinical research at Harvard.

He taught pathology to medical students for about a decade at the University of Maryland and the University of California Davis, and then became an associate professor of surgery at Uniformed Services, University of the Health Sciences, where he launched a major research institute focused on breast cancer and high-throughput screening in genomics for breast cancer.

After that, he helped found a company called Inovio, which has brought forth a number of gene therapy discoveries, including vaccines, and the use of pulsed electrical fields as a delivery method. After 9/11, a colleague at the University of Maryland's department of business and economic development connected him with Dynport Vaccine Company, a startup that had received a DoD contract to manage its biodefense products.

"That's when I transitioned from being more of an academic to the advanced development world of clinical research, regulatory affairs, project management, compliance, quality assurance — all of that stuff that goes into actually making a product," Malone explains.

"It was a huge epiphany that the world really didn't need more academic thought leaders and [that] I was wasting my time focusing on that. What the world really needed was that people understood the underlying technology and the discovery research world, but also understood advanced development, which is that drug development is a highly-regulated world. And there aren't very many of those.

So, I set out to become really expert in that latter part and worked with the government, particularly in biodefense and vaccine development, for a couple of decades. And that brings me to the present.

I've captured a couple of billion dollars in grants and contracts for companies that I've worked with, and clients from the government, from BARDA [Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Authority], from the Department of Defense and others."

COVID-19 'Vaccines' Are Gene Therapy

I've been accused of falsely stating that these COVID shots are not vaccines but gene modifying interventions. However, even Malone agrees with this statement, and as the inventor of the technology, he should know. He points out that in Germany, by law you cannot refer to this technology as a genetic vaccine or gene therapy vaccine. "The German government has specifically outlawed the use of gene therapy-based vaccine as a term," he says.

With his background, and having received the COVID shot himself, he can hardly be called an "anti-vaxxer" and/or someone who doesn't believe in gene therapies. Yet, he recently went public with concerns about the safety of rolling out this kind of technology on a mass scale, and the unethical ways in which they're being promoted.

As has become the trend, he was immediately censored. Wikileaks even went so far as to erase him from the historical section of the mRNA vaccine page and his own personal Wikipedia page was removed. All references to Malone inventing the mRNA technology were removed and attributed to a variety of institutions instead.

Blowing the Whistle

Malone's public involvement with the COVID jab issue began with a short essay1 reflecting on the bioethics of the current campaign to get a needle in every arm. This essay grew out of a conversation he'd had with a Canadian physician. Malone's essay catalyzed an interview with Bret Weinstein in June 2021 on the DarkHorse Podcast.

This isn't the first time Malone has spoken out against unethical behavior in science. He was also a whistleblower in the Jesse Gelsinger death case,2 back in 1999. Gelsinger was a young man who had a rare metabolic disorder called ornithine transcarbamylase deficiency syndrome (OTCD), where dangerous amounts of ammonia build up in your blood.

He'd been diagnosed at the age of 2, and was managing his condition with a regimen of nearly 50 drugs a day. At 17, Gelsinger signed up for an investigational gene therapy. Like the COVID shots, the therapy involved injecting a gene attached to an adenovirus, which would be integrated into his DNA to permanently produce an enzyme that prevents ammonia buildup.

Gelsinger was the 18th person to receive the gene therapy, and while the others had only experienced mild side effects, Gelsinger had a severe response after scientists at the University of Pennsylvania administered adenoviruses doses that were far above what had been approved by the corresponding safety committee.

Gelsinger became disoriented and developed jaundice and acute inflammation, followed by a rare blood clotting disorder and multi-organ failure. He was dead within days. Even a decade later, Gelsinger's death is still considered the biggest setback for gene therapy.3

"When the Jesse Gelsinger events happened, I also had long been a deep insider in the gene therapy space, so I had specific knowledge of what had happened at Penn — the ethical transgressions, shall we say, that occurred — and had awareness, again, just like now, of the technology," Malone says. "So, I was able to make sense of things that otherwise were obscure for journalists and even other scientists."

After speaking out about the ethical transgressions that contributed to Gelsinger's death (dosing which exceeded approved levels), Malone became a "persona non-grata" in the gene therapy community. In other words, he was blacklisted by his peers and prevented from participating in gene therapy research.

"That's part of why I went in a different direction with my career and focused on government work and biodefense, supporting the Department of Defense," Malone says. "The lesson learned for me is that I'm able to be resilient, together with my wife's support.

Another key lesson was that your friends will support you through times of crisis if you behave with integrity and maintain your friendships and treat people with respect. I also had a lot of support for having spoken out and taken an ethical high road on that and not compromised myself …

It's part of why I'm comfortable [speaking out now]. People tell me that I come across as balanced and calm. But yes, this is a little bit frightening and once again, [I'm] putting my career on the line. But once again many of my colleagues in the government are grateful that I'm speaking this way. They are not able to have a voice because of their jobs and government policies about speaking out."

Public Responses to Censorship Make a Difference

As explained by Malone, he's been heavily censored since his three-hour interview with Brett Weinstein. LinkedIn even deleted his account. However, LinkedIn users all around the world canceled their accounts in protest and wrote the company, explaining their cancellations were in protest of Malone being censored.

The social media uproar culminated in a major news article in a mainstream Italian paper, which appears to have pushed LinkedIn over the edge. LinkedIn eventually reinstated Malone's account and even sent him a letter of apology.

"I don't think I've ever heard of a company writing a letter of apology after delisting and deleting somebody," he says. "My sins were 'profound,'" he says sarcastically, "They were that I outed the chairman of the board of directors of Reuters who is also sitting on the board of Pfizer, for cross-posting the Wall Street Journal article on vaccine toxicity risks, and well, basically for complaining about censorship.

So, they sent me my list of sins with six different posts that were to pretty much anybody's eye innocuous, which I then took and cross-posted onto Twitter. So, that revealed the absurdity of that … The note [of apology] that I received basically said, 'Look, we don't have the expertise to censor you, but if you cross the line, we have the right to summarily delete you again and so mind your manners.'"

The Repurposing of Drugs to Combat Pandemics

In recent years, Malone has been involved in yet another startup company (Atheric Pharmaceuticals), in collaboration with the DoD, that focused on repurposing drugs to combat Zika infection. That company went bankrupt for lack of investor interest in repurposing drugs for treating infectious diseases.

When the COVID-19 outbreak began, he got a call from a colleague who works in the intelligence community in Wuhan, China, who urged him to put together a team to investigate the possibility of repurposing old drugs against COVID.

His team is currently about to enter clinical trials for a number of licensed off-patent drugs. That said, his biggest contribution so far is probably his commentary on the bioethics of what is going on.

"Both my wife and I are deeply ethical people," he says. "We're high school sweethearts. We try really hard to live ethical lives and to help our fellow man as well as the animals in our lives. So that's just the place we come from. It's bedrock. We're not rich people.

I recall a long telephone call with the Canadian physician that poured his heart out about the situation in Canada that he's encountering, both with vaccine administration in primary practice, and also in administering alternative therapies to outpatients, which generally have no therapies available.

I mean, the position is a bit shocking — in the emergency rooms all across the world. Basically, you go to the ER and if your O2 sets are down, pushing towards 80, they say, 'Well, go [home] and come back when your lips are blue.' And that's the essence of it. They don't really offer anything.

So many physicians, including this gentleman in Canada, have been seeking alternative strategies and they've tested and administered these various agents. We've heard of fluvoxamine, ivermectin, hydroxychloroquine. There are many, many others now, including those that we're working with (famotidine and celecoxib) that seem to have therapeutic benefit when administered early to shut down this hyperinflammatory response.

So, he shared this and the stories of multiple reports of vaccine adverse events that in his clinical judgment were clearly vaccine related, some of them quite serious, and that the Canadian government would summarily dispose of those as non-related even though in his clinical judgment, they clearly were related.

He spoke about the enticement of children in Canada with ice cream and the willingness of the Canadian government to administer vaccine to children without their parents or guardians consent after enticing them with ice cream cones, and some of the other things that I just found shocking ...

It mirrors what we're seeing across the world, where governments are taking liberties with people's health and their rights without real legislative authorization to do so in most cases."

Core Bioethical Principles Are Being Violated

Malone and his wife Jill are both trained in bioethics, so after listening to this Canadian colleague, he decided he could help by writing a lay press opinion piece about the bioethics of experimental vaccines under emergency use authorization.

"I have intimate knowledge of not only the emergency use authorization legislation, the FDA policies behind it, I even know the people that wrote it," Malone says.

"So, we dove in, refreshed our memories on the whole history of the modern bioethics construct that briefly runs from Nuremberg Trials to the Nuremberg Code, to Helsinki Accord, to the Belmont Report in the United States, and to the common rule that exists in the code of federal regulations."

In summary, since the COVID shots only have emergency use authorization status, they are experimental products, and as such, they are not authorized for marketing. The core bioethical principles that apply therefore involve three key components:

1. Bioethics are written into federal law — As an experimental trial participant, which is what everyone is at the moment who accepts a COVID shot, you have the right to receive full disclosure of any adverse event risks. Based on that disclosure, you then have the right to decide whether you want to participate.

Adverse event risk disclosure should be provided at the level of detail disclosed in any drug package insert. However, the COVID shots have no such insert or detailed disclosure, and adverse event reports are even being suppressed and censored from the public.

Instead, as explained by the FDA,4 since the COVID shots are not yet licensed,5 rather than providing a package insert, the FDA directs health care providers to access a lengthy, online "fact sheet" that lists both clinical trial adverse events and ongoing updates of adverse events reported after EUA administration to the public.

A shorter, separate, online fact sheet with far less information in it is available for patients — but, provider or patient, you still have to know where to look up each of the three EUA vaccines separately on the FDA website to access those fact sheets.6

2. Adverse event risks must be communicated in a way that you can comprehend what the risks are — This means the disclosure must be written in eighth grade language. In clinical trials, researchers must actually verify participants' comprehension of the risks.

3. The acceptance of an experimental product must be fully voluntary and uncoerced — enticement is forbidden. "I argue that all of this public messaging that we've all been bombarded with … constitutes coercion," Malone says.

"The most egregious example of this that I've ever seen, is the federal government identifying 12 people … and labeling them as the dirty dozen, [saying] that they are responsible for causing death because they are disseminating what the government has determined to be misleading information about vaccines. This is mind boggling to me and to most of my colleagues."

How Falsehoods Are Getting Top Billing

As you probably know, I am on that "disinformation dozen" list. The irony of this situation is that government officials are really the ones contributing to the deaths by not adhering to bioethical principles that are enshrined in law. It's a classic case of 1984 Orwellian doublespeak.

As I mention in the interview, the "misinformation dozen" list is the creation of the Center for Countering Digital Hate (CCDH), a shady organization funded by dark money that sprung up less than two years ago.

"Yeah, you don't even have to go to dark money. It's out in the open. There's this Trusted News Initiative led by the BBC. They announced … last fall that they have integrated Big Tech, Big Media and new media, Facebook, Google, Microsoft, et cetera, into an organization that was intended to control false narratives relating to elections, but they decided to turn it on what they perceived as false narratives for vaccines," Malone says.

"As if that wasn't enough, the Wellcome Trust and the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation have announced initiatives where they're making block grants to Facebook, which is then funding these new pop-up fact-checker organizations … [that] are employing methods to smear people and to ban information …

What happens is these fact-checker organizations will make their pseudo fact check, like what I experienced with Reuters — which was transparently false, their fact check — and then the media will recycle the fact check. So that moves up in the Google ranking and they're citing themselves. That's what's going on. And it's sponsored by the likes of Wellcome Trust and Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation and they're quite proud of it."

Why Target Children and Pregnant Women?

Considering the unknown risks involved, why are governments and vaccine makers pushing so hard for children and pregnant women to participate in this experiment? Both have an extremely low risk for complications from COVID-19, which makes adverse effects of the vaccine all the more unacceptable, if not all together intolerable.

There's the appearance that there was manipulation of safety data analysis and reporting in the Phase 1, 2, 3 clinical trials … by focusing on patients who had completed the study per protocol, as opposed to those that entered the study as intended to treat. [If] you've only accepted one dose of vaccine under those clinical trial protocols and you have an adverse event … that information about the adverse event … is lost. It's not included in the safety analysis. This is a classic way to manipulate safety data in clinical research, and it's strictly forbidden. ~ Dr. Robert Malone

Making matters worse, there's no process in place to capture all side effects. Somehow, this was left out, and there's evidence to suggest this was done intentionally.

"I think it's important for the listenership to recognize that what we have is still an emerging understanding of what the adverse events are," Malone says. "I could tell you the story of how the cardiotoxicity adverse event was recognized, and it was not through official channels. There is [also] the appearance that the CDC is deliberately under-reporting adverse events to the public.

And there's the appearance that there was manipulation of safety data analysis and reporting in the Phase 1, 2, 3 clinical trials for some of these products by focusing on patients who had completed the study per protocol, as opposed to those that entered the study as intended to treat.

