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stars-falling · 2 years

Text

angel in disguise (elriel)

summary: azriel is having a terrible time but an angel disguised in a pink coat and yellow welly boots saves the day.

prompt: a pair of glasses held together by tape, a missing phone and a small, mean dog.

word count: 4.9k

note: i wrote this last year and only just edited it... i have nothing to say for myself. sorry for not uploading for so long, motivation has been a real struggle for me recently but i'm writing more these days, so hopefully i can upload more this year! also, thank you so so much for 1000 followers, it means so much to me that so many people enjoy my content! i'll be hosting a 1k celebration soon.

hope you enjoy!

lily <3

read here on ao3 // masterlist

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Today was a horrible day. During his 26 years of living, today would surely make it into Azriel’s top 10 worst moments compilation, the one that seemed to replay every time he closed his eyes to sleep.

In the scheme of things, the day had started well. Even though he was working on a Saturday, he hadn’t yet found a reason to complain. Sure, he had forgotten to get new contact lenses, but he had slipped on his glasses and called it a day. His alarm had gone off at exactly the correct time. His walk to work was peaceful. And he had remembered all the notes he needed to write the article he was currently working on. But, it quickly went downhill from there.

He knew that being a writer for a popular magazine would be difficult. He’d known from the moment he’d chosen to major in journalism that there would never be an easy day, but coming into work to find his desk laden down with four new assignments, three requests for a meeting and two phone numbers to call was excessive. Still, he had struggled on, rushing from meeting to meeting, phone call to phone call before he was finally able to collapse at his desk in time to start work on the four new articles he'd been given. So yes, it hadn’t been an easy day but it hadn’t been the worst. That was until his boss had called him into his office to tell him that the deadline for both his original and new articles had been moved up. Then the moment he returned to his desk, his old shitty laptop decided to blue screen. All his progress was lost. He had even less time to complete the articles than before, let alone rewrite them from scratch.

Azriel was a stoic man, he rarely let anything show, but at that moment he felt like bursting into tears. He glanced up at the clock. It was 5:45 and he still had 15 minutes before his workday officially ended but he packed up anyway, tossing his now broken laptop, his notes and whatever else (he wasn’t paying attention) into the fancy leather messenger bag his brothers had gotten him as a congratulation for landing the job. They said it made him look professional. He didn’t feel very professional.

He stalked out of the office, discarding the many used paper cups that once contained coffee into a bin and ignored everyone on the way out of the building. Luckily, it was late spring so the daylight remained as he walked down the road. It was cool but not cold enough to warrant a coat, the way he liked it. The streets were surprisingly clear meaning he could wander along, trying to recollect himself after such a hellish day at work. Things were looking up. Then a large drop of rain landed right on his head. He glanced up to see that a dark grey cloud had swept in during his time in the office. He went into his bag, fishing around before producing an old navy umbrella. It didn’t belong to him. Rhys had stolen his the other day and had yet to return it, so he had been forced to search the back of a cupboard for something to bring along with him in case of rain. He was glad to have such forethought as the rain started to pour from the sky. He rushed under a tree and, whilst it did little to stop him from getting wet, it did offer him a little reprieve as he attempted to open his umbrella. He undid the velcro that had been holding it together and pressed the little button that would usually send it flying open. But nothing happened. He pressed it again and again before pushing the material away to see the mechanism had rusted in its years of disuse. He attempted to open it manually but it was jammed and no amount of pushing could force it open. On his last nerve, he swung the umbrella against the tree, hoping it would dislodge whatever had jammed the mechanism. But, the action only caused the umbrella to fall to pieces in his hands. The metal fell to the floor with resounding clinks and the umbrella flopped uselessly open, unable to hold itself up. It was then he saw that the fabric near the top had been ripped to shreds. It was completely destroyed, only held together by the velcro strap, rust and spite.

Azriel sucked in a breath. The rain had only worsened as he stood under the tree trying desperately to get his umbrella to work. Resigning to his fate, Azriel gathered up the remains of the umbrella, dumped them in a bin close to him and stepped out into the rain. Five minutes of walking had rendered him soaked and he was grateful that he had taken meticulous care of his bag over time. At least it had at least some capacity to protect the contents of his bag from water damage. He walked along the road, cold, wet and fed up with life. Water dripped from his hair and down onto his neck, causing chills to skitter up and down his back. The afternoon sun had dimmed to a dull glow barely visible through the clouds and the headlights of cars that came speeding down the road. One of the cars sped through a puddle, sending its contents flying over Azriel and covering him with the dirty brown water that had slowly been collecting along the side of the road. He looked down to find his white shirt stained and water leaking from his bag. He hoped that the plastic folders he usually kept his notes in were doing their job.

He wiped off water from his glasses the best he could using his sodden shirt sleeve but he only succeeded in smearing the droplets further. He placed them back on, uncaring that he could barely see five metres in front of him. He looked up to see a smudged rendition of the park sign. Usually, he loved his walks to and from work. They took him through Velaris park, along the river Sidra and gave him a chance to glimpse into at least one of the crowded marketplaces. It enabled him to see the best of Velaris but right now all he wanted to see was home.

He stepped through the gate to the park and began along the path that would take him to the exit he needed. As he walked, he felt a low pain in his stomach and he realised that whilst he had consumed many cups of coffee, he hadn't eaten. An idea materialised in his mind. Rhysand was currently working from home, he could easily order take out and be at the door ready to collect it before Azriel even got close. Azriel looked around, making sure the path was clear before coming to a halt in the centre. He hunched over his bag as he stuck his hand in to grab his phone. But the pocket he usually stored it in was empty. He continued searching but it was futile. His phone was not in his bag. He patted down his pockets but they were also empty. He cast his mind back to the moment he was packing up. He usually took great care when leaving, as to be sure he had left nothing but today he had been careless. He let out a groan and removed his glasses to rub his eyes as he remembered he had placed the sleek device on the side of his desk. The side of his desk he hadn’t bothered to check when he had packed away his belongings.

He was reaching up to place his glasses back onto his face when they slipped out of his grasp. The rainwater had caused them to become slick in his hands and his frozen fingers couldn't maintain his grip. Startled, he stepped forward. An action followed by a sickening crunch. He looked down to see that his glasses had snapped in two at the bridge. Rain dripped down his face, merging with the tears that had started to leak from his eyes. He tried so damn hard all the time. He worked his ass off, rarely taking holidays. He volunteered when he had time. He donated to charities, he was always polite and he even helped old ladies cross the damned road. Yet all the good he tried to put out into the universe seemed to be rejected. Instead, he was stuck out in a rainstorm with a broken umbrella, glasses and laptop, a thousand and one deadlines hanging over his head and a very bad case of misfortune. He bent down to scoop out the two halves of the glasses and wandered over to the bench nearest to him. He sat down, uncaring about the water that had pooled on the painted wood and soaked his trousers further. He tucked his bag under where he sat in an attempt to protect it from the rain and leant forward, his elbows on his knees so he could rest his face in his palms. The rain continued to pour and Azriel could feel where the cold began to pierce his skin and sink deep within his bones. He sat like that for a while.

The soft sound of claws clicking against pavement stirred him from his stupor. He glanced up to see a small chihuahua approaching him. It ambled up to him without a care for the world around it and sniffed his leg. Azriel held out a hand for it to examine and watched in wonder as it seemed to rest its tiny head in his hand. It was warm and Azriel ran a tentative finger against its cheek. The demeanour of the dog changed immediately. It morphed from the curious being that approached him into an angry hell beast in less than a second. It let out a loud growl and nipped at his hand, biting down hard. Azriel jerked away, letting out various curses all the while. The beast had let go of his hand but it stood before him, barking aggressively, as Azriel rubbed the injured spot on his hand.

“Princess!”

A silvery shout rang out across the park although it was quickly muffled by the rain. A woman came into view. Although she was slightly blurry due to the downpour and his lack of glasses, he could make out her short flowery dress and matching pink raincoat and umbrella. She seemed to be about his age, maybe a couple of years younger, and was rapidly approaching him with a stern look on her face. The combination of her warm brown eyes, sodden golden hair and the fact that the streetlamps that had just flickered on, illuminating her silhouette, made her look like an angel. An angel in a pair of bright yellow welly boots. Maybe he had died and she was here to lead him to whatever realm lay beyond. Or maybe she was here to fetch her dog, the one that had continued growling at him. That made more sense.

“I’m so sorry!” She exclaimed as she scooped up the dog in front of him with one hand. “She is never normally like this! At least she’s never been like this before. She’s not mine but I walk her sometimes.”

She continued to ramble, cheeks pink from the cold.

“It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

She stopped and looked at him, taking him in for the first time. He was probably a sorry sight with saturated stained clothes and broken glasses in his hands.

“Um, are you okay?”

He held up half of the glasses to her.

“Tough day.”

She grimaced before saying, “I can see that. What happened?”

He didn’t want to get into the details so he simply replied, “I dropped them and then stepped on them out of shock.”

She placed the dog back onto the ground, angling it away from him so it didn’t attack him again. She sat down beside him without regard for the wet bench, tied Princess’s lead to the armrest before holding the umbrella over him (which brushed his head due to her being shorter than him) and holding her hand out. He raised an eyebrow.

“Hand me your glasses,” she said impatiently.

So, he did. He gently placed the two halves of his glasses onto her open palm and she passed the umbrella to him to hold over them. She reached into her bag, which he hadn't realised she’d been carrying.

“My sister injured her knee running the other day so I bought some sports tape for her earlier. I can use it to fix your glasses.”

She pulled the tape from her bag along with tiny scissors that looked to be part of a manicure set. She set about cutting and wrapping as he diligently held the umbrella over their heads. Princess had curled up beneath the bench and was busy gnawing on a stick she had found. After several minutes she held up her finished product. The bridge had been wrapped in several layers of skin-coloured tape and whilst the two halves seemed slightly wonky, it would do. She took the small piece of fabric (likely used to clean her phone) that she had been using to dry the glasses and wiped away water from the bridge of his nose before placing his temporarily fixed glasses back on his face. The tape made them sit lopsided but it was enough. She beamed at him as she took in her work.

“Thank you.” He breathed out. “Really, I can’t thank you enough. Is there anything I can do to make up for it?”

She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him.

“Have you heard of the Flower and Fawn?”

He looked at her in confusion.

“The cafe in Velaris?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s my cafe! I want you to come back with me and I can make some cookies and tea for us! That’s if you want to, of course.” At that, she smiled at him shyly.

“Why?”

“Because you’re having a terrible day. I found you soaked from the rain with broken glasses, after all. I want to help cheer you up!”

He smiled at her before replying, “You’re an angel.”

She shook her head firmly.

“No, I’m just a decent person.” She twisted round to untie Princess’s leash from the bench before turning back to him. “So, would you like to come?”