That's a subtle distinction, but what it means is that if you've only accepted one dose of vaccine under those clinical trial protocols and you have an adverse event, and you decide to drop it out, or they gently suggest that you shouldn't take the second dose, that information about the adverse events that you received — which would have made you at even higher risk for the second dose — is lost. It's not included in the safety analysis.

This is a classic way to manipulate safety data in clinical research, and it's strictly forbidden. So, the FDA is onto that trick. Normally, if I was to do that, I would get slapped down immediately. Why they allow these large drug companies to do this (if, in fact they did) — and you can't claim that Pfizer didn't know what they were doing — is beyond me.

Now that we know about the adverse events associated with the cardiotoxicity in adolescents and the damage to the heart and the deaths associated with that, people can start to do calculations based on official CDC data, [but] those data are flawed.

They probably under-report the true adverse event rate by about a 100-fold if you're relying on the various historic analysis information. But you can look at those data. And if you're a data scientist, you can do the calculations that the CDC is not doing and not disclosing to us about risk benefit.

The ones that I've seen done by well-trained and highly experienced specialists, people that work for the insurance industry that do this for a living … come out literally upside down."

If the clinical trials did not include patients dropped after Dose 1 in the safety analysis, this would indicate a "per protocol" safety analysis was performed, and therefore that the safety data analyses leading to the emergency use authorizations were not based on rigorous safety assessments.

Multiple patients claiming to have been included in COVID-19 clinical trials have also reported on social media that their reports were excluded from final safety analyses, although this cannot be verified.

Risks Significantly Outweigh Benefits

A study7 posted July 7, 2021, which looked at deaths occurring in children in the U.K. during the first 12 months of the pandemic, found 99.995% of children diagnosed with COVID-19 survived.

By July 19, 2021, in the United States, a total of 335 children under 18 had died with a COVID-19 diagnosis on their death certificate.8 An analysis by Marty Makary and colleagues at Johns Hopkins, together with FAIR Health, showed none of the children under 18 who died and were diagnosed with COVID-19 between April and August 2020 were free of preexisting medical conditions such as cancer.9

Now, while the average healthy child has a minuscule chance of dying from COVID-19, and their risk of developing heart inflammation from the COVID jab is also quite low, the risk associated with the injection is still significantly greater than any risk associated with the natural infection. As explained by Malone:

"That ratio comes out suggesting that there will be more lives lost to receipt of the 'vaccine' in a universal vaccine campaign than there would be if all those kids were infected by SARS-CoV-2. This upside-down ratio appears to extend or very close to equivalent at least up to the age of 30.

So, we're in a position where the data that we have are admittedly flawed. Is that by intent or what? From my standpoint, the data are the data, so I can't smoke out what somebody within health and human services intended to do, but I can look at the data, and others can.

And the data absolutely do not support a positive risk-benefit ratio for vaccination of infants through young adults, based on any normal criteria. So then why are they doing this crazy stuff? It seems to all be wrapped around the axle of the need to justify universal vaccination.

I argue that this is actually a mid-century policy that goes back to the '50s and the '60s polio vaccine campaign, when the government and world health authorities established a position that it was OK to lie, to withhold information about risk for vaccines, because to have the full spectrum of information about the risks of vaccines would cause people to not accept the vaccine.

So, 'Shut up, we know it's best for you and don't question us' is a firmly authoritarian position. It is intrinsically authoritarian and paternalistic. It's exactly the kind of stuff that George Orwell wrote about in his book '1984.' It was a warning … of how governments and authoritarian structures will behave and do behave."

Denial of Vaccine Dangers Has Been Federal Policy Since 1984

Ironically, Malone points out that in the 1984 Federal Register,10 it's stated that posting information into the federal register about vaccine risks that jeopardizes vaccine I uptake shall be suppressed.

"So, it's a clear federal policy going back to 1984," Malone says. "This is the way they're going to handle things. And they're going to handle it with the noble lie of saying, 'No, there are no risks and what we're doing is fully justified' …

I don't think we have to go to imagining some grand conspiracy at Davos between certain individuals. I think this is an emergent phenomena of the intersection of old-school thinking about information management and new-school capabilities and technologies.

I think the CDC, HHS, WHO, and Wellcome Trust or Bill & Melinda Gates foundation, etcetera, have just grossly misread the population, certainly in the United States. And so now we're in a position where before, according to Del Bigtree, there was about 1% to 2% of people that self-identified as anti-vaxxers, and we're now [above] 40%. Clearly, about 40 to 50% of the population are just dug in. They're not going to accept these vaccines.

The White House now finds it necessary to have a special group to identify and target 12 American citizens for what they believe to be vaccine disinformation, and to make a big public press announcement about it. Don't they have anything else to do? It seems like the world has got bigger problems than Dr. Mercola, but what do I know?

The whole thing is mind-bending. And a lot of people, including many Europeans, are really lit up over this. They remember. European intellectuals are very aware of the dynamics that happened in Germany in the 1930s … I think this could be a turning point in a lot of things."

The Powers That Be Have Been Given Free Reign

While Malone is not interested in speculating about the intentions behind all this malfeasance, he's intimately familiar with the power of Big Pharma to manipulate governments. As detailed in other articles, several of the COVID injection makers have a rich history of illegal activity and unethical behavior, and now they have been given free reign to do as they please.

They're been completely absolved from liability if and when something goes wrong with these injections, and governments are enticing and bullying citizens to participate in Big Pharma's experiment.

"If you give that kind of liberty and power to a global multinational and absolve them of any accountability, they will serve their stockholders," Malone says. "They are not geared to serving the rest of us, whatever they may say in their press releases.

That's just how big pharma behaves, and we've chosen this model. Messaging having to do with alternative treatments and the importance of wellness, those are not consistent with the 'Take this pill, pay your price and shut up' kind of business model.

Personally, I think that Mr. Gates and his foundation have done enormous irreparable harm to world health community through his actions and his own personal biases. He has really distorted global public health. At some point, there will be books written about this, and I'm sure an enormous number of Ph.D. theses will be granted. But meanwhile, we all have to live with it."

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canchewread · 4 years

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Editor's note: this journal is original content (written by myself, of course) and has not appeared elsewhere online before today. I should also note that because this is both an opinion piece and an informal journal, my level of commitment to providing citations for the disingenuous wasn't particularly high; if you're looking for formally documented evidence that we're currently in the middle of a fascist takeover, I encourage you to check out my academic writing about the subject on ninaillingworth.com instead.

Journal 09/09/2020: Looking the Beast in the Eye

When I originally sat down to pen this journal, my intention was to call it something along the lines of “advice to a young leftist” which is probably in no small part, the reason why it's taken me three days to write this piece. This is because unfortunately I do not have very much good advice for a young leftist today in two-thousand and twenty, or at least much advice that isn't going to sound rather a lot like “quit before what you believe destroys your entire life.”

As I've written (extensively) elsewhere, we're in the middle of a fascist takeover that is more or less succeeding across the entire Pig Empire, and what passes for the liberal (read: capitalist) establishment in our respective nations seem quite content to try and appease the beast by feeding them the entire left and any marginalized group “uppity” enough to demand justice, equality or representation. There is not a lot of upside to being an open leftist right now and understanding what I know about both the history of fascism and the history of reactionary crackdowns in America, it's awful hard for me in good conscience to advise any young person to willingly subject themselves to the tender mercies of an uncaring state and its fascist cutout vigilante groups.

Let's talk a little bit about what that history, including very recent history, can tell us and why what it tells us isn't very good for the American left. Here in particular, we as both a class in American society and a people that believe in a more equal, compassionate and humane way of life, stand at the intersection of state power, class oppression and the homicidal revenge fantasies of a fascist political order that has seized power throughout much of the United States. The fact that this is not understood by our milquetoast Dem Soc allies and the bougie “progressive left” is completely irrelevant; as any Ferguson activist (who is still breathing) can tell you COINTELPRO never ended, performative liberal anti-racism stops well short of opposing police repression, and genteel society will respond to violent reprisals against activists by the reactionary right with either dead silence or some mild clucks of disapproval at best.

Are the liberals aware that when the increasingly fascist American right says “the left” they mean liberals and suburbanite Democrats too? On some level I'm sure they are, but clearly the threat of increased taxation and social programs for the poor terrifies them far more than the possibility fascism will progress to the point that they're next in front of the firing squad – I've been told the liberals of Weimar Germany felt much the same way during Hitler's rise; which merely demonstrates that the liberal capacity for coddling fascism if it's profitable knows few limits. Furthermore the nauseating truth is that many of your misguided and misinformed liberal allies in the working class simply don't understand that the fascist right always seeks to eliminate the militant left first simply because those are the people who're going to fight back when you start loading Muslims, Latinos and lanyard Democrats onto cattle cars.

This historical process of fascism of course intertwines with the American establishment's history of ruthlessly repressing, criminalizing and even murdering the left. As I detailed extensively in a prior essay called “The Inversion Perversion” the state's war against Americans who want a more equal society (in any number of ways) predates the rise of Nazi Germany, the American Civil War and as those who've studied colonial America might argue, even the foundation of the country. Between the mass deportations of anarchists, suppression of left wing literature through the mail, two Red Scares, anticommunism, Hoover's COINTELPRO war against the civil rights movement, the black power movement and the American student left, or all the way up to the Obama Department of Justice's ruthless oppression of the Occupy, Ferguson and North Dakota Pipeline protests, I could easily spend this entire essay demonstrating that when it comes to persecuting, destroying and yes even murdering the left, there is a long and storied history of bipartisan consensus in America – I see no reason or evidence to suggest that has changed much in our modern times.

In other words history, even recent American history, says that this story ends in a jail cell or a shallow grave for some of the folks reading this journal right now and I don't know how to sugarcoat that for anyone, let alone a young person with their whole life (such as it is) ahead of them. The plain, god-awful truth is that the American right wants you dead, and the center-right American liberal establishment simply doesn't care, just as it has never cared, because they also want the left destroyed and fear sharing their ill-gotten wealth more than they fear fascism. Furthermore, this same elite “liberal” establishment is actively engaged in splitting the component parts of the current American uprising up into acceptable and non-acceptable targets; that's why Joe Biden keeps yammering about police funding, anarchists and “looters.” Democrats in particular are doing this even as fascist militia vigilantes are starting to execute antifascists and protesters in the street, might I add.

Did I mention that it's a really bad time to be an open leftist, or even just someone who passionately feels cracker murderpigs shouldn't get away with murder because some fascist gave them a badge? And yet of course therein also lies the rub; just as there is danger in resisting the imposition of a fascist order there is also danger in refusing to resist.

Turning once again to history, we know that the fascist creep isn't going to stop itself until well after it has killed millions of people and destroyed everything about our lives that contains any meaning whatsoever. The reactionary backlash will not stop with silencing, arresting and/or killing teenage anarchists, African Americans protesting against racialized police violence or Portland soccer moms who've had enough fascism for a lifetime. The fascist mindset and method of societal control dictates that there must always been more enemies both within and outside of the state who represent both an abomination that should be destroyed and a threat to everything good and pure in the national character. Right now, the waking dragon of American fascism has cast a laser-like focus on those brave few Americans who are willing to physically resist the transformation of the country from a corrupt Oligarchy to an overt fascist police-state with rigged elections. Once that enemy is crushed and defeated, the beast will turn its eye to others – unions, teachers, and yes even Democratic Party politicians who've always been friendly to the fascist capitalist billionaires running much of the reactionary American right today.

Whether you choose to fight, hide or run, it has become crystal-clear clear to me that we are all headed towards dark days in the very near future and the only variable left to be determined is which segments of the audience reading this will be thrown onto the pyre first. What we know today as “Western Society” is blindly crashing through the kinds of barriers people who desire peace, comfort and security simply don't breech without expecting violence, bloodshed and a whole lot of rain.

Perhaps in light of all this my advice to the young leftist should be to harden oneself for the torrential downpour of violence, repression and yes death that lies ahead, regardless of whether or not you choose to resist the fascist creep. Perhaps the best thing I can offer a young person staring directly into the eye of this beast is the assurance that it is not their fault, that nobody in history has ever asked to be born into the war against fascism and that ultimately the fascists cannot win because fascism is a death cult that will eventually eat itself and has done so every single time before this one. Perhaps all I really have to share with you is the hope that in the darkness and despair that lies ahead of us you will remember my words and know that no matter how much they repress, terrorize and torture us, fantasy cannot be reality, slavery cannot be freedom and life cannot be death.

And that I think is the handle and the comfort I can offer those of you reading this who’re young enough to have a future beyond the fascist order; I have no optimism to sell you but I can make one promise that may help carry you through the bowels of the hell we are all descending into after all. It might not amount to much yet, but I promise you there will always only be four lights; no matter how many of us they murder to try and “prove” otherwise. Do not give these maggots the satisfaction of seeing your fear; know that at least some of you reading this will eventually dance on their graves and take whatever comfort you are able to, in that inevitability.

Never forget - one way, or another, the future is left.

nina illingworth

Independent writer, critic and analyst with a left focus. Please help me fight corporate censorship by sharing my articles with your friends online!

You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog

Updates available on Twitter, Mastodon and Facebook. Podcast at “No Fugazi” on Soundcloud.

Inquiries and requests to speak to the manager @ASNinaWrites

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“It’s ok Willie; swing heil, swing heil…”

#Fascism #USA #Opinion #Journal #nina illingworth #resisting fascism #antifascism #advice to a young leftist #looking the beast in the eye

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queer-cat-policy · 4 years

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Hi! I’m Ace!

Hi, I am ace. Not like the ace of spades but rather ace as in the slang for Asexual. And here I am, telling you, a stranger this. Not just a stranger but many. Writing essays, countless posts, and telling the world as kindly as possible about how I exist is pretty exhausting. But it is more exhausting being invisible. So now I join a movement, an invisible one fighting for visibility, so that maybe, just maybe, we find others like us.

I like to be fully disclosed, I will give you the definition of asexuality but the rest of it is all me. You cannot apply this article to learn about your friends. Maybe, if they are anything like me, you gain some insight, but the reality is, I write this in hopes that someone reading it will feel a little less alone in the world. Maybe this helps you understand that you are not abnormal, instead you are a human being first and foremost and deserve empathy like one. So, what I am saying is, do not take this article as the be all of asexuality. If you have an asexual friend in your life, you should ask them the questions you have with the intention of strengthening your relationship and becoming informed on a topic you previously were not informed about. And if you are asexual and my experiences don’t resonate with you, I encourage you to seek the rest of the community and know you are valid and you are not alone.

What is Asexuality?

Asexuality by itself at its most basic, universal definition, is defined as a lack of sexual attraction. And that’s it. The rest is a spectrum. There are many different types of asexual people, every single one has different experiences and feelings of attraction or may not even feel attraction at all. So we call this a spectrum and some parts of the spectrum have different titles. I think most people have no idea that attraction outside sexual attraction exists, meaning they didn’t know there are other names for attraction. Someone who identifies as asexual but is still attracted to people can feel aesthetic attraction, romantic attraction, physical attraction, emotional attraction, intellectual attraction, social attraction… and the list goes on.

There is something called the A-spectrum which isn’t just asexuality but aromantic, demi romantic, gray romantic, demi sexual, and gray sexual. Demi means that that attraction does not occur until an emotional bond is formed, gray means someone who has limited experiences with that attraction.

What Makes Me Asexual?

Asexuality means something different for every single person who identifies under it and because I can’t name really every type of asexual person out there, I am going to tell you a little bit about myself.

I am asexual because I feel no sexual attraction to anyone. I, in particular, do not want sex and am quite repulsed at the idea of it. I don’t enjoy the sex obsessed culture either and tend not to partake in it. I do however find people attractive for several reasons, it is usually an individual thing. I emotionally bond with people before I feel anything towards them for one. The attraction from there can be emotional or aesthetic. I know what type of personalities I draw in and enjoy interacting with too. I date and have been in about three relationships in my life but only one was long term.

Romantically, I don’t tend to identify. I say this because things change from person to person (as in depending on the individual I am attracted to). I will usually umbrella myself following the explanation of my asexual identity, stating that I am queer alongside being asexual or if I’m not comfortable talking about my asexuality, I leave it at queer. I say queer because I am attracted to different people for different reasons and sometimes gender isn’t necessarily a discriminating factor. I have mostly emotionally bonded with men in the past, but I find women physically and aesthetically attractive. Additionally, I am not exclusively attracted to men or women, I also can be attracted to transgender and non-binary people.

Is Asexuality in LGBT?

The Asexual community gets a lot of ping pong discussion about rather or not we are apart of the LBGTQIA+ Community. Some people believe that if you are just asexual and hetero-romantic and cis… then you should not be identifying as part of the LGBTQIA+ Community. I won’t get to deep into it, but the truth is, the A is for the asexual spectrum, not just the queer asexual folks. And we too have struggles, some much like the rest of the community and some very different. To leave out asexual people is aphobic in my personal opinion and a gatekeeping tactic. I one time read someone who was upset that the community had become like “the island of misfit toys.” I won’t tell you what to believe about this, but I’ll definitely talk about this in later posts so if you’re interested in reading more about it, keep an eye out!

The Fears of Asexuals…

We live in a sex obsessed culture. Sex is literally everywhere. It is in music, TV, movies, school, social life, work, art, commercials, food----- This culture is absolutely thriving (this is not a good thing) off of the exploitation of sexuality. Especially of women. If you can’t understand the problem with this, imagine hating the super bowl around Thanksgiving or Christmas at… well Christmas, when every store, elevator, billboard, TV series, and artist is throwing Christmas in your face. Except for asexual people, this is our life everyday we wake up and live in the world. Every. Day.

Because everyone around us is so obsessed with sex, asexual people can feel overwhelmingly alone. And for those seeking a significant other, that is a legitimate fear. Everyone else around us in relationships all require the one thing we will not give: Sex. You’ll never guess the number of times I get unmatched on dating apps after someone asks me what asexual means or after the first time I mention it outside my profile… because I guess if I don’t say anything than all the flags on my profile that include my sexual identity can be potentially false?

Asexual people, because many of us are very uncultured in sexual cues and such, are also at risk of being sexually abused and assaulted. Asexual people have gotten into situations where they are legitimately sexually attacked either because they have rejected someone or someone tries to change them by forcing themselves on them, or because they miss cues. Remember though if you have been sexually assaulted it is not your fault. There is no “what if I did this differently.” We are trained currently to be blameful of ourselves in sexual assault situations. But the fact is, if you did not consent to it- if there was no clear/in the right mind consent to it- it should not have happened and there is absolutely no excuse on the attacker’s part that should change that verdict.

Another part to being in a sex obsessed culture is just the sheer disbelief that people exist that do not want it. Rather it is for the intimacy or instincts, it will truly awestruck people of all kinds to the point they may tell us that we are not real. Not valid. Every asexual person has heard “you haven’t found the right person,” “How do you know if you’ve never had it,” “you can’t be asexual, you have a significant other,” “Love can’t really exist without sex,” “you’re just scared.” And we think about these things like ‘what if,’ and let other people’s invalidation of our identities invalidate ourselves.

Asexual Relationships?

It is a common misconception that asexual people do not date or do not have these kinds of intimate relationships. It is true that some people who identify as asexual also identify as aromatic or choose not to date or seek intimate relationships, but this does not describe the entire asexual community. Some asexual people will only date other asexual people, some do not. Asexual people in non-asexual relationships may come to a compromise in that relationship or vice versa. But it is incredibly important to remember that what matters most is that both parties are being satisfied. That may mean we discover that this partner is not the one. The needs need to be met on both sides.

As previously mentioned, there are a lot of people who think love must come with sex. You are more likely to come across someone with that mindset on the street than not. I personally try to meet people via online dating, and I would not say I have been 100% successful or unsuccessful. I have made several friends, I have had a boyfriend, I have done a lot of dating, I’ve also been unmatched as soon as they realize I am not wanting to sleep with them. That can be extremely… demeaning. And bad for self-esteem. I wrote something a little about how it feels to be consistently rejected for being asexual. I get rejected sometimes before people even know what asexual is. They know it is something from the LGBTQIA+ Community, it’s not straight, it’s not normal. And yes, maybe I shouldn’t want to be with someone like that but it feels like there are more people like that than not and there is no cure for the overwhelming fear that I will end up alone. It also creates an uncertain anxiety when I do not know why I may have been rejected. My brain defaults to “it’s because I’m asexual” and I go through the same devastation I would if I knew for sure it’s because I am asexual.

On the other side are the people who decide to date an asexual with the intention of being the one to “fix us.” Or they think it will change- because ultimately, they don’t believe in asexuality. Or they think it is personal, like instead of me being repulsed by sex I am repulsed by the person. For me, since I am not a very physically affectionate person (even when I am that comfortable with someone, it is very limited), that’s more common than I ever thought possible. That kind of says something about our society more than the individual, in my personal opinion. It says that our society as values our sexuality (especially as women) more than other parts of our personality.

Something I will include in here, friendships. A lot of my friends do not know how to talk about my sexuality. They don’t know what it is, it makes them uncomfortable, they think they have to give me the sex ed run down, or they think I have to be in PG settings all the time to be comfortable. No, I don’t necessarily want to hear in detail about your sex life but if there’s something you want to tell me, I’m not a fragile flower you have to protect. Friends also may constantly bring up my sexuality in an environment where it may not be comfortable. My friends have sometimes flaunted it like a golden ticket, like a token queer friend. I have to tell them to stop and if they don’t, I have to reconsider our friendship. Our sexual orientations are personal, no matter how out and forward we are, it belongs to us, to you. Coming out belongs to you and it is never insignificant enough to deserve to happen against your own free will.

Dear Ace Community Let’s Communicate!

The last thing I want to add here is just a suggestion for the asexual community. I see a lot of people who post about the exhaustion that comes with having to constantly re-explain ourselves to partners, friends, people of interest… Stop being exhausted. Do not tell them to google it. Someone is trying to understand you, googling is not understanding you. Take it as a compliment and be ready to explain and advocate for yourself and our community. Communication is so important. Google does not tell that person who you are, especially because we are on such a wide spectrum. I advise strongly against it. And probably, when you have to have that conversation, don’t have it over text. At least for me, I say so many more meaningful things when it’s face to face or over the phone at the very least versus over text message. I’m not just being a parrot of information from what I know the internet has told me, I’m telling that person about myself and what it means for me to be asexual. Communicate what it means for you to be asexual.

If you have an asexual friend, don’t be afraid of them. Know that you can’t change who they are, they don’t want you to try, you can’t “fix them.” If you don’t understand them, ask questions and don’t be critical.

Thank you so much for reading! If you have any question, reach out on my tumblr or contact page!

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naagi · 4 years

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The Referendum

By Tim Kreider

Recently an editor asked me for an essay about arrested adolescence, joking: “Of course, I thought of you.”

It is worth mentioning that this editor is an old college friend; we’ve driven across the country, been pantsless in several nonsexual contexts, and accidentally hospitalized each other in good fun. He is now a respectable homeowner and family man; I am not. So I couldn’t help but wonder: is there something condescending about this assignment? Does he consider me some sort of amusing and feckless manchild instead of a respected cartoonist whose work is beloved by hundreds and has made me a thousandaire, who’s been in a committed relationship for 15 years with the same cat?

My weird touchiness on this issue — taking offense at someone offering to pay me money for my work — is symptomatic of a more widespread syndrome I call “The Referendum.”

The Referendum is a phenomenon typical of (but not limited to) midlife, whereby people, increasingly aware of the finiteness of their time in the world, the limitations placed on them by their choices so far, and the narrowing options remaining to them, start judging their peers’ differing choices with reactions ranging from envy to contempt. The Referendum can subtly poison formerly close and uncomplicated relationships, creating tensions between the married and the single, the childless and parents, careerists and the stay-at-home. It’s exacerbated by the far greater diversity of options available to us now than a few decades ago, when everyone had to follow the same drill. We’re all anxiously sizing up how everyone else’s decisions have worked out to reassure ourselves that our own are vindicated — that we are, in some sense, winning.

It’s especially conspicuous among friends from youth. Young adulthood is an anomalous time in people’s lives; they’re as unlike themselves as they’re ever going to be, experimenting with substances and sex, ideology and religion, trying on different identities before their personalities immutably set. Some people flirt briefly with being freethinking bohemians before becoming their parents. Friends who seemed pretty much indistinguishable from you in your 20s make different choices about family or career, and after a decade or two these initial differences yield such radically divergent trajectories that when you get together again you can only regard each other’s lives with bemused incomprehension.

I may be exceptionally conscious of the Referendum because my life is so different from most of my cohort’s; at 42 I’ve never been married and don’t want kids. I recently had dinner with some old friends, a couple with two small children, and when I told them about my typical Saturday in New York City — doing the Times crossword, stopping off at a local flea market, maybe biking across the Brooklyn Bridge — they looked at me like I was describing my battles with the fierce and elusive Squid-Men among the moons of Neptune. The obscene wealth of free time at my command must’ve seemed unimaginably exotic to them, since their next thousand Saturdays are already booked.

What they also can’t imagine is having too much time on your hands, being unable to fill the hours, having to just sit and stare at the emptiness at the center of your life. But I’m sure that to them this problem seems as pitiable as morbid obesity would to the victims of famine.

A lot of my married friends take a vicarious interest in my personal life. It’s usually just nosy, prurient fun, but sometimes smacks of the sort of moralism that H.G. Wells called “jealousy with a halo.” Sometimes it seems sort of starved, like audiences in the Great Depression watching musicals about the glitterati. It’s true that my romantic life has produced some humorous anecdotes, but good stories seldom come from happy experiences. Some of my married friends may envy my freedom in an abstract, daydreamy way, misremembering single life as some sort of pornographic smorgasbord, but I doubt many of them would actually choose to trade places with me. Although they may miss the thrill of sexual novelty, absolutely nobody misses dating.