He considered his options. He could go home and cry in the confines of his room whilst his brothers bug him about various things, or he could follow this beautiful stranger back to her house. She could be a murderer for all he knew, and he was falling right into her trap. But could his day really get any worse?

“Yeah.” He replied. “I’d love to.”

Despite the umbrella, they were still thoroughly drenched by the time they had dropped off Princess at her owners and arrived at the little cafe. Azriel had walked past it several times before, its baby-pink facade, fancy golden lettering and flowers catching his eye every time. Instead of going to enter the bustling cafe, she walked up to the door adjacent to it. As she produced a key to unlock the door she told him, “I live in the apartment above the cafe with my roommate. You can borrow some of his clothes if you want to shower. I’m not working today but I can raid the kitchen for ingredients.”

Azriel looked down at his clothes as she pushed the door open and began to walk up the stairs. His stained shirt had become almost see-through from the wet and his trousers dripped with every movement. Every time he took a step, a small squelching noise sounded due to the water flooding his shoes and socks. Yeah, he might take her up on the offer. He followed her inside cautiously, aware of how much water dripped from him. She turned back from where she was halfway up the stairs.

“Don’t worry about getting water everywhere. My sister once managed to spill a whole bucket of red paint over the apartment and down the stairs. We had to replace the carpets.”

He let out a laugh as he closed the door behind him and began to ascend the stairs. He entered her apartment behind her. It was a small open plan area with the kitchen, dining area and living room all in one. He spied a door in the living room area to his right, likely leading to bedrooms and bathrooms. It was nicely decorated, houseplants and pictures seemed to litter the space along with books and piles of papers. He followed her into the kitchen and placed his bag on the marble island at the centre. She had set about filling the silver kettle when she spun around suddenly.

“I’ve just realised I never introduced myself! How rude of me. I’m Elain.”

Elain, he thought to himself, what a pretty name. He smiled at her before answering, “Azriel. My name’s Azriel.”

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Azriel.” She placed the kettle on its base and pressed the button before continuing, “What else happened today then, or was it the getting caught in the rain without an umbrella and breaking your glasses that made it a bad day?”

He contemplated the fact that Elain was a near stranger, despite the brief conversation they had had about themselves on the way back to her apartment. He decided to tell her anyway.

“Tough day at work, I suppose. I was given four new assignments today along with extra meetings and calls. All my deadlines, both previous and new, got moved up and then my laptop blue screened, losing all my work.”

She frowned at him, sympathy filling her eyes.

“Oh my god! That’s so horrible. I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. And I thought I had bad days sometimes.” She paused as she opened a cupboard. “Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please. I’ll have it black.”

She nodded in confirmation before pulling out a cafetière.

“My roommate will be home soon. He works in IT so he could take a look at your computer if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.” She said, waving him off.

She pushed down the plunger on the cafetière before pouring out the contents into a mug. He took it gratefully and took a long sip. Warmth spread throughout his entire body and he held the mug tightly.

“Thank you.”

Elain just smiled at him in return before taking a sip of her drink. They stood in silence for several minutes, using their hot drinks to bring some heat back into their bodies. Elain pushed off from the counter she was leaning against, holding up her finger to signal she’d return in a moment. Azriel took it as a chance to place down his cup and finally check his bag for water damage. He undid the clasp and glanced inside. Luckily, the plastic folders he had placed his notes in had just about held up. Only the edges of the sheets were soggy. His computer was slightly damp but mainly the water hadn’t soaked through. He let out a sigh of relief. At least one thing hadn’t gone wrong today. He was pulled from his examination by the sound of Elain’s footsteps as she returned from wherever she had disappeared to. He looked up to see her holding a bundle of clothing in her arms which she proceeded to place on the counter in front of him.

“You can borrow these if you want to change or shower. I don’t think it’s good for you to remain in your clothes, you’ll catch a cold. My roommate is a bit shorter than you but they should fit.”

He pulled them towards him gratefully.

“A shower might be good.”

She gestured for him to follow her through the door he had noted earlier. He was correct in his assumption that it led to the rest of her apartment. She showed him to the bathroom and ran him through how the shower worked.

When she was done, she walked away before turning back to say, “I’m going to head down to the kitchens in Flower and Fawn to grab some ingredients. You can put your clothes in that bag there.” She gestured to a small plastic bag on the counter that he previously hadn’t noticed.

“Thank you.” He told her, the sincerity in it making her blush.

“It’s fine, really. I just want you to be okay. Have a nice shower!” At that, she spun around and walked out of the hall. He closed the bathroom door and set about stripping his soaking clothes from his body before stepping into the warm shower. His day was starting to look up.

Ten minutes later, he found himself in a warm black t-shirt and sweatpants that were slightly too small for him. He stepped out of the bathroom with his sodden clothes in one hand and his shoes dangling from the other. He returned to the kitchen, settling the bag next to his leather one and placing his shoes on the radiator to dry. He turned around to find a familiar yet shocked face staring at him from the kitchen table.

“Lucien?”

The red-headed man nodded uncertainly. Lucien Vanserra worked in the IT department at the same magazine Azriel worked for. They were friendly, often having interesting conversations when they bumped into each other in the break room but, other than that, they rarely seemed to cross each other's paths. Until now, that was.

“Azriel? What are you doing here?” Lucien gave him a cursory once over. “In my clothes, no less.”

It took less than a second for it to click.

“You’re the roommate.”

Lucien sent him an even more confused expression.

“You know Elain?”

“I do. Well, I met her today. She found me soaked in the park having a rough time and invited me back to cheer me up.”

Lucien laughed, shaking his head all the while.

“That’s such an Elain thing to do. I worry she’s going to bring home a weirdo one day. You’re close but you don’t quite count.”

Azriel rolled his eyes before replying, “She’s done this before?”

“Not quite this but she’s always trying to help people she meets. I once found her looking after three dogs and two cats because somebody she had met needed to go somewhere overnight and had no one to look after their pets.”

“That’s so nice of her.”

Lucien smiled softly to himself, pride shining in his eyes.

“Yeah. She’s an angel.”

The sound of the door opening startled them out of their conversation. Elain barged in, laden down with a basket of ingredients. She smiled as she saw Lucien and it widened when she saw Azriel next to the kitchen island.

“Azriel, this is Lucien, my roommate.”

He nodded. “We work together actually.”

She beamed at him.

“Perfect,” she said. “That means Lucien would be happy to help fix your laptop.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow at Elain but she ignored him as she set about finding different utensils in preparation for her baking.

“Would I now?”

She turned around with a determined look on her face. She pushed past Azriel to retrieve his laptop and placed it down in front of him.

“Yes. You would. Chop chop, Luci, we don’t have all day.”

She turned back to the kitchen where she resumed her bustling. Azriel sent an apologetic look towards where Lucien sat booting up his laptop.

“You don’t have to.” He told him but Elain spun around to point a whisk at Lucien threateningly.

“Yes, he does. He owes me.”

“I have a date in an hour!” Lucien protested.

“And?” Questioned Elain. “You’ve fixed my computer in ten minutes. You should get going if you don’t want to be late.”

Lucien sighed and Azriel could only shrug in defeat before joining Elain where she stood in front of the counter. She turned to look up at him and for the first time, Azriel realised how much shorter she was than him.

“You want to help?” She asked.

He nodded and suddenly found himself piled with different tools and instructions.

Forty minutes and many mixing bowls later, two trays of freshly baked cookies sat steaming in front of him and Elain, who stared down at them triumphantly. A clatter from behind them caused them to look up. Lucien stood behind the island, Azriel’s laptop and a memory stick before him.

“Bad news, your computer is dead. Good news, I’ve managed to salvage most of your work.” He gestured to the memory stick in front of him. “I’m sure you can get the company to buy you a new laptop if you try hard enough.”

Azriel rushed forward, grasping the memory stick in his hand.

“Thank you so much.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He said waving Azriel off before moving around the counter to kiss Elain on the cheek. “I have a date to get to. Don’t pick up any more strays whilst I’m gone.”

Elain only smiled at him sweetly, mischief twinkling in her eye. “Say hi to Jurian and Vassa for me!”

“I will.” Said Lucien who rolled his eyes before turning to look at Azriel. “It was nice to see you. Keep an eye on her for me, will you?”

“I will. See you on Monday.” He replied.

Elain’s attention turned back to him as soon as the door swung shut behind Lucien. She cast him an excited look.

“Wanna try one?”

He nodded enthusiastically in reply and picked up the one closest to him. The cookie seemed to melt in his mouth, the warmth from the oven lending itself to the chewiness. It was heavenly and he told her such.

Her cheeks darkened before replying, “It wasn’t just me. You helped too.”

“You told me what to do and I followed the instructions. These are all down to you, Elain.”

“I’m glad you like them. They’re somewhat of a staple in the cafe.”

They lapsed in gentle conversation as they ate. He learnt about her family, her hobbies, her passions and he told her the same in return. It was almost 8 o’clock by the time he glanced up at the clock, he hadn’t realised how late it had gotten. He stood up from where he had been sitting after they had migrated from the kitchen to the dining table.

“I should get going. My brothers are probably wondering where I am.”

Elain stood too and they both moved towards the kitchen where Azriel began to pack up his belongings.

“Thank you for having me.” He told her. “It’s been wonderful.”

She smiled at him, soft and welcoming. She looked beautiful under the warm lights.

“I’m glad I could help. It’s been wonderful having you here! Would you like to take some cookies with you?”

He nodded and she wandered over to the cupboard to retrieve a tupperware that she began to pile cookies into. She walked over to where he stood putting his now slightly less wet shoes on by the door. He took the box gratefully.

“Take this,” she told him as she handed him the bright pink umbrella she had been using earlier. “I don’t want you to get soaked on your way home.”

He thanked her before he walked out the door and down the stairs.

“I can return the clothes, box and umbrella to Lucien when I see him on Monday.”

He watched her hesitate as she followed him down.

“You could always stop by the cafe if you want to return them. I work Mondays to Fridays. That is... if you want to.”

He turned to see her blushing profusely. Azriel felt his cheeks warm as he smiled at her softly and replied, “That would be nice.”

He reached the bottom of the steps and pushed open the door. The rain had continued to pour all the while, never slowing. He stepped out and opened the umbrella.

“I’ll see you soon then.”

“See you soon.” She replied, waving at him as he walked away.

He didn’t look back until he heard the door shut quietly behind him. Smiling to himself, he started his walk home. It wasn’t until he had reached the park that he noticed a small note taped to the top of the tupperware Elain had given him. Under the light of the streetlamp, he could just about make out her curly handwriting.

I hope you’re feeling better now! Please feel free to stop by at the cafe when you’re available. Don’t be a stranger!

~ Elain

XXXXX-XXX-XXX

Azriel’s heart stuttered at the sight of the number scrawled beneath her name. He’d definitely be texting it when he finally found his phone. As he wandered through the park, past the bench he had sat on after giving up earlier, he reflected on the day's event. It had been a terrible start but it had ended in something much much better. You know what, Azriel thought to himself as the rain poured down around him and struck the pink umbrella he was holding above his head. Today has been a good day.

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mctherofdragons · 4 years

Text

Little Black Book | D. M.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

Genre: FLUFF!

Request: “could you write a draco x slytherin!reader where they both have a crush on eachother, but they think the other person is into someone else? like draco with pansy or reader with some other character” from the lovely @minty-malfoy <3

Trigger Warnings: Cussing

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Draco Malfoy furrowed his brow at the cauldron in front of him. He added the last ingredient and watched jubilantly as the ivory smoke spiraled upward. You watched as he leaned forward, taking a small whiff of the potion. He gasped quickly, his cheeks beginning turning a ruddish red. You looked over at him and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

He hastily placed the lid onto the Amortentia potion with a loud clang. You sighed, feeling a little twinge in your heart. It no doubt smelled like Pansy Parkinson. “Perfect, pretty, put-together Pansy Parkinson,” you thought to yourself. You knew that the reason Draco was flushed was because the familiar scent of broomsticks, cinnamon gum, and cherry lipgloss had invaded his senses. You secretly desired that he had smelled you instead - lavender shampoo, mint, and a touch of morning coffee.

“Does it smell like Potter?,” you jested. Draco glared at you before cracking a smile.

“Careful, y/l/n.”

You gave him a toothy grin, going back to flipping through your textbook. “What does yours smell like?,” he asked curiously, secretly hoping it smelled like apples, hair product, and vanilla. You leaned over the cauldron, gently taking off the cover. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes. It felt as though you were bathing in the scent of the boy next to you and you drew back.

“Well?,” Draco asked curiously. You swallowed hard, trying to figure out the best lie to tell in the moment.

“Oh, um, I...it smells like honey...and...grass,” you blurted, turning back around to stare at your book.

Draco felt his heart sink, peaking up at you behind his lashes. You were busy distracting yourself with packing up your bag as he watched you longingly.

“Of course she didn’t smell you, you bloody idiot,” he thought to himself defeatedly, thankful for your professor calling an end to the class.

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That evening, you sat curled up on a green velvet chair in the Sytherin common room. It was always a lucky occasion when the common room was empty. It allowed for time to relax with nothing but the sound of the crackling fire to keep you company. You sipped a cup of peppermint tea and absentmindedly flipped through a copy of Witch Weekly. A yawn washed over you, which allowed you to stretch a bit and settle down more comfortably in your chair. You looked up from the article you were reading about a Beauxbatons’ pastry recipe when you heard the door creak open, disturbing the silence.

Draco and Pansy came stumbling into the common room, chuckling about something Draco must have said in the hallway. Pansy giggled, playfully placing a hand on Draco’s chest. You felt as if you were watching the interaction in slow motion, silently longing to be in Pansy’s place. Her blithesome smile made your eyes fill with jealous tears, although you were too prideful to allow them to spill over.

You quickly gathered up your things, polishing off the rest of your tea. You shuffled past the two, ignoring the way Draco’s head turned on a swivel when you brushed his shoulder. Heading out into the hallway, you rushed as quickly as you could back to your dormitory. “Why am I crying over Draco Malfoy?,” you cursed to yourself, feeling relief once the door slammed behind you. You sniffled a bit before wiping your eyes in annoyance. “He’s just a boy. A stupid boy at that.”

Knowing it would make you feel better, you climbed up onto your bed and pulled out your diary. Your method of getting out your frustration was often through writing letters - of course, letters you’d never dream of sending. You had written angry letters to your professors and even inspirational letters to yourself, all of which you burned immediately in the common room fireplace. You flipped to an empty page and grabbed the quill next to you. The words flowed easily now as you let a few tears drip onto the paper. Your sentences had no real beginning or end, nor did your care about making a whole lot of sense.

‘Dear Draco,

I wish I could tell you what you mean to me....that you’re charming, and handsome, and perfect in every way. I want to tell you that I am captivated by your smile, your eyes, and every last inch of you. My potion smelled like you...Did yours smell like Pansy? I’m sure it did. If I had the chance, I’d kiss you right in front of everyone. I know it’s stupid but I really do fancy you, Malfoy. I just wish you’d fancy me back.’

It was written in the same way your thoughts of Draco often graced across your mind - jumbled and disjointed. You closed the tiny black book and placed it into your backpack, reaching over the shut off your bedside light. You snuggled deeper under your soft, wool blankets, secretly thinking of the Slytherin prince as you drifted off to sleep.

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Draco Malfoy sat at his dormitory desk, sipping slowly on a cup of tea. The sweet drink warmed his insides. He was grateful for this as he was often coldest at night. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and continued to write, sighing as he felt all of his pent up emotions ease. He wouldn’t admit it aloud to any of his friends, but he kept a diary. It had always served as a way for him to process the difficult parts of his day, protecting him from having to share too much with other people.

Tonight, he wrote unabashedly about how he felt for you. He wrote about your hair, your eyes, and the way his Amortentia carried your scent. He gushed about dreaming of kissing you for hours and hours, leaving very little to the imagination. After seeing you rush out of the common room, he felt an unwavering sense of dread, thinking perhaps you couldn’t even stand to be around him. Thus, he put down in black and white all of the sickeningly sweet ways he thought of you. It occurred to him that maybe if he spilled his heart out on to the parchment, he could stop being so damned enamored with you.

His eyelids started to become heavy, so he slid the small, raven-colored book into his knapsack. Turning off his lamp, he slid beneath his covers, allowing himself to drift into slumber.

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

Final exams were fast approaching and the entirety of Hogwarts was in a tizzy. Between Defense Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies, there was far too much information to digest and far too little time to do it. You and several others from your house shared a long table in the library, your papers and manuals spread out in front of you. Reading furiously, you had lost track of the time, along with Draco, Pansy, and Blaise.

“Oh bloody hell, we’re going to be late for DADA,” Pansy cussed. She stood up to quickly shove her books into her bag. The remaining three of you jumped up, jostling your belongings into your bags as quickly as possible - which is why neither you nor Draco noticed when two tiny black books got swapped.

You all jogged off down the hallway, your robes flowing behind you as you desperately hoped to not be late to class. Unfortunately, you didn’t make it in time, rushing in through the door just as Snape had begun to speak.

“Nice of you to join us, albeit late. 10 points from Slytherin, each.”

You sulked as you slid into your seat, pulling your parchment and quill out to begin taking notes.

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

Later that afternoon, you found yourself sitting on your bed. You had finally finished reviewing for your classes and figured a much needed break was in order. You got up and padded over to your tea kettle, flicking the water on. Just then, you heard a tiny knock at your door.

Unsure who would be coming to visit you, you walked over and stood on the other side. “Who is it?,” you beckoned, not wanting to open the door for just anyone.

“Malfoy,” the voice on the other end replied. Your stomach did an immediate flip. You opened the door, coming face-to-face with a red faced and anxious looking blonde on the other side. He held up something in his hand and you felt like the floor had just given out under your feet.

“Is this yours?,” He asked sheepishly, extending a hand to give it back. You snatched it quickly. The sound of your heart pounding echoed in your ears. A feeling of dread washed over you and you couldn’t stop your hands from beginning to shake.

“Did you r-read it?,” you choked out. You sent a prayer up to Merlin that the answer would be no.

“Yes.”

You let out a tiny gasp and your lips began to tremble.

“Hey, hey,” Draco whispered, allowing himself to walk in the door. He closed it behind him, reaching out to take your hands. “Don’t be upset. Believe me, it’s alright, y\n,”

You pulled away, turning around in embarrassment. “I’m n-not upset! I’m fucking humiliated,” you sniveled. Draco knew about how much you liked - no, at this point he probably assumed loved - him. He had read the inner workings of your heart. Every thing you had penned about the boy was now knowledge he possessed. You wished you could just dissolve into the floor and disappear forever.

Draco sighed, walking over to your backpack. He reached in and pulled out a different journal. You had no idea that his book had been in your bag the entire time, given that you thought it was yours. He sauntered back over to you, pulling you by the hand to sit down on the bed.

You looked at him confused as he opened the journal. He handed it over to you, allowing you to peruse it. You began to read, your jaw falling slack. “Y-you...is this about Pansy?,” you asked sadly, unable to accept that Draco’s feelings might be mutual. Draco’s cyanic eyes twinkled. He took the diary from your hands, placing it out of the way.

He moved a piece of hair from your eyes, tracing his finger along your jaw. Then, he took a finger and traced it down the bridge of your nose and over your lips. He began to speak, repeating a line from one of his diary entries, “Everything about you is flawless.”

He leaned in slowly, planting a kiss to your lips. In that moment, it wouldn’t have shocked you if fireworks began to burst across the ceiling of your room. You scooted closer, gently placing a hand on the back of Draco’s neck. Your fingers played in the tufts of his platinum blonde hair. You pulled him back in for another kiss. Suddenly, you were very, very grateful for finals week - and those 40 missing points from Slytherin mattered not.

#draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #draco x you #draco x reader #malfoy #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #dracotok #draco fanfiction #draco x slytherin!reader #draco x female reader

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justanotherlifeff · 3 years

Text

We speak the same words

Author's note: @katsuki-skullshirt requested a part 3 and guess who immediately had a lightbulb on her head? Sequel to "We breathe the same air"

PRO HERO (H/N) AND PRO HERO DYNAMIGHT CONFIRMED THEIR RELATIONSHIP TO THE PUBLIC! IS THIS PATCH UP GOING TO LAST?- BUZZFEED (03/01/**26)

I distinctly remember the day this news got published. I was cuddling with Katsuki as he scrolled his phone, both of us looking at the news. "The shitty journalists are writing shit again..." He grumbled with a frown, making me giggle at his usual grumpy attitude. He confirmed our relationship to the press yesterday, or you could say, it was an accident. One of the reporters made a crude comment on me and Katsuki being Katsuki, he immediately yelled at the guy and ended up calling me 'his girl'.

We started dating again only a month ago, after being friends since he showed up at my hotel and apologised to me about everything. He had to prove himself before I considered dating him, and ofcourse, he never backed away from a challenge. Sometimes, my life felt complete as we met up once every month, since we both lived in different countries. It was hard being in a long distance relationship and honestly, I was scared of the past repeating itself, but, all I could do was trust him, right?