I regard their more conventional domestic lives with the same sort of ambivalence. Like everyone, I’ve seen some marriages in which I would discreetly hang myself within 12 hours, but others have given me cause to envy their intimacy, loyalty, and irreplaceable decades of invested history. [Note to all my married friends: your marriage is one of the latter.] Though one of those friends cautioned me against idealizing: “It’s not as if being married means you’re any less alone.”

Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master.

I have never even idly thought for a single passing second that it might make my life nicer to have a small, rude, incontinent person follow me around screaming and making me buy them stuff for the rest of my life. [Note to friends with children: I am referring to other people’s children, not to yours.] But there are also moments when some part of me wonders whether I am not only missing the biological boat but something I cannot even begin to imagine — an entire dimension of human experience undetectable to my senses, like a flatlander scoffing at the theoretical concept of sky.

But I can only imagine the paralytic terror that must seize my friends with families as they lie awake calculating mortgage payments and college funds and realize that they are locked into their present lives for farther into the future than the mind’s eye can see. Judging from the unanimity with which parents preface any gripe about children with the disclaimer, “Although I would never wish I hadn’t had them and I can’t imagine life without them,” I can’t help but wonder whether they don’t have to repress precisely these thoughts on a daily basis.

Yes: the Referendum gets unattractively self-righteous and judgmental. Quite a lot of what passes itself off as a dialogue about our society consists of people trying to justify their own choices as the only right or natural ones by denouncing others’ as selfish or pathological or wrong. So it’s easy to overlook that hidden beneath all this smug certainty is a poignant insecurity, and the naked 3 A.M. terror of regret.

The problem is, we only get one chance at this, with no do-overs. Life is, in effect, a non-repeatable experiment with no control. In his novel about marriage, “Light Years,” James Salter writes: “For whatever we do, even whatever we do not do prevents us from doing its opposite. Acts demolish their alternatives, that is the paradox.” Watching our peers’ lives is the closest we can come to a glimpse of the parallel universes in which we didn’t ruin that relationship years ago, or got that job we applied for, or got on that plane after all. It’s tempting to read other people��s lives as cautionary fables or repudiations of our own.

A colleague of mine once hosted a visiting cartoonist from Scandinavia who was on a promotional tour. My colleague, who has a university job, a wife and children, was clearly a little wistful about the tour, imagining Brussels, Paris, and London, meeting new fans and colleagues and being taken out for beers every night. The cartoonist, meanwhile, looked forlornly around at his host’s pleasant row house and sighed, almost to himself: “I would like to have such a house.”

One of the hardest things to look at in this life is the lives we didn’t lead, the path not taken, potential left unfulfilled. In stories, those who look back — Lot’s wife, Orpheus and Eurydice — are lost. Looking to the side instead, to gauge how our companions are faring, is a way of glancing at a safer reflection of what we cannot directly bear, like Perseus seeing the Gorgon safely mirrored in his shield.

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This article originally appeared in The New York Times on September 17, 2009.

#tim kreider #new york times #wrt #life #marriage

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icarus-imagines · 5 years

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Hermione Granger X Female!Hufflepuff!Reader

Could you do a hermione granger x female hufflepuff reader?

Word Count: 3,053

~Her Freckles Taste Like Cinnamon~

“Hermione, stop it…”

Hermione, despite being told what to do, even though the voice was soft spoken, in fact, did not ‘stop it’. She continued on, her quill that held a pretty raven colored feather, swishing quickly back and forth with the quick movements of her well-trained hand. Words of deep and dark black ink stained the beigish/brown parchment, leaving her handwriting of concentrated hard work in its wake. This only seems to aggravate the one who had spoken up however, you, to the point they had to devise another way to get Gryffindor Granger to stop her actions.

With a swift jerk of your hand, you snatched up the quill that had once been placed in her pretty little hands. While it could have been classified as a very rude thing to do, it was the only way to get her attention. Because when she was focused on something all the other things behind her would wash away and become a blur in her peripheral vision of sight.

Holding the quill in your hands you pulled it farther away from her when she tried to reach forward to take hold of it once again. Her usual warm gingerbread eyes glare intensely into your own (E/c) with such a ferocity that you could only conclude that whatever she was going through truly was of more importance than mere homework. How troubled inside she could be, yet on the outside look like the same girl people believed her to be.

“Please, give it back,” Hermione whisper-yelled with desperation. If it was not for the fact you were both in the library you wondered what she would have done instead. “I need it.”

“You say you need this,” you start, silently pulling a chair and sitting beside her, “but you don’t seek what you truly need.”

She stares at you perplexed for a few moments before retracting her hand to ball into her lap as a small sign of defeat. While you were an ordinary Hufflepuff girl you talked like a Ravenclaw. Your words were somehow like writing poetry when they spilled from your lips. All people who knew you would all agree that even if you had called someone an atrocious and nasty name it would still sound like bell chimes on the porch of a cozy house. Everything you said was a lullaby, on that Hermione needed more than she knew. With her rough exterior, she needed someone to calm her thoughts and insecurities.

Oh, how she needed you more than life itself yet even she herself didn’t know it.

With a small sigh, she momentarily forgot about the mass of books, both open and stacked, on the table along with the long winding parchment paper for an essay due next week, to instead look at you. Her dark and nicely bushy hair brushed over her shoulder when she swirled her head to look at you. Those eyes of earthquakes stopped their assault and focused on you. Just you. And nothing else that was raging on inside.

“What is it that I need?” she sighed a bit. She may have not looked like she was enjoying this conversation, but deep down inside she was. She was glad you noticed her very very subtle change in her demeanor today. You, besides maybe Harry and Ron, knew what truly went on in that impressive brain of hers.

“A shoulder to cry on,” you replied simply, standing up for a second to scoot your chair closer to you. Both your bare legs touched each other, due to the short skirt, and you could feel her skin heating against your already.

Her eyes widened a bit in what you perceived as not only shock and confusion but startlement and fright. “W-What?” her words wavered into a stutter that you knew she would be internally cursing herself with.

“Hermione,” you said sweetly like that of cajolement as not to anger her or even worse, scare her off. “As your girlfriend, there are rules I must abide by, you know.”

Her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, but her cheekbones dusting with a delectable pink from your word of ‘girlfriend’. While gay-marriage and all that followed under the umbrella term was allowed, but it was still a touchy subject to those who did not like the act. Hermione’s parents were one of the few getting used to the idea, so having their own daughter have these tendencies and likes was still confusing. Since she was taught at such a young age to believe certain ideals, it still made her flustered when the topic came up.

She loved you with every fiber in her being. The taboo rule of being a same-sex couple just made her feel like she wasn’t abiding by the laws for which they had been placed for more than a few decades. It was like a dessert she could never eat even though her mouth was telling her to devour it. You were that dessert, that caramel filled chocolate that made her not care about rules or peoples judgment.

But sometimes...it did get to her.

“Rules,” she asked slowly, trying to figure out what you meant. “What rules?”

You reached over and gingerly took her hand in yours. Overall, her hand was smooth and like a girl’s was supposed to be, but on her fingertips, there were tenuous bumps from calluses. All the years she had spent writing, flipping pages from books, conjuring up potions to help her friend group called the ‘Golden Trio’. One might find it unladylike, to have rough hands, even though hers were still quite nice. But you found it utterly fascinating.

How she had been through so much in such a short amount of time. To think she was a normal schoolgirl in England, but now a student under the tutelage of wizards in a school of magic in Scotland. She had progressed so far, done so many things. You idolize her even before she knew of your name. Before she even knew you, a poetic Hufflepuff, even existed. To be her significant other was like a dream come true and you never wanted it to end.

“Well,” you began, your right hand, which was not occupied with her own, tapping on your chin in thought, “wouldn’t you think it was my duty to always make you happy?”

A sideways smile appeared on her face and while she tried to make it look real, it was obviously fake. She knew you probably knew this too, you knew everything about her. “But I am happy,” she tried to persuade you to think so. “Why would you think I am anything else but happy?”

Your face turns from playful to serious in the span of five seconds after she utters those words. “I know you're not happy. It’s quite easy to tell even though your best friends Harry and Ron might not figure it out.”

Her small smile disappears and she wears a frown that makes your insides twist. “Yes, you’re...you're right,” she confirms your deductions, breaking under the pressure of keeping her mask on in front of you. “I haven’t been myself lately and I am more than sure you already know why.”

You get closer to her, your shoulder brushing against her, and even though the clothes covering your bodies separate you two, you swear you can feel the heated skin beneath meeting your own. “Yes, but I can’t really understand why, “ you begin, but quickly try to explain yourself. “I mean I do. I understand just how much he can get on your nerves and drag you down, but…,” you look into her eyes, you orbs small spheres of fire, “I cannot begin to imagine someone like you losing to someone like Malfoy.”

You see the disgust evident on her face when you say his last name, but your words seem to calm her down. They offer her solace and shelter. To know you believe in her and everything she does is more than incredible. Others believe in her too, but your faith in her is selfless. Unconditional love and affection beyond measure.

“He is just that type of person,” she says through her gritted teeth. While the majority of the feelings he inflicted on her to have was that of anger, some of it was sadness. You knew it wasn’t just an inkling in the back of your mind for she continued one. “I used to think boys were amazing, but the older I get the more I feel repulsed.”

“Some boys are good and some are bad. You just need to find the ones who make you feel happy, make you feel like you could conquer the world,” you laugh a little thinking about the Chosen One Harry and the goofy Weasley Is Our King. Your laugh seems to brighten her mood, a genuine smile flitting across her features.

The small, almost undetectable freckles upon her cheeks glow in the low light. They look like sprinkles of bright golden dust, powered on her face to make her look otherworldly. You can’t but lean in. Lean in closer to that very face and softly peck a chaste kiss upon it. An odd thought pops in your head for a second, wondering if you would be able to take those sprinkled freckles and convert them onto your lips.

She smells of spicy cinnamon, such a feisty seasoning, you thought. If they did stick to my lips, which is impossible, would they taste of cinnamon?

As you lean back and open your eyes, you are welcomed with the amusing expression she now sports. With a face the color of summer cherries and gingerbread eyes sparkling with something unknown, you can only think of the million things running through her mind. But before you could question it, she surprises in one of the ways you never thought she would do.

She kisses you.

Her lips are soft and you taste a small, yet still significant, amount of peach from the plump extremities of flesh. Hidden in a more isolated part of the library, she had gained the courage to act upon your flirtation attitude and actions. Replying to her move, you lean into her, a tilt of your head giving you more access to be one with you to a more fulfilling extent.

Her hands come up to clutch at you yellow and black Hufflepuff attire. The cotton of the sweater underneath the traditional robes shift against her hands, almost enticing her to go under, but she stays put. There needs to be no more progress beside this, for this is all she needs. This is close enough for her even though there could be more progression.

Your own hands slid up from her elbows to her shoulders and finally to her head. With one hand, you stick it behind the adjoined meeting place of her neck and the bottom of her skull, while the other comes to cup of her cheek. Both your hands are full with her hot skin, her big hair, and you know then this is all you want from life.

Sooner than either of you wish, you both part in favor of more than needed oxygen. As you inhale air to keep yourselves alive, you still stay close, her darker toned bangs brushing your forehead. You can feel her warm breath wafting over your face, the heat doing nothing to quell the flush you now have obtained yourself. Inhaling a bit you smell the strong scent of cinnamon wafting off of her body. You love the smell. Her own natural scent she carries with her wherever she roams.

Her cute lips are parted in an almost provocative way. Looking at them makes you want to snatch them up again however you do not. Instead, your (E/c) orbs shift from her lips to her eyes. Despite thinking of them to have their pupils full-blown and wide, they are the opposite. They are shiny, gleaming with pure love. No lust, is in them. This fact drives your insides wild knowing this attraction you feel for each other is not some fling. It is here. And it is here to stay.

“You astound me,” you whisper soothingly, feeling the edge of sleep catching you. Or was it lovesickness in disguise, perhaps?

“That is supposed to be my line,” she smiles, a more than adorable giggle flitting past her lips at your compliment to her.

You both giggle together as you untangle yourselves, life becoming the reality once again after indulging into a moment of tranquility. As she fixes her hair, though you doubt anybody would notice, you help stack the open books into neat piles on the wooden desk. Curling up her parchment into her school bag, making sure it is secure and won’t fall out, you push in your chair with a smile.

She looks at her leather school bag hanging from your shoulder, but you quickly wave it off. “I’ve got it,” you tell her.

She grins, her mood somehow brightening the whole room. To know she is thankful for your help makes you all the much more content. Black school shoes click-clacking just quiet enough to not make a big ruckus. You casually grab her arm, linking it with yours, and make it back to your respective common rooms together.

Though she insisted on leading you back, her chivalry shining through, you lead her first to her own Gryffindor common room. You wanted to not only see her off but to make sure she doesn’t have to walk alone after having to go to your much farther away Hufflepuff House common room. What kind of girlfriend would you be if you did that?

Standing idly outside of the common room, far enough from the Fat Lady so she will not overhear your conversations, you give Hermione back her bag. “Thank you,” she speaks, clutching her leather school bag tightly.

“What for?” you chide playfully.