PRO HERO DYNAMIGHT AND PRO HERO (H/N) MOVING BACK TO JAPAN?- THE WALL STREET JOURNAL (08/05/**27)

I remember clearly, the day we decided to move back to Japan. (Y/N) was over at my house and I was cooking for her as she sat on the kitchen counter, scrolling through her social media. "Oh Katsu, Midoriya's getting married to Uraraka. He just texted me and invited me. He probably texted you too." she said excitedly, with a smile on her face. Honestly, it made me mad that the shitty nerd had more guts than I did as I bought a ring an entire month back and still ended up not proposing the love of my life. Shitty Deku won this time too...fuck... Noticing my angry expression, she asked, "What's wrong suki? Don't tell me you're planning to skip on his wedding...".

"Huh? No I wasn't planning that. I'm just mad that shitty Deku proposed his girl before I proposed mine. I fucking lost here too even though I had the fucking ring for an entire month...Shit!" I grumbled, not realising that I already told her about the ring. It only dawned on me when I saw her staring at me with a gaping mouth as she started getting all teary eyed. "Hey you alright?" I asked her, turning the stove off and hugging her. "You were gonna propose me?" She sniffled, holding me tightly. "Yeah but it was supposed to be better than that FUCK I'M AN IDIOT!" I cursed myself, making her giggle. "My answer's yes, Katsu" she answered. "I knew you'd say that" I answered with a smirk, completely ignoring the fact that I was nervous about her saying no. "Nee Katsuki, let's move back to Japan." She told me, as we hugged. "Mhhm" I answered holding her tightly. We called a press conference the next day and confirmed that we were moving back.

The next day, it was all over the news and we both had to stay back home as reporters would ambush us. I wonder if we could beat up reporters cause ambushing people is villaneous right?

"PRO HERO DYNAMIGHT AND PRO HERO (H/N) ARE ENGAGED? THE DYNAMIC DUO STEALS THE SHOW AT PRO HERO DEKU AND PRO HERO URAVITY'S WEDDING!" THE JAPAN TIMES (27/06/**27)

Ofcourse my idiot boyfriend had to do this at Midoriya's wedding. Ofcourse he had to go steal the show from the couple. The day he accidentally proposed me, he didn't give me the ring, saying that he'd make it the best proposal ever. Which honestly, was true as he took me to his favorite hiking spot and arranged an entire firework show to propose me. BUT WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND MAKES IT PUBLIC ON SOMEONE ELSE'S WEDDING?

Oh ofcourse, my asshole of a boyfriend, now fiance did. When the reporters came to us as we were going in the wedding venue, he went ahead and said, "YALL LISTEN UP! SHE SAID YES YESTERDAY" with a smirk, randomly holding my hand up to show off the ring. I have never felt so embarrassed. How can someone be that childish? I remember forcing him to apologise to Midoriya the next day as all the newspapers were full of us getting engaged and not them getting married. How embarrassing!

"PRO HERO (H/N) AND PRO HERO DYNAMIGHT POSTED A VIDEO AND PICTURES OF THEIR WEDDING AND IT LOOKS ABSOLUTELY MAGICAL!" SEKAI NIPPO (07/11/**27)

We decided on the wedding date to be right on the day I showed up at the hotel and apologised to her. The article says it all. The wedding was magical or whatever sappy word they used. I honestly have no words to explain how I felt but the time we both spoke the same words, the time when we both said "I do", my life felt complete.

#bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugou #bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugou x reader #bnha #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #bakugo katsuki #bakugou × reader

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thebookreader12345 · 4 years

Text

And We Meet Again

Pairing: Crockett Marcel x reader

Summary: Y/N gets hurt while researching a piece she has to write about for an article at work, and when she goes to the ED, she reconnects with an old college friend

Requested: Yes, by anonymous

Warnings: slight swearing, mentions of blood

Word Count: 1,495 Words

I climbed out of my car and shivered as my skin came into contact with the air. Man it was cold out. I opened the back door to my car and pulled out my hat and scarf, thankful that I had decided to throw them back there last minute. I also grabbed my notepad and camera, which I held in my hand. Usually, I’d be writing a hard hitting piece for the company I worked for, but my boss was getting tired of receiving complaints from people who disagreed with whatever I was writing about, so he assigned me a new piece to work on. It was about the top 3 sightseeing spots in Chicago to see during the winter, and it was a whole 2 steps down from what I had been working on before.

A cold gust of wind blew past me, and my teeth chattered, so I pulled my arms, which were holding my things, to my chest. At the moment, I hated my boss for making me do this stupid assignment, especially because it was barely 30 degrees outside. He could’ve given this assignment to anyone else in the department, but had chosen to give it to me. Because I saw so busy hating on my boss, I didn’t notice the huge patch of ice ahead of me spanning the whole rest of the trail. So, when my foot stepped down onto it, I wasn’t expecting to slip backwards and begin sliding down the trail. My notepad and camera fell from my hands, and flew backwards, far away from me. I reached out to grab a branch in an attempt to stop myself from going any further, and it worked, but the branch cut deep into my palm, causing me to start bleeding.

“Fuck!” I curse and stand up. My hand began to sting, and blood dripped from my palm onto the snow, turning it from it’s once pure white to a light shade of red. My whole body hurt from my trip down the trail, but I ignored the pain and pulled off my scarf, wrapping it tightly around my injured hand. Why I hadn’t brought gloves, I didn’t know, but I was definitely regretting that decision. I winced as I walked back up the path, careful to avoid the ice patches, and grabbed my camera and notepad from the ground. The lens of my camera was cracked, but I didn’t really care about that at the moment. When I got back to my car, I tossed my things into the back seat, and started up the engine. My hand continued to burn and bleed, turning my gray scarf a darker color. I guess I was heading to the doctor to get it checked out. When I got to the ED, it didn’t take me long to get sent to one of the trauma rooms where I was currently waiting for a doctor.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m Dr. Manning,” a woman greeted and entered the room.

“Nice to meet you,” I say back. “I would shake your hand, but it’s bleeding.”

“I can see that. Nice thinking of using your scarf as a tourniquet. Where’d you learn that?” Dr. Manning asked.

“An old friend of mine from college was studying to be a doctor, and he taught me a few things,” I tell her.

“Okay. Just give me a second, and then I’ll take a look,” Dr. Manning spoke and peaked her head out the trauma room door. “Dr. Marcel, can you check on our patient? I’ve got a quick case to work on.” When Dr. Manning said that name, something sparked inside of me. I knew someone with that name.

“Sure thing. I’ll get right on it,” Dr. Marcel answered, his voice laced with a thick, New Orleans accent. Hold on a minute. I knew that accent as well.

“Crockett?” I question from where I was perched on the edge of the bed. The doctor who Nat had spoken to peaked his head around the door, and when I saw him, I smiled. Yep. I definitely knew him. I jumped down from the bed and embraced him in a hug, careful not to get any blood on his scrubs. Crockett returned the hug, giving me a soft squeeze. “What the hell are you doing in Chicago?”

“Wait a minute. You two know each other?” Dr. Manning asked.

“Yeah,” Crockett replied. “We went to college together down in New Orleans, but Y/N moved back here afterwards because she’s originally from here. Nat, I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind.”

“Go on ahead,” Nat responded. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

“So,” I say and sit back down on the bed as Nat left the room. “You’re in Chicago now.”

“I just recently got a job here. But enough about me. Lets take a look at that hand,” Crockett stated and pulled on some gloves, removing the scarf from around my palm. “What happened here?”

“I slipped and caught it on a branch. That’s what happened,” I joked as Crockett examined the wound.

“Well, it must’ve been one sharp ass branch because this cut’s pretty deep. You’re going to need stitches,” Crockett declared. “Sorry.”

I shrugged. “It’s not the worse thing in the world. At least I won’t have to write the stupid article my boss wanted me to since my hand is busted.” Crockett laughed and sat down on the doctor’s stool, and used it to roll himself over to one of the sets of drawers. Then, he pulled out a needle and a bottle of some sort of liquid, and my breath caught in my throat. Crockett could sense my discomfort, and once he had sucked up some of the medicine using the needle, he turned towards me.

“Still afraid of needles?” Crockett asked and rolled back to my side.

“Very much so,” I say.

Crockett gave me small smile. “Well, you’re welcome to hold onto me if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

“Thanks, Crockett,” I murmur and reach out to grab ahold of his bicep with my left hand.

“You’re just going to feel a little pinch,” Crockett told me and injected the needle into the skin of my palm. I screwed my eyes shut for a split second as I felt the tiniest bit of pain, and just like that, it was over. It didn’t take long for Crockett to stitch up my hand, and soon, I was good to go.

“It was nice seeing you again,” I say and give Crockett a hug. “We should catch up some time when you’re not on shift.”

“I’d like that,” Crockett responded. “It was good to see you, Y/N.”

A Few Weeks Later

"And that’s how I got away with writing the biggest story of my career,” I explain as Crockett and I walked through the front door of my apartment. We had just come back from having dinner together, which was something we did once a week. It was nice getting to see him again, especially because it had been awhile. We were best friends during our college years, and it pained me that we had to go our separate ways. But now, we were together again, and it made me very happy.

“So journalism is working out well for you then?” Crockett asked as we sat down on my couch.

“Definitely. But that’s nothing compared to what you’ve accomplished,” I point out.

Crockett waved that though aside. “Nonsense. I’m happy for you Y/N.” He then looked down at his watch. “It’s getting late. I should head home.”

“All right. I’ll talk to you later,” I tell him. Crockett smiled and stood up, making his way towards the front door. At that moment, something inside me seemed to snap, and I knew that there was something I had to do. “Crockett wait!” I call out and get off of the couch. Crockett turned around just as I reached him, and that’s when I did something crazy. I cupped Crockett’s face with my hands and kissed him. I didn’t expect him to kiss back, but he did. Crockett wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me up against his chest to where there was no room between us. I smiled against his lips, feeling glad that he had decided to kiss back. When we finally pulled away from each other, both of us had huge grins on our faces. “I’ve been wanting to do that for forever,” I admit.

“Me too,” Crockett confessed and pressed his lips to mine for another kiss.

“I’m glad you’re back in Chicago,” I mumble against his shoulder as he held me tightly.

“I am too. You know, I don’t have anything to do tomorrow, so I guess I could stay for a little longer,” Crockett informed me.

I smiled. “I’d like that. Now, lets see what cheesy movies are on, and we can relive the movie nights from our college days.”

_____________________

Tag List:

@prettypyschoinpink @securityfriendly-jay @scarletsoldierrr @lorenakaspersen @virtualreader @carnationworld @caitsymichelle13 @king-crockett

#one chicago #chicago med #crockett marcel #crockett marcel x reader #crockett marcel imagine #x reader #imagine #chicago med x reader #chicago med imagine

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j-pankratz · 3 years

Text

The Slumber that Creeps to Me

Geraskefer. 7208 Words. Rated T. Jaskier pulls an extreme all-nighter (read: 60+ hours) to finish a paper he procrastinated on, and finds at the end of it that sleep does not come as easily as he’d hoped. Tags for: Sleep Deprivation, Self Destruction/Lack of Self Care, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Hurt/Comfort, Whumping the Bard, very loving partners, and a happy ending. <3 AO3 link in the reblog!

As with most disasters spurned by his own cockiness, Jaskier felt as thought that all in all, the situation could have been worse.

The idea to have Geralt and Yennefer spend the spring holiday break at Oxenfurt was, in his defense, ingenious. His students weren’t around, the weather was gorgeous, they all had varying degrees of business in the city, and they could fuck each other senseless at any hour of the day. In a bed. A nice one, provided he was a legitimate professor, now. Well, visiting. Well, it was complicated. But they were his rooms, and that’s what mattered.

When Jaskier gotten the prestigious offer to write the season’s main article for the Continent’s most respected Bardic Journal, he’d just sort of figured he’d… fit it in, somewhere. He had seventeen months, which was plenty enough for him. Then he’d just work with the editors, and have a centerfold piece. It was an honor. He was excited about it! He’d meant to get to it sooner, but decided the summer before that he’d devote the winter to it. But… he’d… he’d been distracted. It wasn’t often the entire family gathered at Kaer Morhen. So, he thought, he’d do it later.

But the first few weeks after winter were, of course, spent with Geralt. And the week after that, a trip to the coast, where he’d played a festival and met up with Ciri, who was becoming an amateur critic herself. And then by pure, absolute happenstance, after 3 more weeks of travel he happened to end up at an inn that he definitely hadn’t heard Yennefer was staying at. So that more time gone. And then he’d arrived in Oxenfurt, and he’d really meant to get to work on it, but there was so much to prepare for! He wanted things to be right for them.

And then Yennefer and Geralt had actually arrived, and the idea of anything possibly being more important than their presence flew his mind.

And now, here he was. If he wanted to get it in on time (unfortunately, that wasn’t a suggestion in this case, more of an actual, terrifying requirement,) he’d need to submit it in… gods above, less than three days. 60 hours, if he was doing the math.

There was no word limit, nor a minimum. But, ever the maximalist, he knew it was going to be… long, if he was going to do it right. They’d edit it down, but it was the focal point of the journal, they’d been leading up to it for ages now. Ahh. Well. There was only one thing for it, he supposed.

“I’m working through the night on my paper!” He’d announced that morning, sitting straight up in bed, jostling his sleepy lovers. “No one bother me! I will be at the dining table until further notice!” He swung himself out of bed and made for the door.

“Pants,” his lovers chorused together.

“Right!” he'd said, and marched back into the room.

He’d pulled all-nighters in his youth. In fact, he couldn’t count the times he’d worked through the night, deposited a composition or essay on his professor’s desk with some polite conversation and maybe a wink, and then promptly fallen asleep during the lecture itself. Just a 15-minute power nap, really! Then he’d be back up and at it again, working through another night just to sleep through the weekend. He’d done it before, he could do it again.

Well, it’d been 25 years ago, but that didn’t change much, did it? He still felt spry, agile, hearty— hell, he’d spent the better part of the last twenty odd years chasing after a Witcher, and later an additional princess and mage— surely he should be in better health now!

This was completely accomplishable. Admittedly, he could have written this sooner… but he hadn’t, and here he was.

Geralt and Yennefer both set out early on different errands, leaving the bard to some peace and quiet. Relatively.

He spread his work and references out before him. 7 books, 4 pamphlets, his favorite quills, a hundred fresh pieces of parchments, his lute at his knee. “Alright,” he said aloud to his empty Oxenfurt apartment, “Just sit down and write the damn thing. Sitting part, definitely done. Writing next. Just… write.”

He stared at the page.

“No! No, no, do not be impossible about this. Just start the thing.”

The page stared back.

“Ah, blast,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. This was fine. Just… do the awful, disgusting part of beginning, and then he’d be off. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d finish, after all! He took a breath, and put his pen to paper.

Yennefer returned a few hours later, a book and small parcel in hand. Jaskier looked up to see her sweep through the room, a commanding presence, though she didn’t acknowledge him yet. A few waves of her hands and a pot of tea was put on to boil, her hair was put in a bun, and three mugs were floating down from a shelf.

“Lovely to see you too,” he smiled as Yennefer poked through the tea collection. He could practically hear her fond eye roll. She neatly plucked two from one box and looked back at him in question. “Ah… peppermint, if we’ve got it?” and she turned back to the cupboard grab it.

“Any progress?” She finally asked.

“A bit, actually!” Jaskier said cheerfully. It didn’t look like much, but he’d done half a page with almost no errors, and he’d made plenty of notes in the margins of the books he’d need later. It was better than he’d hoped it’d be going by this point, at least. He was kicking academia’s ass. Or, he would be.

The kettle whistled and Yennefer poured the tea, bobbing all three of the tea bags up and down as they steeped. He watched her lean against the counter, casual, relaxed, gorgeous, before realizing she was staring back at him. “Um! Yes, no, definitely good. Got a lot of… those words, you know, they are definitely here. Looking very sexy. The words! The writing is looking… very sexy, very curvy… letters. Sensuous words, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sensuous words.”

“Yeah, yes. Like… contemporaneous… and… iguana.”

“Iguana.” She let out a little huff of a laugh and something in Jaskier’s chest tightened and loosened in quick succession. And in a moment she was there, sliding him a large mug with the carving of a rather playful looking bear on one side, batting at a butterfly.

“Oh! My favorite. Thank you, thank you.”

“Mmm,” she said before waving a hand to cool down their tea a bit. She took a seat opposite him, scanning an eye over the table. “Think you’ll be done by tonight?”

Jaskier laughed. “Darling, I’ll be lucky to be done by tomorrow morning.”

“You’re planning to stay up all night, bard?”

“Unfortunately.” He took a sip. “Should be done by tomorrow afternoon, if I keep steady at it.”

“After tea, of course.”

“Of course.”

Yennefer stretched out a bit, kicking her feet onto Jaskier’s lap and rolling her neck. They sat there a moment, sipping, pausing, drinking in each other. There was something nice about taking a moment of stillness with someone just as frenetic as he was, someone who was usually just as itching for something to do, even if she went about it differently. The grace of choosing stillness, he thought, was not something to ignore.

Yennefer reached the end of her mug and tapped its ceramic walls lightly.

“What’s next for you?”

“I have to refresh my potion stock, so I’ll be at the market for supplies. You sure you don’t want to take a break and join?”

Rat’s ass. He fucking loved the Oxenfurt markets. “I’m afraid I can’t. Academia calls.”

“Who does it call for, exactly? What’s that I hear…” She cocked her head and listened intently. “Who is it calling for… is that… V… Val… Valdo?” Jaskier hefted her feet off of his lap in protest, and she laughed. He plucked his quill from its stopper, and went back to hovering over his paper. Introduction mostly accomplished, now he had to really lead in to his point, give some proper context. He flipped through a book beside him.

Yennefer rose smoothly from the table and went to move her mug to the sink. “When Geralt gets in, tell him I need toadflax and bluebells from him? Might as well put him to use.”

Jaskier flipped through the pages, thumbing through for a note he’d sworn he’d made ages ago, when he belatedly tried to register his mage’s words. He could have his fun, too.

“Blue…Yennefer, you want me to tell Geralt that you need blue balls from him?”

“Bells! Bells, you absolute child!” she said. “Honestly. Blue balls? Really, Jaskier?” He was giggling. “I don’t need to ask to give either of you blue balls.”

“Exactly, Yennefer, you provide that service for us anyway, free of charge!” A balled-up napkin hit him in the head and he laughed joyfully.

“I can’t stand you. I’m leaving, you’ll never see me again.”

Jaskier looked up through his grin and met her twinkling, happy eyes. “Tonight then?”

“Tonight,” she agreed, and left with a quick ruffle of his hair.

“Still working?” Geralt said as greeting later in the afternoon. The desk was neater than Jaskier expected it to be this far in, only a few books open, dog eared and marked in colored ink. He’d written a page and a half since Yennefer left, and it was good, it was, but he’d need to go back and make edits later. His long empty mug of tea sat far across him.

“Mm,” he agreed, continuing to write. “Ah, Yennefer came through earlier,” giving a gesture to the waiting mug of tea on the counter. Geralt made his way over to the mug, and gave it a small igni to warm it. He smiled fondly down at the drink—what a terribly lovely sight he was. Warm here, and safe. Couldn’t it be like this always? The three of them here, comfortable and happy? No, he supposed, but gods how he wanted it.

“She’s at the market now,” Jaskier continued, “wanted me to ask you about...” He lifted his pen and squinted. “Ah, toadflax and bluebells.” He looked up at Geralt, smiling. “Blue balls,” they said together, sporting matching shit-eating grins, Geralt’s albeit much smaller. “I made the same joke myself,” Jaskier added.

Geralt snorted. “How’d she take that?”

“Oh, as well as you’d hope. We’ll never see her again, of course.” He turned back to his work, reading over the last paragraph. He could feel Geralt approach to stand behind him, and while he’d normally shoo his witcher off, he was too deep in concentration to bother.

How long was too long to linger on the progression of oral storytelling to bardship? It’s not like he could ignore it, (Geralt’s hand came to grip his shoulder, a thumb rubbing against it tenderly) as it was a crucial tenant of the argument— but there was plenty to be said for assuming the literacy and foreknowledge of the reader. (He leaned in to get a closer look at Jaskier’s page, the soft warmth of the tea in his other hand bouncing off his chest) But this was to be in a journal often referenced by first years, and he knew how much he would have loved a paper that had everything all in one—

“How’s it going?” Geralt asked softly in his ear.

Jaskier waved a hand over the mess before him. “You know. It’s fine, I’m just not sure at what point I’m lingering on points to excess.”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed understandingly. “Tell the story. Trust your gut.” He gave Jaskier a nuzzle and light kiss against his cheek before taking up the empty mug off the table and walking off further into the apartment.

“I always do!” Jaskier called back. Mm, if only this were as simple as telling a story. Well…Oh—if he spent this paragraph referencing the progression it would end up taking up more room, be a run of the mill lead-in, but if he wrote the actual history as a short story itself, now there was an idea, he could make his point and give the context. Oh, fuck, brilliant—

“Back soon,” Geralt was saying as the front door slipped shut, but the bard was too lost in his work to do more than give a small nod of his head.

The sun was falling, making a graceful bow into the horizon. Warm light spread out over the streets of Oxenfurt like the last pushes of tide, ebbing, and flowing, and sinking back into night.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier muttered, crossing out a spelling error with a snarl.