“Helping me,” she replies quickly. “Reminding me that other people's views and opinions cannot dictate what I do with my life. How I lead my life, though it may ‘hurt’ others, should be one that makes me happy. Makes me joyful in everything I do.”

Her words melt your heart, and as she moves forward to put a stray strand of (H/c) hair behind your ear you find yourself replying back. “I want you to live a life a life you do not regret,” you say, though it could have a twinge of sadness peaking through.

She reacted quickly with, “Of course I won’t! With you by my side I know life will be more than worth living.”

“That makes me more than glad you hear you say that,” you murmur.

She smiles at you as a small goodbye and turns to head towards the Fat Lady. She only reaches about three steps before you tug her sleeve back. With a quick movement as she turns to look at you in bewilderment and confusion, you kiss her on the lips. You savor the taste of the peach and the heat of it all. Being swift, before she can do anything about it, you leave her lips and take a kitten lick of her heated cheek.

For a moment she forgets it will soon be past curfew and lets out a tiny shriek. “H-hey! What-What was that for!?”

“An experiment,” you say. “I wanted to figure something out.”

“I swear, all Hufflepuffs are completely lucid,” she sighs as you wipe her cheek clean of anything wet. “Well, did you figure it out?”

You give her a cheeky grin, laughing. “Yes, I now know for sure.”

She looks as if she wants to question you about it, but she lets it go, opting to leave you be. When you were like this she knew it was best to let you complete it without a word of disruption. “Whatever you say, (Y/n),” she bids you goodnight, walking back to the Fat Lady who seems to be giggling from the school love affair situation. “See you at breakfast.”

You wave to her as she disappears behind the painting and is engulfed into the Gryffindor common room. Smiling to yourself you turn on your heels and retreat to your own common room. With (E/c) orbs and flushes (S/c) flushed from the events that have occurred today you know sleep may be harder to come by tonight.

You don’t mind it in the least though. You had helped you fierce girlfriends realize that there are up and downs to living you must conquer. Whether you had a helping hand or none at all, you can get through things. It may be a hard winding road or it might be a straight road off into the horizon. Either way, you would be able to get over it.

Malfoy may not understand this right now, but hopefully, he would soon. Hopefully, he would learn picking on someone because of their blood is something that won't fix your own problems. Healing internally helps with healing externally. You kept in your prays the wish for him to understand this. Whether it starts tomorrow or in the years to come. To see Malfoy grow up and right his wrongs were one thing you desperately wanted to live to see.

Hermione was your inner and external struggle too. That girl with sharp words like a lion’s claws and the combined mind of a revolutionist was your weakness and your strength. A Gryffindor with a Hufflepuff. Such an unusual pair. A strong one though, when fitting bravery and patience together.

You did learn something overall, albeit it was small and probably useless. Yet it made your heart soar to the skies for some unfathomable reason only you yourself would truly know. And may it be an imaginary conclusion or true fact you concluded it was all you needed to know about her.

Her freckles taste like cinnamon...

~The End~

#x reader #oneshot #imagine #drabble #hermione granger #hermione granger x reader #hermione granger x female reader #hermione granger x hufflepuff reader #hermione granger x female hufflepuff reader #female reader #hufflepuff reader #female hufflepuff reader #hp #harry potter universe #harry potter

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teatimewithtess · 5 years

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My Experience at a 4 Week Summer School

Arkansas Governor’s School is a 4 week summer program where the 400 most gifted and talented students meet to discuss the future of the worlds’ current mindset while also gaining new insight from experienced college professors and top high school teachers. The daily schedule is divided into three areas: Area I, an assigned class focused on one specific education (i.e. English, math, social science, natural science, instrumental music, etc.), area II, a philosophy based course focused on critical thinking skills, and area III, the class where we used the critical thinking techniques from area II to apply them to the social issues of today, such as racism, school shootings, climate change, etc. In order to become a student of AGS, one must fill out the simple application process which includes the following: an essay regarding the provided prompt, 2 recommendation letters, a list of achievements/accomplishments in high school, a writing assignment about your reasoning for choosing your desired area I subject, and another essay about why you want to attend AGS. After completing all required materials in the admission process, you then wait until you receive an email granting your secured spot in attending AGS. Receiving that specific email was a step towards the road of change, and I was completely unaware.

Now, let me post a slight disclaimer: I might use the same type of wording in order to express how AGS went for me, but I simply cannot help it. I will not over hype nor will I under exaggerate the experience as a whole. I will speak of my time, what I did, who I met, and how I felt. Let us begin.

First, I wrote in a black leather bound journal every day. I titled each day “AGS Day -- July --” in order to keep my days straight because I honestly did not ever have an idea of what day it was, or what time it was. The first two weeks we were not allowed to have our phones and it was one of the most refreshing times, mentally. I was glad I never knew what time it was; I was going through each day with no worry. I never had a thought about who I need to text, what other people were up to, or what was happening in the news. Having met so many new, different people at one time without having my cellphone was an oasis for my mind. I could openly connect with other different ways of thinking, which overall affected me in a positive way because I forced myself to listen purely- not listen to speak. By speaking less and observing more, I was able to do so much more. For me, it was writing. Now, the writing in this journal was not for feelings and “he loves me, he loves me not” ideas, it was simply to physically document everything that happened that day because if I did not, I would forget them. Time shows no mercy for our memories, and I wanted to make sure that they lived forever.

Secondly, I took notes on EVERYTHING. When lectures occurred at 4:00pm and 6:00pm, I would go to as many as I could and gain as much knowledge as I could. With that, I now have many pages filled in my journal and many other notebooks of what experienced professors had to say. The topics ranged from food psychology to life beyond Earth, the ending of a story to the psychology of self talk in sports, and the debate between science and god to the dissection of short films. If you can think it, there was a lecture on it. Of course I did not want to forget any of those talks either, especially when they were delivering valuable information that is not even mentioned in high school, so I documented the ones that were most interesting to me. The memories of knowledge can be refreshed.

Next, one of the most impactful habits I began was writing down questions. Whenever I started to read philosophy about a year ago, I developed a new, open way of thinking. With this new way of thinking, I started to have more and more questions about everything, which eventually led me to discover the psychological side of it in philosophy via research papers. However, I never thought about writing these down because I thought they were ridiculous or other people would quickly dismiss them; but, as soon as I sat through the first day of area II realizing I had already written down a full page of questions, I knew I needed to continue this practice. Luckily, I met a few very impactful people that allowed me to ask these questions and actually nurtured the methodology I had.

With that, I prepare for the most important part of my AGS experience: the professors.

I met approximately 5 people that influenced me in the greatest of ways. The first one is a satirical, yet highly intelligent English professor that taught my afternoon area I class, English. He was the first person that noticed my reading of philosophy and became ecstatic at the idea of a student my age reading these works this early. I continued to converse with him occasionally after class and during lunch, where he introduced me to the process of acquiring a PhD in English, and English in college as a whole. He gave me many book titles, notes he took in college, and most importantly a confidence in sharing my ideas. Unfortunately, in my English area I class specifically, I encountered many roadblocks regarding peoples’ way of thinking that forced me to refrain from expressing my ideas/logic. This professor however witnessed I was occurring this phenomenon and later wrote to me that my ideas need to be spread. Since we are on the topic of English professors, there was another mentor that encouraged me to do more creative writing. This old fellow was a master of poetry, but somehow adored my work and pursued me to write a novel after reading one of my pieces. He also endorsed my reading of philosophy, and will also stay in touch post AGS. The instrumental music teacher and I became great friends after attending one of his many Jazz classes. He was a quirky professor of jazz that truly represented the epitome of what a musician is. You could see his love for music in his performing, and I respect and praise that from a student perspective, being a musician myself. He noticed how much I supported my fellow musicians and loved the idea of me doing so. He inspired me to keep smiling as much as I do, and that simple gesture stuck with me. No one has ever told me to continue ‘being happy’, they only question why I do smile. Coming from an older, loving musician, it meant a lot to me. I also met with a library technician that informed me on the world of publishing and writing for the public. She gave me tremendous advice that will help me as soon as I begin writing research articles in college, and I am forever grateful for her insight. Finally, there is one professor that influenced me the greatest. He is an optimistic psychologist that taught my area II class of philosophy/critical thinking. After talking to him several times post class, it gradually became a regular thing after lectures and movies, and even during dinner or lunch. After one specific talk, he helped me gain traction on what my career goals were. He introduced me to psychology, which I had never even thought about before, and unconsciously opened this academic door that will help me as I complete my final year of college and begin my long journey of becoming an academic. Each conversation posed new questions I immediately needed to document or write about later, and it all eventually led to my reading list reach an unfathomable amount. He nurtured my constant need of questions, unlike other teachers that quickly dismiss them to junk since I am still a teenager, which means it is irrational for me to ask such questions even though they themselves cannot likely define what irrationality is. I cannot praise in written word anymore how impactful this professor was. I will forever be in his debt.

The best part of AGS was the professors because they volunteered to work with these 400 kids. They helped shape me into me. They helped guide me into the right area of assessing who I am and what do I know, and who are the others and what do they know. The atmosphere they created was unlike any other; it was comforting, yet challenging, welcoming, but serious. Even in just the small time I had with these mentors, I believed I could trust them with any thought I had. In some ways, it felt as if they were trying to figure me out, which made the camp even more entertaining. They welcomed my thoughts and ideas with open arms which allowed me to grow exponentially.

Because of this whole experience, I resulted in developing particular habits that might not make much sense to many people but I know it makes sense to these mentors and fellow students of the camp.

1) Every time I have a memory, flashback, dream, nightmare, vision, or daydream, I write it down. I came to the conclusion that if I do not write down these events then I will forget them, and I need them to use as inspiration.

2) When I have a question, I write it down as well. I hope in the future I can answer some of them, but not all of them.

3) I read some type of research paper and/or listen to a podcast related to my future field of study.

4) I take a heavy amount of notes on everything I hear/read. I did not realize until after this camp how much I enjoy taking notes, especially when it is just verbal, so I have to exercise my comprehension skills. I also, depending on the importance of the talk, will record certain lectures given it is relevant information that I need later on.

Alongside these habits I also developed lasting friendships with fellow students all across the state. Our wavelengths are compatible, which presents positive signs for a lasting relationship with one another. I know I will see them in the near future.

I will never forget this meta strophic event that planted itself in my teenage years, and I hope my search for the same atmosphere I was in for 4 weeks is successful.

#philosophy #philosophical #writing #writer #creative wrting #my wrting #mentor #experimental #Thoughts #spilled thoughts #new blog #blogger #personal blogging #consciousliving #science #neuroscience

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thealphabetmurders · 5 years

Note

If you still want a prompt maybe human analogical coffee shop au?

Hello, @potater420, thank you so much for your prompt, I really appreciate you sending one in.

I want to preface this with everyday I want to fucking die, so incredibly badly. For multiple reasons, but one of them being I am bad at being a writer. Mainly, because of the fact that I cannot do anything short. Coffee Shop AU’s are a fairly simple prompt, so I thought to myself “easy, I have got this under control”. Nevertheless, I messed it up and now it is a 10k+ word monster. I am appalled with myself. So, once again, I am breaking up what was supposed to be a short one-shot into a multi chaptered fic. I hate myself.

Virgil is a barista who has been working at Humes’s Coffeehouse and also a regular smoker who has been doing so for 8 years. He meets Logan, an attractive (soon to be) Doctor of Addiction Psychiatry, who implores him to stop smoking in the most fanfiction way possible. Please enjoy.

(Read on AO3)

Everyone had their vices nowadays. Information and ideas are conveyed too fast and quickly for anyone to stay sane without a little outside help. There are healthier coping mechanisms than others, some more effective than not, and Virgil has tried pretty much them all, and he has more shit to deal with than most. So whilst many found solace in sex, Smirnoff, and santa marta, Virgil was still smoking in 2019.

It was not his fault. He began smoking when he was 14 when it was 2012 and still semi cool. If he could turn back time and refuse that first cigarette from someone who’s name escapes him now, he would, but for now he has to indulge to keep himself sane.

He used to smoke a lot more, at least a pack and a half a day. Now, on a bad day, he smokes 15 cigarettes; on a good day, he is down to 8; an average day has Virgil fall somewhere between 10 and 12.

It is never enjoyable to stand outside, by yourself, and just smoke, but without the nicotine, he get extremely jittery, anxious, and irritated. The weather doesn’t let up for anyone slowly destroying their body, but it does allow him to have extra breaks from work. Not that he particularly minds working at Hume’s Coffeehouse. The owner is good and his day manager, Roman, can be bothersome, but is good company. And it is just a short walk to his flat with his roommate Patton. Yet, there were still days when customers were just… So dumb. Such unbridled, unfiltered, idiocy.

So, that is why Virgil is standing out front for his second time that hour, slowly milking his Marlboro Lite outside the doors to the shop. Normally, he has to smoke out back on the patio, but there were guests outside and Roman did not want them to be disturbed. So, he told him to zip up his hoodie over his uniform (as to not give the company a ‘bad image’) and to go smoke out front.