His shoulders ached, and his lower back was going to be the death of him. He was on page 7. All he could see was the work ahead of him, winding off ad infinitum. If he didn’t pick up the pace, he might have to go 60 hours straight—he shivered. Not ideal. He took a breath, stood up and stretched a bit, his muscles groaning in thanks. A quick bathroom break later and he was sliding back into his chair, still warm, his papers grinning up at him, sardonic.

He’d take a meal break at 10 pages, he told himself.

He stood to stretch and his head swam. Well. Plenty of reason to stay seated, he supposed.

Geralt and Yennefer returned at 12 and a half pages. He turned his head in greeting, and when he looked back he got the first real look at the table in hours—it was a disaster, crumbled pieces of parchment, empty quills, and little notes strewn everywhere. Some books propped open, the pile of parchment looking more like a mountain slope, an empty glass from when he’d chugged water hours ago.

His loves were clearly a few drinks deep as they came through the door, and completely unmarred by the woes of academia. Bastards, honestly.

“Hi, hello, hope you had a good evening, I—”

“Come to bed,” Yennefer said, suddenly right behind him. Two small but firm hands came to his shoulders, rubbing deeply.

“Ah! Oh, fuck—oh, yes, darling, right there—”

Geralt came to his other side, tipping his head up for a kiss, which he moaned into. His witcher’s tongue was soft, pleading, tempting him—his mage’s hands pushing almost painfully against his aching muscles. He wanted to cry, it was so good. It was so different than the last… however many hours it had been that he had been sitting here. Geralt pulled away, and Yennefer’s hands came to rest as well.

“So?” Geralt asked, his voice deep and velvety. “Bed?”

“I…” gods, who had he become? “I can’t. I want to, I just—”

Yennefer placed a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s fine,” she said, and he knew it was, but he hated denying them something they all wanted. “Have you eaten?”

Jaskier frowned. “Fuck. Not really.”

Geralt sighed and went to the pantry. “You’re getting a sandwich,” he grumbled.

“Ooo, Geralt, dear heart, would you heat it up? Use some of your,” he wiggled his fingers “your witchery magic?”

Geralt turned and glared. “You’re getting a sandwich.”

“He’s so mean to me,” Jaskier muttered to Yennefer, “I can’t believe he’s so mean to me.”

His mage snorted a laugh into his hair. “You’re really staying up all night, then?” She waved a hand and the curtains around the room swept shut, and his lantern began to burn steadily.

“Looks like it,” he sighed. Geralt retuned a moment later, plated warm sandwich and glass of water in hand.

“Fuck. Thank you.” He took it and took a bite, suddenly ravenous. He looked up at both of them, staring down in fond amusement. “Fank—” he swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. “Thank you both, truly. I’ll be up a bit. If you need something, call, yes?”

They rolled their eyes. “He tells us to call if we need anything,” Yennefer muttered. “Don’t get into any trouble,” she said, and with a peck on the cheek from both of them, they disappeared into the bedroom.

He looked back at his work.

Okay. 12 ½ pages in. He could do this.

At 15 pages, he felt ravenous again, and made a second sandwich. Not as good as Geralt’s. Geralt’s sandwiches weren’t even that good, but they were made by Geralt, which added a certain kick, a novelty he adored.

He drank another glass of water and shook his head. Back to work.

At 17 pages, sometimes the world swam before him. He gripped the edge of the table. Fuck.

He was so tired. 23 pages. He kept writing.

It was terrible. The whole paper was a mess. Nothing made sense and people were going to laugh at him. 25 pages.

He heard a sound. Was that Geralt rising for the bathroom? Was it an intruder? Light crept in through the window. 27 pages.

There was a ringing in his ear. His writing was getting increasingly larger. 27 ½ pages.

Geralt gave him a soft nuzzle to the top of his head before padding through to the kitchen. Jaskier’s heart ached. His bones ached. Writing was hard but right then it felt impossible. 27 ¾ pages.

Geralt lingered, and Jaskier felt his nose twitch. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for him to leave. He couldn’t have any distractions right now. He shut his eyes tight until he heard the bedroom door close once more.

Yennefer entered hours later, sweeping the curtains over with a flick of her hand. Bright light flooded the room, painting the desk in all its full, disgustingly messy glory. “Well—”

“Could you ask next time?!” Jaskier snapped. “Some of us need consistency to concentrate!”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, and they stared at each other. Some part of him wanted to slap himself but the rest was just so irritated. Who’d she think she was, anyway?

After a moment, the mage turned and left with a flick of her hand to sweep the curtains shut again.

“Headed out,” Geralt said at 30 pages. “Contract.”

“Good,” Jaskier muttered. “I mean. Good that you’re—fuck. Whatever.”

Geralt stared. “You need rest. It’s been more than 24 hours.”

“I need to fucking finish.”

“Yen said—”

“I’m sure she did,” Jaskier muttered, driving his heels into his eyes. Gods, his eyes burned. Silence hung.

“She portaled out this morning.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Great. Love that. I’m a fucking disaster, thank you for the reminder, Geralt.” He waved toward the door. “Don’t you have a contract?”

He turned back to his papers, shifting around to look for page 11, and didn’t think about how long it took before Geralt left the apartment.

His hand was shaking but he was at 34 pages. He still had so much to say. Fuck. But he was in it now.

He scarfed down some soup that was mostly broth at some point, and he’d under-salted it, but it was something. His eyes kept going blurry; traitorous things.

The bear on his mug was plotting his downfall.

38 pages and Jaskier felt like the gods themselves had gifted him with the knowledge he now bestowed onto meager commoners. He was a genius.

At 43 pages, he had stopped to lay out the entire essay on the ground, so he could see it all. The words sometimes swam before him, and he had trouble remembering what he was meant to say next. Once, he looked up, confused as to where he was. And then, at 44 pages, the guilt of snapping at his dearest loves, the weight of this behemoth paper he wasn’t even sure he could finish, and his own self-doubt crept in and seized him up, leaving him breathless and in tears for… awhile. Everything hurt. He had to keep going.

At 48 pages, he saw a griffon fly through his window, and he named it Kalvin. He turned whatever color Jaskier wanted him to turn, which was very considerate of him. Kalvin was his only friend now, and with a little convincing, might become his editor, too.

At 55 pages his chest seized, and it was hard to breathe for a moment. He closed his eyes but—no, no, couldn’t do that. If he fell asleep now, he’d never finish in time. He tried to relax, got some water, leaned against the counter. Everything was a mess.

He sat back on the floor, his work around him. Keep going.

“I don’t think there’s anything about anything that I have to be doing right now. Kalvin, you’ve… you’ve got to understand, this could be my finest work! It’s good. It’s pretty good here in… in this part, here. In that other part it’s just okay, but that’s why you come in with your big claws and you’re gonna. Rip up the bad parts. Don’t rip up the good parts. Right? Yeah. Do you think they’ve forgotten about me by now?”

He looked down. 57 pages. Took a long blink.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “That’s fair.

He had to write two extra pages so that he could skirt around referencing Valdo Marx’s work as anything other than a contradictory point. Maybe it would have been fun to use his own writing against him but he didn’t want to give the satisfaction of being referenced positively in a centerfold piece.

He lost the essay.

“Fuck—oh, gods, where did—”

He turned around, looked down. Oh, there it was.

“Thank fuck.”

The curtains were still closed and the charmed lantern was still burning, but Jaskier knew it was night by the time he reached 63 pages and Geralt came in.

Jaskier looked up from his spot kneeling on the floor. Geralt looked fine. He was a little dirty. There were some gushy bits. Probably blood. He was tired. Or just mad. Maybe he hated Jaskier.

“You’re still—?!” Geralt asked, looking at Jaskier like he’d just said a griffon named Kalvin had flown in the window earlier and now they were friends.

“I met a griffon,” Jaskier heard himself say. Geralt stared. “We’re friends now.”

“…You need to fucking sleep.”

“No.” Jaskier went back to the margin he’d devoted to drawing circles in. “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

Geralt sighed. He might have talked but Jaskier didn’t hear, just kept writing.

“How often has that been happening?” he heard Geralt ask.

“What happening?”

“Where you fall asleep for a moment.”

“I haven’t! Fallen asleep.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said. He looked very nice, except for the goop all over him. Well. Even that wasn’t so bad, when the underneath bits were Geralt. His Geralt. Looked so warm, so strong, so able to carry him.

“Later,” Jaskier replied, and went back to his words. The familiar pop of a portal sounded in the bedroom. Their eyes lingered on the direction it came from, but Yennefer didn’t open the door. They looked at each other, and then back at the door which remained very much shut. “She’s mad.”

“Yep.”

“At me.”

“Yep.”

There was a pause. “Are you covered in blood?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.”

“Not mine.”

“That,” he said pointing to the Witcher, “is good.”

“Mmm.”

“Sticky though.”

“Definitely sticky.”

Yennefer came out of the doorway, and Jaskier blinked. When he opened his eyes again she was much closer than she’d been and was in the middle of talking. Magic, he assumed.

“—yourself very lucky, bard.”

“Yeahh,” he said. “Sorry. ‘Bout… Sorry.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. There was a look in her face. Eyes? And her mouth. It was hard to name. Words were hard, when they weren’t the words he desperately needed to write.

“—for a while,” Geralt was saying. “Jaskier. How close are you to finishing.”

“Soon!” Jaskier said. “Soon! Soon. Due… 1pm tomorrow. What time is it?”

“10pm.”

“Fuck. Psshhh. I can… I can do it.” He looked up at Yennefer. “Sorry. Really. I… I’m just tired,” he admitted. “Shouldn’t have snapped. Not fair to you.”

Yennefer stood there, arms folded, emanating some emotion Jaskier had lost the concept of around page 41. Geralt walked further into the apartment, into the bedroom. Oh right. Blood armor. Ick.

He went back to writing and tried to ignore the desire to cry again, and then suddenly Yennefer’s shoes were in his line of vision.

“Let me read it,” she said.

“Oh.”

They stared at one another. She had such a pretty face. He might have been smiling. She rolled her eyes and then came to sit next to him. She quickly found the first page and began.

Halfway through it, he spilled ink on the bottom half of page 64, and wept. Yennefer gave him an attempt at a comforting pat on the back.

Yennefer had read the pages and risen; “It’s good. You need edits, but it’s somehow decent. Good. Whatever. A little… loose, toward the end, though,” made herself a cup of tea, and entered the bedroom.

Either a few moments, or 20 minutes later, Geralt emerged.

“What are you at now?”

“69 pages.”

“Nice,” Geralt said.

“Ha. Yeahhh,” Jaskier agreed.

“That’s not what I—” Geralt sighed the sigh that meant his face was going all pinch-y. “Close to the end?”