It was a warm day in April, warmer than Virgil’s liking for having a hoodie on, the sun shining on his right arm, holding the lit cigarette in his left hand. Virgil kicked a few pieces of concrete across the wide, jagged sidewalk as he took a deep breath in the afternoon air. It was a few minutes past 4 o’clock, Virgil thankful that he gets to leave in less than an hour and go work on a graphic design project for school. The rush had died down exponentially, no one had come in the building for the past 10 minutes. A white car pulled up to the front spot in the parking lot, and Virgil internally groaned and took another drag of his cigarette, knowing that if someone was coming in, he would have to go back inside to help (seeing as it was just Virgil and Roman there).

The car door opened, and a young man who appeared to be a tad older than Virgil himself exited and slammed the door closed with his foot, carrying a laptop on his hip, a satchel under his arm, a binder in his left arm (that looked about 5 inches wide), whilst texting on his cellphone with his left hand. Virgil had seen all types of university kids come into their quaint little shop in his time working there, but he had never seen one try to multitask before even getting in the building. This one, in fact, seemed even less aware of his surroundings than most.

He walked a few paces across the pavement (never looking up from his phone) until he made his way to the sidewalk. The jagged, uneven sidewalk that one in every three people trip over because of a particularly nasty snag on the pavement.

“Dude, hey!” Virgil called out, trying to get the young man’s attention, “Watch out, you’re gonna-” The man looked at Virgil over his glasses, his eyes filled with hurry and confusion, until his black converse caught onto that crack in the sidewalk, and he came crashing down.

Virgil doesn’t think he has ever cringed more on behalf of another person before; but watching a cellphone with no case an a Macbook fly through the air as papers from the thickest binder any man has ever seen fluttered on top of the sidewalk, like sprinkles on the worst sundae ever, made for a spectacle like no other.

“Holy shit, man!” Virgil yelled, throwing his cigarette to the ground and quickly stomping it out before running to the aid of the other. “Are you okay?”

The other man groaned and picked himself back onto his knees. His once professional demeanor was quickly ruined by the his now disheveled black hair and the scrapes on his cheek.

“Oh, that is unfortunate,” The bespectacled spectacle looked down at the long sleeved sweater he was previously wearing, now sporting a hole in the elbow, which was bleed as well, clashing with the navy blue color he had on.

“You got fucked up,” Virgil said, tapping his fingers rapidly on his thigh. He moved down to his knees and began gathering the papers before they began to blow away, “Let me help you gather all this up. You seemed stressed enough,”

The man chuckled, running his hands through his hair, attempting to tame it once more, “I suppose I am more stressed than was I was previously aware of,” He leaned to his left to grab his phone and inspected it for a few moments, fiddling with the buttons before smirking, “No cracks,”

Virgil scoffed, “You are so jammy, my phone would be dust if that happened, and I have an Otterbox,”

He shrugged in response, “It is because I have an Android,”

The Macbook, however, did not fare so well. He opened it, adjusting his glasses, and cringed. Virgil moved behind him and couldn’t help but suck in a breath at seeing the laptop ink inside the machine spill and move around the cracked areas.

“Yea, that thing is toast,”

He just shook his head, “Nonsense. I just have to get the screen replaced. I have the 2 year warranty after all. I just will not be as productive when I start working,” He closed the laptop and put it in his messenger bag as Virgil ogled at him.

“After what just happened, you are still going to do work? I don’t think I would work for a week if that shit just happened to me. I would take that as a sign from the universe to take a break,”

The other just scoffed at that, pushing his glasses further on his face. “I have not taken a break in 24 years, one broken Macbook is not going to change that streak for me,” He smirked at the other, but then contorted his face up, wincing slightly and touched the wound still present on his cheek. “Do you think that you could help me and gather the rest of my papers? You do not have to of course, but since you are already helping. I would like to run to my car and get some medical supplies to treat my wounds.”

“Yes, yes, of course,”

The man smiled at him gratefully and slowly jogged back to his car. Virgil began gather the papers that were littered with chemistry and medical notations that he had no clue about. He picked up a page full or writing, presumably the center of an essay and looked at the corner which read ‘Arias 3’.

The man, Arias, came back with a small first aid bag slung over his shoulder just as Virgil finished putting all of the papers back in the binder. He picked up the binder and the satchel but did not hand them to Arias quite yet.

“I will bring these in for you, I do not want you tripping and falling again,” Virgil explained, and Arias groaned in feign vexation, a smile ghosting his lips, “Do you need any help with your wounds or anything?”

Arias shook his head as they made their way into the shop, Virgil holding the door for them, “I am in my second to last year of my medical school program, I believe I can handle a few cuts and bruises,” He set down his bag on a table and Virgil followed suit with the rest of his items, “But I sincerely appreciate the offer,”

Virgil bowed a little which made the other chuckle slightly. He looked behind him at the counter to see Roman standing there, staring at him with his hands on his hips. He shakes his head and taps his wrist and Virgil rolled his eyes, “I should get back to work, my manager is going to yell at me soon,”

Arias’ eyebrows raised slightly, “You work here? Did you just begin?”

“No, I have been here for about 7 months now,”

He frowned in response, “I frequent this location often, why have I never seen you,”

Virgil shrugged, “I normally leave at 5 o’clock, so what time-”

“Ah,” Arias pointed a finger at him, “That must be it. I come in here at around 6 o’clock most weekdays. I am familiar with some of the staff… Including Roman,” He gestured his hand a little past Virgil, who turned around to see his manager walking towards them, a grin plastered on his face.

“Hello again, Logan. I see you have become acquainted with Virgil now,” Roman grinned and placed an arm around Virgil shoulders, sighing a bit with relief to finally know the other man’s name.

Arias- Logan, must have had the same line of thinking, “We haven’t had a proper introduction, but, I suppose now his a good time.” He held out his hand to Virgil, “I am Logan Arias,”

Virgil took his hand, “Virgil Kosa,” The shook for a moment, Logan’s grip was professional and firm and then they parted.

Logan directed his attention to Roman, “Yes, Virgil here helped me after I tripped and fell over that dreaded sidewalk,”

Roman groaned, “That sidewalk is the bane of my existence. It is now evident that you lost that fight with the sidewalk,” Roman loosely pointed to the wounds on Logan’s face, which prompted him to pull out the bandages, rubbing alcohol, and cotton rounds from his bag.

“I also lost my Macbook in the process. It succumbed to the harsh concrete, but I have the warranty for it. Thankfully Virgil here was there to help me gather my items that were lost from my fall.” He smiled softly at the dark cladded man, “I am quite grateful,”

Roman gave a hearty laugh, “Well, it is good that I let you go on that smoking break then,”

Virgil smirked, “I guess today smoking is going to save lives,”

Logan’s face contorted, but before he could say anything the chime went off in the store and they saw two people standing at the counter. They bid their short farewell to Logan and made their way around the back of the counter.

They had a mini rush, an influx of students from their college town came in, ordering everything from black coffee to frivolous frappuccinos. Roman took orders while Virgil blended, shook, and spun the orders ‘round. He didn’t mind the work. It was mindless and it allowed his thoughts to drift a bit. He thought about Logan a bit more, his eyes trailing to the black haired man who was studying diligently, flipped through flashcards faster than Virgil could probably read them. Logan adjusted his glasses and Virgil smiled, taking in his sharp features and intelligent sense of dress. He noticed the blue bandage he had on his cheek and the medical bag was on the chair opposite to him. Virgil stared longer than he should have and Logan turned to him, catching his eye. He waved curtly at Virgil, grey eyes flashing with bemusement and he flushed in response, opting for a two fingered salute towards Logan, hoping he didn’t notice his blush.

The rush eventually died down and Virgil was wiping down the machines when Roman came up behind him, straws in hand. He grinned down at Virgil as he stocked the dry goods, the other attempting to ignore the chuckles and giggles coming from the taller man. Eventually, Virgil turned to raise an eyebrow at Roman, who was filling the creamer with a cheeky expression.

“Can I ask you a question, V?”

Virgil nodded, prompting the other to continue.

“So, you’re gay, cachai?” Roman purred, the rhyme flowing effortlessly off his tongue.

Virgil made a smacking noise with his mouth and shook his head, wiping down a counter area that was already clean, “You can’t ask me that, Roman,”

He rolled his eyes, “But I am correct, yes?”

Virgil groaned, “Yes, you are. Is this relevant?”

Roman danced in placed, spilling droplets of creamer on the ground, “I want to set you up with Logan,”

Virgil groaned, “No, I do not want to be set up with anyone. I barely know him,”

“You kept giving him eyes on the line, I was watching,”

“He is cute, yes, but that whole med student thing does not exactly appeal to me, seeing as I am the least healthy person I know,”

Roman decidedly ignored the last half of Virgil’s statement and made undignified, offended gasps at Virgil, “Cute? You have got to be kidding me, weon,” Roman ruffled his dark curls after discarding the gloves he was wearing, “He has that sexy librarian thing going on, how can you not be into that?”

If you’re so ‘into that’,” Virgil quoted “Then why don’t you date him?”

Roman protested, “You would think I would, but, I am still trying to take a bite of your adorably delicious roommate,”

“Ah, right,” Virgil remembered, “That’s a fun thing to hear from your boss,”

Roman groaned dramatically and Virgil just raised an eyebrow at him, “Just go ask him out, I promise you will not regret it,” He sung that last bit, and Virgil only rolled his eyes. He did a quick sweep of the line and made sure to diligently wipe down the blenders to avoid going out into the lobby to wipe down tables.

“I am leaving now, Roman,” Virgil’s eyes trailed to the front counter to where he heard Logan’s voice, seeing the med student talk to his manager, “I will see you tomorrow, most likely,”

“Ah, that you will, weon. I hope you get your laptop fixed, promptly,” Roman flailed his arms in standard dramatic fashion and Logan shook his head at him, exhausted.

“Virgil,” Logan called out to him, a ways away down the line. He beckoned Virgil forward and he rushed forward, standing next to Roman, the two were stark contrasts of each other, “I just wanted to let you know I left something for you written on one of the napkins on the table,” Logan motioned towards his table, and sure enough, Virgil spotted a napkin and a pen left there. Virgil said nothing in response and Logan took this as an opportunity to take his leave and bid the other two a quaint farewell.

As soon as Logan was out the door, Roman began squealing with delight as Virgil turned completely red to his roots.

“Looks like Logan had the hots for you too!” He followed Virgil out into the lobby where he went to Logan’s seat and snatched up the napkin with the pen. He looked at the napkin, expecting to find a phone number or an email.

“What is it?” Roman asked, and Virgil read the napkin over again, groaning.

Virgil frowned at Roman, and read the napkin out loud:

“Smoking is the leading cause of preventable disease. Frequent smokers die 10 years earlier than non-smokers.

-(soon to be) Dr. Logan Arias, Addiction Psychiatrist”

Roman snatched the napkin away from Virgil’s grasp to read it for himself, and began laughing.

“Great, not only do I have my coworkers and housemates bother me about smoking, now I have random attractive men doing so?”

Roman continued laughing, “Si, po. Si,”

“This is why you don’t fuck with med students,” Virgil spat, bitterly.

Roman said nothing but snickered a bit more before following Virgil to the back where he pulled out his phone.

“It is not an incorrect fact, I just checked,”

“I didn’t think it would be, weon,” Roman pinned the napkin to their corkboard in the back, “Soon-to-be Dr. Logan Arias said so,” He quoted and giggled a bit more as Virgil made a grab for the napkin, but Roman deflected it.

“You suck, Roman, I want you to know that,” Virgil looked at the clock, “I was supposed to get off 45 minutes ago, can I leave?”

Roman nodded as Virgil unplugged his phone charger and grabbed his lighter (he always carries two) and inspected the note once more, “It is odd that he didn’t leave a number or anything, just a fact,”

Roman shrugged, “Maybe he will give one to you once you make an effort to stop smoking,”

Virgil barked laughing, “Fat chance,” He made a beeline for the door.

“No one wants to kiss an ashtray!” Roman called.

Virgil pushed open the door with he back as he yelled back at Roman, “I am not asking anyone to!”

He put in his earbuds and began walking with purpose back to his apartment. The walk was an easy 10 minutes where he could just block out the world and succumb to the lyrics of his Walking/Daydream Playlist.

He reached his apartment and threw his keys in the bowl at the front door. He greeted Patton and made his way to his room and looked at the time. It was only 6 o’clock, so he decided he had time for a nap before dinner. Virgil closed his eyes and fell asleep to visions of steel grey and cigarette smoke.

I made Roman Chilean in this fic (gee… I wonder why), so some of the italicized words are Chilean slang that I will define here:

santa marta - Not a Chilean slang word, but slang for marijuana in Latin America (according to the Internet).

cachai - Do you get me?/ Y’know? / Yea? At it’s core, it is essential just asking if they are on the same page.

po: Just used for emphasis when speaking.

weon: This is the most commonly used slang word in Chile. It’s meaning can range from ‘dude’ or ‘man’ to as a term of endearment, greeting to idiot or worse. The meaning all depends on context and emphasis. I am being serious when I say Chileans say this in every other sentence.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #Virgil Sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #Analogical #royality #my writing #potater420 #ask prompt #why do I do this to myself

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fairy-studies-blr · 6 years

Text

Ever finished a writing assignment and been at a loss for what to do next? This post contains all of my best tips for revising and polishing your first drafts so that you can submit your best work to your instructor. As a general rule, I recommend waiting a day or two to being revising (if possible) because it means that you return to the essay with fresh eyes. And now, without further ado, here are the basics of editing your paper.