“Mmm. What is the end, really?” Geralt made a different pinch-y face. “Soon.”

“Come to bed tonight, Jaskier.”

“I’ll try,” he said. He blinked, and Geralt was gone.

There are a lot of words in an essay that are very hard to spell.

Jaskier ate the rest of a loaf of bread.

For a while, he swore he walked the streets of Oxenfurt while still warm in his professorial housing.

Kalvin’s accent changed three times and at one point he was on fire.

85 pages.

Geralt woke first, as always; There he was! That was his love. So much of his heart.

With shaking hands, Jaskier had brought himself up to sit in his chair, and sat staring down at his work. He looked up at Geralt with a lopsided grin. “I did it,” he said weakly.

“Need help putting it together?”

The tears fell so quickly he didn’t realize it was happening. “Really?”

Geralt sighed softly and knelt down, organizing the papers.

Yennefer emerged a bit later—There she was! His love, a chunk of him was hers entirely. He smiled. “Look!”

“Mmm. And now you can sleep.”

“NO!” Jaskier cried and leapt to his feet, “No, no, now… now is presenting time. To… the editors. Not Kalvin. But I turn it in… and then sleep,”

He had a sudden burst of energy, and tried to step over Geralt and the papers, but fell into the table instead, before the Witcher steadied him from below.

“Ohhhh, thank you dear. It’s time for… presentation! Mm.” He leaned into Yennefer’s warmth at his side, though she did not wrap her arms around him as he’d hoped. “Help me pick out an outfit.”

He blinked. Yennefer was in front of him now, looking at him with a frown, her hands around his waist. Geralt’s hand was against his forehead. “No! Stop that! I’m fine. I’m fine! See me! Fine. It’s action time. Let’s go!” and he marched off to the bedroom.

The floor was suddenly very close to his face.

“Did I—”

“You fell on your face.”

“Have I—”

“You’ve asked three times now, yes.”

There should have been fanfare when he turned it in, but there was only the grateful smile of Edmond, the young new assistant, a firm handshake, and a promise he’d hear back from them very soon, for a quick summarization of their initial thoughts. Or, he’d used all those words, Jaskier forgot which order they’d come in.

The three returned to the apartment, and everything happened very slowly and so quickly he found it hard to keep track. There was definitely a bath drawn for him—gods, it had been days, hadn’t it— oh, fuck, he was gross, wasn’t he—a full meal, and a celebratory drink. He’d made a few good jokes, and all he could see were Geralt and Yennefer, smiling at him. An empty glass. A bar of soap. A long quill. A messy table. A pile of books and an empty mug. They deposited him on the bed for sleep, and left together.

Jaskier lay there, waiting for sleep to take him.

It did not.

He was so tired he could cry. He did, a few times. He couldn’t think straight. All of it, everything, hurt. His body ached. He tried to soothe himself down alone, rocking himself in the hopes it would work. But nothing.

What if he could never sleep again? What if he would always be awake, forever? What if this was how he died?! Oh gods, he didn’t want to die! He still had edits to approve!

Eventually, he could feel himself getting closer. He adjusted himself, lay on his back and took deep, measured breaths, kept his eyes closed but relaxed. Okay. Okay. Sleep.

He was falling, so violently and so fast that when he jolted awake, he forgot he’d been lying on a bed in the first place.

Fuck.

He tried again. It happened sometimes, it was fine. He’d be fine.

He tried breathing deeply once more, trying to let the distant scents of Yennefer and Geralt now embedded in his pillows overtake him.

A fear so powerful it gripped his heart and twisted, whispered to him, ‘this is what dying is, you’re going to die’ and he once again jolted awake. He threw his head back against the pillow and winced; even that hurt.

Fuck. Fuck.

He kept trying. Over, and over, he’d get so close to sleep and then right at the precipice, something would yank him out of it.

Once, he saw Yennefer falling off a cliff. Another time, he saw Geralt stabbed through the chest. At some point, he saw Ciri screaming, and his hands flew out to pull her close, only to find nothing there. Sometimes it was himself falling, and sometimes it was the world below him falling instead.

He’d really done it this time. Stayed awake so long, sleep had abandoned him entirely.

It felt like twelve years before Yennefer and Geralt returned, slipping into the room quietly. He sat up in bed, startling them both.

“Please,” he said quietly, “I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t I just—I can’t. My body won’t let me, I want to but I can’t—”

“How the hell—” Yennefer started, walking over to him with a palm out to check for a curse, maybe? It didn’t matter. He wrapped her hand in his and clutched it to himself, desperate for her. She was so warm. So alive.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed, “It’s been nearly 70 hours already, Jaskier.”

“Let me just put him down with magic,” Yennefer started, but Geralt put a hand up.

“We can’t. It’s a temporary fix. if he can’t fall asleep on his own without magic, it’ll get harder and harder for him. We need to get him to fall asleep without it.” They looked down at him. What a disgrace he must look like, how pathetic he was. He turned his face away in abject shame. He couldn’t even fall asleep right.

While he looked away, Yennefer tore her hand from his as she and Geralt discarded their clothes into heaps beside the bed, crawled beneath the covers on either side of Jaskier. They hated him. They must. How could they not?

“It’s fine, you don’t—fuck, sorry—”

Geralt shrugged. “Don’t be. I know how bad it gets. It’s different for a Witcher, but no sleep is the whole reason we met Yennefer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jaskier said softly.

“As I recall, the solution then was to have vigorous sex on the floor.” Yennefer ran a finger along Jaskier’s chest. “Sound appealing?”

“I—yes, Yennefer, it sounds appealing.” He fidgeted, tried to focus on the feeling of Yennefer’s delicate touch. He was oversensitive enough that it felt like fire, but nothing… stirred, and each word he spoke felt like he was pulling honey from his tongue. “I don’t… much as I’d like, I’m not sure I’d be... up for it right now.” Yennefer’s head fell against the pillow and she flattened her hand, ran the palm up his chest to rest above his heart. Pressed a kiss there.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but they were looking at him, he could feel every inch of their gazes and it was all too much. He whined in agony. “I can’t do this. Fuck. I can’t, just put me out. We try it again tomorrow, I—”

“Jaskier. You can. Tell us what you need and we can help you,” Yennefer said, sweet but firm. And that was her, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t think. Wanted to. Wanted so much. Wanted to be asleep.

Jaskier curled up on his side, exhausted of being exhausted, when he felt Geralt slide up closer behind him. “Can I hold you?” he murmured into the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier nodded, and felt Geralt’s arm come around him and under his own arm, felt it slide up his chest and cross it protectively.

“Feel good?” Jaskier nodded, and then cracked his eyes open, met Yennefer’s, concern palpable.

He lifted one arm just slightly. “C’mere?” And she did, curled into his arms and around him, tucked her head under his, kissed the top of Geralt’s fingers. He held her close, and was held by the two in turn. Breathing, somehow, felt easier between them.

“Breathe, bard,” Yennefer urged him softly. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair, took in a deep breath, and Jaskier tried to follow.

They breathed softly, all together, slow and safe. Soon, he was drifting into sweet oblivion.

‘You,’ Fear said, wrapped around his sternum, ‘will crumble, the moment you let go of wakefulness.’ It gripped him, and tugged him back to reality.

He jolted again. “Fuck, dammit, cock wringing—”

Yennefer pulled back to look at him worriedly. “Is that what’s been keeping you up?” she asked.

“It’s, I don’t know, something just pulls me back, I try to fight it but…”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed. “Sleep starts. Happens sometimes.”

“The hell are sleep starts?”

“They’re… when you’re too on edge to sleep, or just haven’t in too long, brains… fizzle. Keep you awake. It’s a survival instinct—it makes you think you’ve got to stay awake to stay alive. Feels like falling? Or… a shock. Sometimes other things. Hallucinations.” Geralt pressed a kiss to the back of his head. “It’s scary. It’s meant to be. Your body thinks it’s fighting for its life.”

“I am never letting you doom yourself like this ever again,” Yennefer said, and while it was probably meant to come out angry, she just sounded worried.

Geralt hummed and agreement. “Try again, we’ve got you. We’re not letting go.” Jaskier took a breath. They had him. They had him.

Yennefer lifted a hand to Jaskier’s temple. “May I?” And he let her in, easier than breathing. She gave him Ciri laughing, wind chimes on the breeze, the soft roar of the coast. Geralt hugged him tight, ran his other hand through Jaskier’s hair, tried to keep the bard’s breathing aligned. Now, what had he ever done to earn these two?

Soon, sleep came to him again, and he could feel Yennefer ready to soothe anything that came for him in his mind, Geralt ready to defend against anything that dared hurt his resting body. The darkness crept in, and he felt peace.

Geralt was reaching for him, falling, bleeding, screaming.

“FUCK!”

“Shh,” the real Geralt hushed him. “We’ve got you.”

“Fuck, there’s got to be something else,” Yennefer groaned. “What’ve you tried so far?”

“I have tried… to fall asleep.”

Yennefer and Geralt both huffed small laughs. “No. Positions—”

“Only the good ones.”

“Meditating?” Geralt asked.

“Darling, I haven’t had a thought in my head in hours. This is meditation.”

“Drugs?” Yennefer asked.

“I will try the drugs!” Jaskier said with a drowsy cheerfulness, as Geralt replied “No drugs. No.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier groaned, and shifted to lie on his stomach. Oh. This was… better. He nestled into the pillows, and a soft contented sigh drifted from him.

“That feel better?” Geralt asked as he ran a hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “Mmm,” Jaskier replied. Yennefer’s hand joined Geralt over his chest. Oh, they were going to make him cry.

And then it was too much, too much feeling, like his brain couldn’t handle all the sensation, and he felt Yennefer come to pause, and a moment later, Geralt’s hand as well. ‘That better?’ Yennefer asked in his mind. Jaskier gave her the memory of his favorite hug with her, warm and happy as her legs wrapped around his waist, and his favorite with Geralt, crushing and firm and full of too many emotions to speak aloud.

“Could…” he said softly, “Just. Talk? Not to me. Just… to each other. Just wanna hear you.” He could almost hear their smiles, and felt as they settled in on the pillows beside him, arms and hands intertwining on his back. Yennefer’s head on his shoulder, the gentle planes of Geralt’s chest on his other side. “If you need us, Yennefer and I are here. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He nodded into the mattress, cool and soft below him.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“G’night Yennefer.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

"G’night, Geralt.”

He started to fade into oblivion, but stopped himself before he got too far. Not fear, not anxiety, a conscious stopping. Somewhere above him, Geralt was telling Yennefer about the contract from… sometime in the past few days, and Yennefer was telling her own story about some town gossip with a woman and her hens, which, it might have been a metaphor, but he’d basically forgotten what those were by now. He breathed deeply, felt their words flow through him, and when he felt brave enough, he let go, trusting they would catch him.