Check your thesis:

Oftentimes while writing, I find that my paper goes in a slightly different direction than I originally planned, meaning my initial thesis no longer works. You might need to narrow your thesis, add some points to it, or write a completely different one. Keep your thesis in mind as you edit the rest of your essay, and make sure that everything you say ties back to it, but don’t be afraid to change your thesis if necessary.

Evaluate your argument:

Read through your paper and make sure your overall argument/statement needs to make sense. First I like to make sure that the first (topic) sentence of each of my body paragraphs directly supports my thesis. Then, I go through the paragraphs themselves and make sure that I have included enough evidence to back up my points. Remember, any assertions you make in your paper must be backed up with evidence. As you’re reading ask yourself, does this make sense, are there any holes in my logic, is more evidence needed? If you are writing a persuasive paper think about opposing arguments and make sure your paper refutes them.

Every sentence, every paragraph, every word in your paper should support your thesis in some way. I know I said this earlier, but I cannot emphasize it enough. Continually ask yourself, does this back up my thesis? If it doesn’t, delete it.

If you can, I would have someone else read your paper and give you their feedback on your argument. Ask them the same questions you would ask yourself; oftentimes other people will notice things we don’t. Most colleges have peer tutors that will be happy to do this for you, so take advantage of that.

Look at the structure:

By structure I mean, organization. Does the order of your paragraphs make sense? Do you need to add paragraphs to clarify certain points, or perhaps delete unnecessary information? Your main points need to flow together in a logical way that makes sense to the reader. Every paragraph should build on the one that comes before it.

If you’re having trouble with this, consider making an outline of your finished paper. Write down the thesis, and then for each body paragraph write down a phrase that summarizes the main point of that paragraph. Now ask yourself, does the order of these main points make sense? This is also helpful as a way to check your argument.

Make sure you met your teacher’s requirements:

Pull out the prompt your instructor gave you for the writing assignment and make sure you have fully answered it and not gone off topic. If your teacher asked for a specific kind of evidence, structure, etc, make sure those things are included in your paper. Most instructors I had in the past outlined the standards by which they would be evaluating my essays either in the syllabus or in class. Use these as a guide to evaluate your own paper and see if it lives up to them.

Revise grammar/spelling/sentence structure:

Save this step for the very end of your revision process, after you have finished everything else. Otherwise, you risk hampering your creativity because you’re thinking too much about making every sentence perfect.

I recommend reading your paper out loud multiple times to catch errors, because our brains have a habit of mentally fixing the mistakes for us when we read silently. Another tip is to start reading from the end of the paper aka the last sentence of the last paragraph. I find that doing this helps me distance myself from the content of the paper, so that I can just focus on the mechanics.

Keep a list of errors you tend to make while writing and check for those errors during the revision process. If your teacher has pointed out any mistakes in your previous assignments, check for those as well. While spellcheck can certainly help you, remember that it cannot catch every mistake. Specifically, if you use the wrong word but spell it correctly (such as they’re instead of their) spellcheck will not catch it.

Keep a dictionary handy so that you can make sure you are using the correct word for each circumstance. Also it helps to check that you are not repeating the same word too many times. While not grammatically incorrect, this often does not “read” well and can come across as overly repetitive and sloppy. A thesaurus can help with this, but again, make sure you fully understand the terms you are using. It is better to be repetitive, then to use a word that is not appropriate to the context of the sentence.

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ilovereadingandilovebreathing · 6 years

Text

Just Keep Swimming

Sorry not sorry. Also, this version has a read more. I swear I put one on the original post. :p

Summary: Virgil is the new kid (adult? kind of?) in school, and he’s still trying to navigate in unfamiliar waters. Thankfully, some more experienced fishies are more than willing to help.

Word Count:

1954

Genre: Teacher!Human!AU; slice of life

Characters: Virgil (Anderson), Logan (Foley), Patton (Thompson), Roman (Prince), Sleep (Remy Cordova), Deceit (Declan Anwir)

Warning for DECEIT and a lot of dumb teacher humor. School stuff. Self doubt. IDK what else.

Twain uses syntax. Twain also uses many different types of sentences- “Oh my god if I read this repetitive garbage one. more. TIME.” Virgil Anderson threw down his pen, sighed, and leaned back in the plastic chair, roughly running his fingers through his hair.

“What’s got you all worked up?” Roman Prince queried from the copy machine across the sizable work room.

“Apparently, Mark Twain uses syntax. Of course he uses syntax. Syntax is sentences. My god-” “I hear he also uses diction and chooses his words.” Roman teased as he strode past his co-worker with a mountain of copies in his arms. “So I hear.” Virgil mumbled, allowing the grin nipping at his lips to come to light. Roman could win every once in a while.

“How long have you been at that?” Roman paused at the door, cradling his papers on his hip like a baby. “Not too long. Just long enough to be fed up already. These are honors kids, for crying out loud. I know they have better thoughts than this.” “They do. They just don’t know it yet. Who’s giving you trouble?” “Giselle Wilson.” “Oo yeah, I had her last year. She’s a smart girl, really, but very much a verbal processor. Try doing writing conferences and talking through her thoughts. She does better that way.” “I don’t have time for that though. We’re already behind as it is-“ “Lesson plans are a formality, Virge. Lighten up.” “Says the man who’s been teaching for 5 years already.” “You’ll get there.” Roman flashed him one of his obnoxiously bright smiles. “I suppose losing your classroom during your planning period doesn’t help, but…it all settles in after the first few years.” “Yeah, if I last past the dropout stats. What is it? 20% in the first 3 years?” “It doesn’t matter because you won’t be one of them.” Roman replied shortly but not unkindly. “As I said, you’ll get there. As for me, I must get back to my domain before the serfs run amok.” “Oh my god, Roman; you left them alone?!” “Just for a few minutes.” Virgil eyed the precarious stack he was hauling. “They’re fine. They’re seniors. Some of them can vote and serve; they can handle themselves for 10 minutes.” “Whatever you say.” Virgil rolled his eyes as the other sauntered away, turning back to his grading with another sigh. “Another day, another assignment to grade.” Virgil had just lapsed back into the flow of grading when the tap of footfall pulled him from his focus. “Oh, hello, Virgil.” Logan Foley paused inside the doorway. “I forgot you do your planning in here. I can come back later if you are trying to concentrate.” “No, it’s fine. I need a break anyway. Papers are painful.” “I understand the sentiment.” A shadow of a smile graced Logan’s lips as he sat across from Virgil. “My AP Language students are writing responses to past AP Examination prompts, and reading through them is taxing. My students often do well, but…I do always worry.” “That’s fair. But hey, Mr. Teacher of the Year, I think you’ll be fine.” Virgil nodded slightly. “They couldn’t have anyone better.” “Unless they have me.” Virgil visibly tensed as their red-headed colleague slunk into the room.

“Your students’ scores have certainly been quite comparable to my own.” Logan conceded. “Of course.” Declan Anwir chuckled. “This place needed me desperately. You’re doing great and all, Logan, but one man can only do so much. Especially after all of that-“ “Do you mind? I’m trying to grade here.” Virgil snapped, gesturing to the papers spread out in front of him. “Not all of us have the luxury of a classroom during all periods.” “Of course. My mistake. I thought this was the teacher workroom, after all.” Virgil rolled his eyes after Declan rose and turned his back on them. “Anyway, I have a lot of grading to do. Those AP essays won’t score themselves.” He gave them a sharp wave and went out. “God, that guy gets on my nerves.” Virgil filed below his breath. “Sure his AP scores are high, but the kids hate his class. He’s a dictator. One of my past honors kids from last year broke down in Anime Club because of the workload in his class. It’s nuts!” “His methods may be…strict-” “Tyrannical.” “But the data is unarguable. His students get top scores.” “And that makes it all the worse…” “He is not a bad teacher, Virgil.” “He’s not a good one, either, though!-” Virgil caught himself and snapped his mouth shut; he inhaled deeply through his nose and unclenched his fists. “…So anyway, how is everything going? With….you know-“ “Clear as of the last check.” Virgil physically relaxed, his sharp gestures softening. “Good. Glad to hear it. But don’t hesitate to let us know if things aren’t good.” “Of course. I cannot thank you enough for everything you did for me when-“ “Well, hello, gentlemen!” Patton Thompson breezed into the room. “No one told me we were having a planning party!” “Not a party, Pat; just…a chat.” “Nice rhyme, Virge; you just might be a poet after all.” “Never again.” Virgil’s lip curled, and Patton exploded into giggles. “You teach English, silly goose; you’ll have to deal with it eventually.” “Yeah, Yeah-“ “So how are our freshman, Patton?” “Oh, they’re fine, as always!” Patton laughed as he headed toward a copy machine. “My precious babies. Still adjusting to high school life. It really is so hard.” “Pat, they’re 14, not 6.” Virgil muttered, the grievance not at all expressed in his expression. “They’ll be fine.” “Ooooooh I know, but I just want to scoop them up and take care of them, you know? They’re so helpless-“ Logan sighed. “They play on your kindness like a harp, Patton, and you know this. Yet you still give in.” “It’s just because they need the push, but they’re too scared to ask.” “Sometimes, I think you’re too soft for your own good, Pat.” Patton flashed his co-worker a grin before removing the warm papers from the finishing tray. “Soft inside; tough outside.” “Soft inside; soft outside, is more accurate.” Logan interjected seriously. “We’ll work on the tough part, Pat. I’ll teach you how to do a teacher scowl.”

“Don’t need it, but thanks for the offer!” Patton saluted. “They’re just fine with me as their Captain-”

“Don’t.” Virgil quipped.

“What?” Patton peered at his co-worker with his signature doe eyes.

“Don’t do it. I heard ‘Dead Poets Society’ through my walls yesterday. How many times a semester do you use that movie, anyway?”

“I use clips every chance I get! It really is a versatile film. I thought you liked that movie?!”

“I do, but hearing it quoted weekly makes it lose its appeal.” Patton’s jaw tightened, and Virgil backpedaled. “Sorry, Pat. I didn’t mean to go off on you like that. I just….It’s been a day.”

“Mass grading. I counseled you against such practices, Virgil.” Logan interjected. “It is not only harmful to you, but to your students’ grades-”

“I know. I know! I just….god, I agonize over grading. I start out so harsh, but then I worry that I’m too soft, and it’s all just so much.” Virgil slumped dejectedly, eyeing the stack of essays with malice. “And I have no one to blame but myself because I assigned them.”

“True that.” Patton shrugged. “That’s why I assign stuff that I’ll enjoy grading. And that meets standards and is good for the students, of course!” Patton giggled, swiping up his copies from the tray.

“But you’re experienced and just…talented enough to do that. I’m not there yet.”

“But you will be one day.” Logan replied softly. “It takes time. Remember, you just got your Bachelor’s Degree. Patton and I both have our Doctorates and years of experience to drawn upon. You will get there. Be patient with yourself. Besides….if your students’ reactions to your activity last week was any indication, you are already off to a satisfactory start.”

“What was your activity?” Patton called over his shoulder.

“Nothing that great, really. It’s basically four corners. I put a scenario up on the board, and they go to one place or the other depending on their opinion. I try not to let them be in the grey area, and they have to argue their points to each other. It’s like an informal debate, and they get really into it.”

“I do not believe I have seen or heard your honors students be so rambunctious.” Logan commented.

“Yeah, sorry about that. They’re really passionate about Of Mice and Men, apparently. And the death penalty.”

“That one can definitely get people stirred up!”

“Shaken or stirred, Patty, because there’s a difference.”

“Hey, Rem!” Patton greeted their sub-turned-part-timer. “Ready for the day shift?”

“You know it. I’m joe’d up and ready to flow!” Remy snapped a finger, the other hand grasping a coffee cup, as per usual. “Whatchya got goin’ on here, Toddler Teacher?” Remy gestured to Virgil’s piles.

“Honors Lit. essays. This batch hurts.”

“And so did the last one, but surely they’re getting better!” Remy pulled out a chair and sat backwards, resting his chin on his arms. “Shoot.”

“Twain uses syntax-”

“That’s all I need. You’re in for it, baby boy, but it’s normal. They’re still adjusting.”

“It’s week 3.”

“And they’ll be adjusting at week 13, too. They’re teenagers. It’s normal. You just gotta know when to hold their hands and when to let ‘em go.”

“You talk like you have teaching experience. Or parenting experience.”

“We’re their school parents, in a way, you know. Or at least, we can be.”

“I don’t think I’m at that stage yet. I think I’m still in the ‘weird older brother stage.’”

“Now don’t you say that, Virge!” Patton cut in. “Your kids love you!”

“Yeah because I’m…unconventional, I guess.”

“Because you’re a good teacher who does your best and cares about them! That’s all they want and everything they need.”

“True dat, Patty Pat.” Remy sipped at his frozen coffee.

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It is. Trust me.” Patton smiled warmly and jumped a bit when a sharp ringing sounded overhead. “You’d think I’d be used to that darn bell after all this time-”

“Well, they did change out the system this year. The pitch is higher and more shrill than it has been in the past.” Logan sighed, hauling himself from his chair.

“It does it’s job, though.” Patton left with a wave, easily weaving into the sea of students in the crowded halls.

“Time to get to it.” Remy slapped the back of his chair and rose, shouldering his laptop bag before placing a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “Have a good one, kid.” He gave it a squeeze and disappeared into the mass of bodies as well.

“Are you managing well, Virgil?” Logan asked in a low tone, making direct eye contact. “Really?”

Virgil sighed deeply and gathered his papers and pens. “Yeah. ‘Well’ is a relative term, but I’m managing, that’s for sure.”

“Remember to inform me if that changes. We are here for you if you need us.”

“Thanks, Logan.” Virgil’s smile reached his eyes as he fell into stride beside the older teacher. “So, what were your kids doing yesterday? They got pretty loud, too.”

“Peer editing argument papers.” Logan replied, traces of a grin gracing his lips. “Some of them had opposing stances on the same topic, so I paired them together to gauge the result.”

“You’re a mad genius.” Virgil laughed out loud as they merged together into the current of teenagers, chatting until they reached their shared hallway and parted ways into their respective domains.

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ride-a-dolan · 6 years

Text

“I Hate That I Love You” (E.D.) Part 12

I stayed in my dorm the rest of the weekend completely alone. After that night I didn’t want to see anybody. I was afraid if I went outside I would run into Ethan and I can’t to see him. Anytime I think about him I tear up. I have never cried like this over anybody before. It’s different for me and I hate it. The awful part is he never leaves my mind. No matter what he is always there. I think about his eyes and how powerful they are, how perfect smile is, his contagious laughter, his dimples when he smiles, even the anger that I see pass through his eyes. Just everything about him I think about.

I get a few texts from him but he soon realizes that I’m not going to text back. I get notes from the unknown stranger but I still haven’t written anything back. The last one I got left me very confused.

Please wear this Friday so I will know who you are. I plan on revealing who I am to you. I can’t keep it a secret any longer. Seeing you hurt and cry pains me so much. I’m hoping when you know who I am things will change for the better. Xx

With this note I received a black masquerade mask with lace all around it with red jewels in each stitch. It was the kind that I wouldn’t have to hold. It was beautiful but I honestly don’t know why I need it. Why did I need a mask? Well that very question was answered for me Monday at school.

—————————————————————

When I walked into school I saw a huge banner announcing that on Friday since there is no hockey game and it’s almost winter break there will be a masquerade dance where everyone is required to wear a mask. Now I understand the note perfectly. My heart beats a bit faster at the thought of meeting this unknown person after weeks of sending notes back and forth. I am excited but so, so nervous.

I feel like this person really does care for me and wants to make me happy. I want to meet them. I guess after school I will go find a dress but it hits me that I have no way to get to a store. I don’t have a car and I definitely don’t have any friend to take me. I sigh and decide to figure it out later. Now I have to get to class which I’m dreading since Ethan has the same class.

Everyone has kind of left me alone but everyone still refuses to talk to me. A few people still won’t even look at me but sadly I’m used to it now. I just walk down the hallway to my class with my head hanging down looking at the floor. I take my seat and wait for class to start. Ethan still isn’t here which is good but like always nothing ever goes my way. Right before the bell rings he rushes in and walks back to take his seat behind me. When he walks by me I can feel his eyes on me so being stupid I look up to meet his and we just stare at each other.

“Mr. Dolan please take your seat.” Our teacher says breaking both of us from staring. Ethan quickly takes his seat as the lesson begins.

“Okay class we will be doing a project and you will be in groups for this project that I will pick for you.” Mrs. Smith announces. I groan to myself because I know that whoever I get paired up with will not be good. “Ethan, you and (Y/N) will work together.” My eyes widen and my mouth drops. This cannot be happening to me. Everyone in the class turns around and laughs because of the irony of this. Mrs. Smith goes on telling who each person will be paired with but I just sit there shocked. It’s like the universe likes to watch me suffer.

“(Y/N).” I hear Ethan’s voice in my ear. I turn around and look straight into his eyes. I didn’t realize that we were this close until I turn around. Our foreheads are almost touching and I can feel his hot breath against my face.

“What?” I ask.

“We are partners.” He says.

“Oh are we really?” I ask sarcastically.

“Okay so this project isn’t very complicated all you have to do is write an essay about the different kind of mixtures…” Mrs. Smith goes on about the project but I block her voice out. Ethan didn’t say anything about my answer to him so I turned around and tried ignoring the fact that he kept trying to get my attention. He keeps poking my back and poking me with his pencil. While trying to ignore him I quickly write a note back for my unknown stranger. I overlook him until the bell rings then I’m up and out of there as quickly as I can.

I rush down the hall dodging people trying to distance myself from Ethan. Just as I round the corner I run straight into somebody. They fall to the ground and I fall on top of them. Our books and papers go flying everywhere.

“Oh god Tyler I’m sorry.” I say and climb off of the hazel-eyed boy.

“It’s fine. Why were you in such a rush?” He asks while helping me off of the ground.

“Um no reason really.” I mumble while picking up my books.

“(Y/N), stop running from me please.” I hear Ethan say from a little but away.

“Bye Tyler.” I say hastily and start walking away. I run off as quickly as I can to my next class luckily Ethan left me alone and didn’t follow me. When I sit down in my seat for my next class I look around in my back for my note but it’s not there. I must have dropped it when I ran into Tyler. Great. All I can hope for is that this stranger happens to find it before someone else does.

—————————————————————

The day goes by normally without Ethan trying to find me. I still don’t know how I’m going to get to a store to buy a dress but I will figure something out.

“Hey (Y/N) wait up!” I hear someone call for me as I’m walking back to my dorm. I turn around to see Tyler running after me.

“Where are you going?” He asks falling into step with me.

“My dorm and then to find a way to a store.” I tell him.

“Do you not have a ride?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Well I can drive you after practice.” He offers.

“I’m going dress shopping you won’t be bored will you?” I ask.

“No I actually need a new outfit for the dance too so I can just get it tonight.”

“Well yeah okay thanks Tyler.” I tell him with a smile.

“No problem I will just text you when to meet me at the parking lot yeah?” I nod and we part way, him going to practice and me going to my dorm. As I walk passed the tree I see a note. Luck was actually on my side this time and my stranger got the note. I grin and run to get it and go straight to me room to read it.

I’m happy that you decided to come to the dance. I must admit I’m nervous to reveal who I am to you but I think it’s time that I do. Now Friday at this party don’t try to find me, I will find you. I really look forward to seeing you beautiful. This will be the last note I write so for now this is goodbye but I will see you Friday. Until then bye (Y/N). Xx

I find myself smiling like an idiot at this note. I don’t know but something about this person makes me happy. I can’t wait to find out who this is. Friday cannot come any faster. I just wish it were here so I can find out who this lovely stranger is.

A few hours later Tyler texted me telling me that he was ready to go whenever I was so I grabbed my bag and went to meet him.

“Hello.” He greets me as I sit down in his car.

“Hi, again thank you for driving me.” I say taking a seat.

“It’s not a problem. I love spending time with you if I’m honest. You’re not like the other girls here. You don’t care what anybody thinks and I like that.” He says.

I feel a blush creeping on my face. “Well thank you I guess.” I say with a small laugh.

“So where to?” He asks. I give him the directions to the dress shop and we go. Tyler is so funny and nice. I like him but something is holding me back from liking him more than a friend. Like a brick wall is in front of me not allowing me to feel those types of feelings for him and every time I think of him like that Ethan’s face pops up in my mind stopping me. Even when Ethan is not around he still seems to stop me from moving on from him. How? Why did Ethan Dolan even have to come into my life?

—————————————————————

About an hour later I was still trying to find a dress that would match well with the mask. Nothing looks right. I’m starting to get aggravated that I can’t find anything. I have to look perfect for this dance. I don’t know why but I feel like I have to impress my stranger. I want him to really like me and I can’t even find a dress.

Just as I’m about to give up I see it, the perfect dress. It’s a red party dress. It’s sleeveless other than a part that goes across the shoulder which has red and black jewels on it, just like my mask. The bottom of the dress poofs out a bit but not too much. It’s absolutely perfect and will match my mask perfectly. I grin to myself and grab it. Just the right size. I look over to find Tyler putting his phone away and walking over to me.

“That’s going to look great on you.” He says with a smile. All I do is smile back up at him and go to check out. Tyler got his outfit a little while ago and has patiently been waiting on me. I really do owe him. He has been so nice to me lately, I really do appreciate him. It’s nice to have a least one friend. We leave the store and go back to the school.

“So what are the dances at this school like?” I ask.

“Wild. The teachers don’t really supervise it so we are all on our own. Someone usually spikes all of the drinks and everyone just goes crazy. It’s so much fun.” He says with a mischievous smirk.

“Sounds fun.”

“It is. I’m sure you will an amazing night.” He says with a wink. The way he says it sounds like it hold a double meaning but I don’t know why.

“Well let’s hope so.” I say with a smile.

—————————————————————

We get back to the school and both go to our dorms after we say bye and I tell him thank you again. When I get to my dorm I see that my door is open. Maybe it was just Ashlee coming back to get something that she may have left when she left the room. But who is there really does surprise me.

“Ethan?” I question when I walk inside my room. He head shoots up and he looks scared to death.

“I’m sorry but I wanted to talk to you and I knew that if I texted you wouldn’t have answered so I got Ashlee to give me her key.” He explains.

“I don’t want you to talk to me now please just leave my room.” I say trying not to look at him.

“We need to talk not only about everything else but about our project.”

“The project is simple. You write your part and bring it to me and I will write the rest of it. We don’t even have to work together.” I say opening my door for him to leave.

“(Y/N).” He starts but stops himself knowing it’s no use. “Okay then I guess I will go.” He says and gets up to leave. When he gets up he bumps into the table beside my bed making all of the notes from my stranger fall off. He bends down to pick them up and looks at them. I see a small smile threaten to show on his lips before I grab them from his hand.

“Leave.” I say pushing him towards the door. He nods and reluctantly leaves my dorm room. I sigh a relief and sit down on my bed. Did I imagine that small smile on his lips? Probably. Whenever he is around me my mind goes crazy. He makes me go crazy.

—————————————————————

The rest of the week goes by so slow. Every single day in Chemistry Mrs. Smith makes us work on our essay with our partner. I never speak a word to Ethan and he doesn’t talk to me. He does however send me little glances. I catch him every time. The look in his eyes when he looks at me is longing. He looks drained and sad and just miserable. We both are I guess.

School is almost over on Friday. Today is the day the tickets are being sold for the dance and I plan on buying myself one right before I leave to my dorm. When the final bell rings I go to my locker to put everything away. When I open my locker a note falls out along with a ticket.

I lied. This is my last note. I decided to go ahead and buy your ticket when I bought mine. Anyway I can’t wait to see you tonight and I hope you’re feeling the same. Remember don’t look for me I will come find you. See you tonight (Y/N). Xx

Well that was nice. This person really does care about me. I don’t know why though. I’m nothing special so why would this person care so much about me? I guess I will find out tonight.

—————————————————————

I get to my dorm and immediately start getting ready. I have trouble trying to figure out what to do with my hair. I have to look perfect for this person. I just have to. I decide to just do loose curls all in my hair and just leave it down. I do my normal makeup and just add a bit more eye shadow. I put on my dress and mask. I strap on my black heels and head to the dance. It took me hours to get ready because I didn’t want to look anything less than perfect. I had to impress this person.

When I enter the dance the music is so loud. The bass is making the ground vibrate underneath me. Everyone is already dancing and laughing. The majority of them already look drunk. Nobody seems to notice me which is great. At least here I won’t be tormented. My nerves start setting in that I will finally know who this stranger that I have been writing to is. I am so anxious to find out.

I decide to just go and have fun until my stranger decided to reveal himself. I walk out onto the dance floor and just start dancing like everyone else. I don’t look for my stranger just like he said not to. I assume he will just come find me when he wants to.

After ten minutes of dancing alone I feel someone walk up behind me. They place their hands on my hips and start dancing in rhythm with me. I try to turn around to see who it is but whoever it is won’t allow me to do so. We dance together for a long time before I feel this person place something in my hand and letting go of me.

Follow me

This is it. This is the moment I will see who my stranger is. I turn around and see a figure signaling for me to follow them. It’s too dark in here to tell who this person is. I follow him upstairs to another room where nobody else is. My heart is practically beating out of my chest. I’m really nervous to see who this is. The room is really dark and I can’t see anything. I hear this person shut the door and lock it before turning on a small lamp.

Before he even turns around I know who it is. My heart drops out of my chest and my eyes widen when I see the signature chocolate brown eyes.

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