He could have sworn he heard wind chimes, somewhere.

The small amount of light filtering in through the curtains was golden when he awoke. His head both ached and felt light as a feather, his muscles screamed and cried but half of it was in relief. He gave a small stretch and yawned. “G’morning,” an amused Geralt said to him, lounging in a chair he’d brought beside the bed, reading a book. His legs were propped up on the bed beside the bard’s and Jaskier stretched to bump their toes together.

“What time…?”

“You slept 13 hours.”

“Fuck.”

“You probably need more.”

“Yeahhhh.”

“Feel alright?”

“Like a real human being,” he said. “Hungry, though.”

“Mmm.”

Yennefer slipped in the door, but, noticing Jaskier was awake, rose a hand. “May I?” she asked, voice dripping in sarcasm, gesturing to the curtains.

“You may,” Jaskier offered, covering his face with his hands. “Ohhhh, gods, how bad was I?”

“Genuinely awful,” Yennefer said, as Geralt was saying, “There’s been worse.”

“Normally I’d withhold this,” the mage said, withdrawing a small envelope from her pocket. “But, under the circumstances…” she cleared her throat.

“To one Julian Alfred Pankratz. We were extremely pleased to receive your manuscript yesterday afternoon. Our editors are will have their notes to you by the weekend, but we wanted to reach out and extend our most sincere compliments on your work. It is—oh, a flood of adjectives, I’m skipping these. Etcetera, etcetera, sucking your dick, etcetera alright, here—and meticulous in construction. We can tell,” Yennefer said, dragging out the final sentence, “you made good use of your year of writing time to complete the work.” Jaskier and Geralt by this point were holding back true howls of laughter.

“And won’t you believe it, there’s more. Ahem; we have a number of suggestions and questions already, but encourage you to get your well-deserved rest as we prepare our feedback. We are grateful to work with you, and thank you again for your stunning entry. There’s a postscript,” Yennefer added. “As a quick and personal note, we cannot have helped but notice the nature of your penmanship; we mean no offence, but would encourage you to see a doctor of the eye to fit you with some spectacles.”

“My—my penman…? What’d—” and Yennefer, who had clearly been waiting for this moment, brought out a rather crumpled piece of parchment with an ink stain at the bottom—ah, yes, the original page 64— and showed it to him. His eyes were… gods, they were aching, but he was clear minded enough now to see that each line had become at least twice it’s normal size. The lines were far from straight, dipping and bending toward the edge of the paper, the letters changed directions at random points, and a fair amount of the words were smudged so completely they were hard to make out.”

Jaskier stared in horror.

“They. Is that. Is that what it looked like? Really?”

“It’s worse than most of the ones that made it in,” Geralt said, carefully.

“Most?!”

“You drew pictures on one of them,” Yennefer said.

“Oh my god. They…they must…”

“Adore it, clearly,” Yennefer said, setting aside the paper. “It wasn’t worth the strain, and you’ve definitely firmly embarrassed yourself, but they’re either embarrassing themselves by fawning praise on you,” she said, sliding onto the bed, “Or you’re actually just… very knowledgeable and talented, even when addled by sleep deprivation.”

There was a pause, Jaskier soaking this in; it hadn’t been worth it, exactly, but it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was quite good, and Yennefer was complimenting him outright, so, very good.

“Or both,” Geralt added.

“Definitely both,” Yennefer agreed.

Jaskier groaned. “You can’t be mean to me. You’re in my house and I am extremely tired, which means that you, by law, must kiss me and tell me nice things about myself.”

Geralt laughed, light and free, and Yennefer slunk slower down into the bed. “You get no kisses,” she said, “You get sleep and rest.” She grabbed a pillow from under her head and plopped it delicately onto Jaskier’s face.

“Boo,” Jaskier said, muffled beneath the thing. He closed his eyes. Geralt muttered something, and Yennefer gave a snort of laughter, and then there was silence.

“Are you two kissing up there?!”

More silence.

“UGH,” he groaned, and sunk into his soft, sweet mattress. Oh, beautiful mattress. How he adored it, how he adored his two loves on top of it. He listened to their kissing, soft, and sweet, and knew he’d join them soon. But it was so warm down here. Even as one of them removed the pillow, he could only bring himself to open his eyes for a moment, to see them both leaning to kiss his face gently, before returning to each other. He took a long, deep breath, and listened to them swirl around him, until all he could feel was their love and the sweet caress of his pillow.

#Geraskefer #Jaskier Whump #Soft Geralt #Soft Yennefer #The Witcher #Witcher Fic #jaskier #geralt #yennfer of vengerberg #sleep deprivation #insomnia #hurt/comfort #Witcher Whump #Butterbard's Fics

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 years

Text

Octa A-kun’s Heart-Thumping Day!

For the 1200+ follower milestone, here is the next part of the cursed raven’s story!

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 l Part 5

Today’s tale involves Octavinelle A-kun in a pinch...?! Fight on, Octa A-kun...! You can do it, Octa A-kun...!!

My name is Kon...! I’m just your average, everyday Octavinelle student. I tend to blend into the background, so a lot of my classmates call me Octa A-kun.

I’d say that my favorite food is salted fish, and I happen to like whatever seems to be popular these days. I have the window seat in my home room. Most of the time, I just go with the flow, but I like to keep my head low and stay out of trouble!

All I really want is a quiet, peaceful life!

...So—you may ask—how, then, did I find myself in this pinch?

An arrow whizzes at Octa A-kun’s head, tearing off his fedora and pinning it to the wall behind him. It just narrowly grazes his hair, ripping off a deep green strand with a sharp jolt. Octa A-kun squeaks in terror and collapses onto his rear end.

“Pardon moi, Monsieur Kelp,” comes the light-hearted chirp of his assailant. A young man in a bob cut steps forth, a bow in his hands and a quiver strapped to his back. The billowy white feather tucked in his hat bounces with each stride. “I was in need of some early morning target practice.”

Third year and Pomefiore vice-dorm leader, Rook Hunt, according to the rumors. Be wary of him--once he fixates on something, he will not relent.

“A-Ahahaha...I-It’s fine, senpai!” Octa A-kun stutters, scrambling back onto his feet. He glances at his poor hat, skewered clean through--he’d have to file a request for a replacement later. Azul would charge a fee for it--with interest.

“Ah, how merciful you are, Monsieur Kelp~” Rook laughs as he approaches, each step in his boots the resounding thump-thump of a predator on the prowl.

Octa A-kun shrinks against the wall. “U-Um...! Do you need something from me, senpai...?!”

“Hohoh. How perceptive of you.” Rook plucks his arrow--and Octa A-kun’s hat--and holds his weapon up in the sunlight, his green eyes focusing on the gleam of the arrow’s dagger-like tip. “I’ve merely come for a query, my friend! No need to make such a frightened face.”

“Just a question i-is fine. But it has to be a quick one...! I have to meet up with my partner for a project...”

“But of course. I will not keep you for long.” He tucks the arrow back into his quiver and replaces Octa A-kun’s hat upon his head. “Be honest with me--that is all that I ask of you.”

Rook maintains the curve to his lips as he brings his face closer to his prey. His smile darkens, and the glimmer in his eyes fades into something far more cruel.

“...You would not happen to have been sent by one Roi de Fort, have you? To, perhaps, spy on a little black bird?”

Octa A-kun pales. Sweat collects on his forehead. A lump forms in his throat.

“I-I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT...!!” he blurts out.

Unconvincingly.

Rook’s eyes narrow. “I have requested for you to speak naught but the truth, have I not?”

He reaches out and takes ahold of Octa A-kun’s collar, pulling him close--so close that the poor boy can make out his own fear-stricken expression in the green of Rook’s eyes.

The hunter still smiles, his teeth a stark, blinding white.

He’s beautiful, Octa A-kun realizes. Beautiful, but deadly.

“Y-You’re being r-really scary, senpai...! P-Please don’t bully me...!”

“La vérité, Monsieur Kelp?”

A drop of sweat races down Octa A-kun’s profile. Pupils dilated, breath hitching, body trembling.

In the distance, a bell tolls--granting him an opportunity to escape.

“Would you look at the time...!! I...I really gotta go now!! M-My project partner’s waiting for me, ahahaha...!! E-Excuse me!” Octa A-kun shouts shaking from Rook’s grip and sidestepping the hunter.

He begins to speed walk away, hands balled into fists and arms swinging stiffly, when Rook calls out to him.

“...Monsieur Kelp.”

Against his better judgement, Octa A-kun dares to glance back.

Rook is staring right at him, his gaze piercing.

“Know this: if you betray her, there will be more for you to worry about than damaged articles of clothing.”

And with that remark, Rook allows his prey to retreat.

But he watches every step of the way.

Until Octa A-kun is nothing more than a dot in the distance.

“Welcome to my roost,” Raven declares with the wave of her hand. “Ignore the mess, and make yourself at home.”

“D-Don’t mind if I do,” Octa A-kun says, carefully ducking into the attic space.

Mess is a bit of an understatement. Raven’s room is piled high with tomes, loose papers scattered on the floor and smears of ink all over.

Tucked away in a corner appears to be a mattress, with a blanket in a nest-like shape, a pillow laid in the center. A bookshelf overflows with volumes on ancient curses, while a strange teardrop shaped seat, decorated with ribbons and wisteria, hangs by a window.

Set upon a large desk is a snuffed out candle, a quill set with a magic gemstone, and several empty bottles and blank labels. A basket spills out its contents--herbs, flowers, and fungi--next to a mortar and pestle.

What really catches Octa A-kun’s attention, however, is the strange collection of glass apparatuses and tubes that line the desk. A small flame dances under the rounded part of a flask, heating up a rose-gold concoction.

“Looks like you keep pretty busy, huh?”

“You could say that. I like to remain productive.”

Octa A-kun offers a timid smile. “Um, if I may ask, what is it that you’ve got brewing at your desk...? I-I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Raven pauses.

“...Do you know that feeling of rediscovering a part of yourself you thought you had once lost? Or the rose-tinted glasses which clouds one’s vision? The wonderfulness of meeting an old friend? Think of those things, set in the color of dawn, beckoning a new day.”

“E-Eh?” Octa A-kun combs his brain for a response. “Uh...you mean nostalgia?”

“Precisely. This is my latest creation--Nostalgia. It took me two whole weeks to get this new ink color just right, but it shall be lovely to write with.” Raven puffs up a bit with pride. “Oh, but enough about my personal projects. We need to work on that Magic History assignment, yes?”

“Y-Yes. That report on Unique Magic Development...” Octa A-kun’s eyes follow Raven’s hand as it trails over a series of books on a shelf.

Hexes, and How to Break Them. True Love’s Kiss: Panacea or Poison? Ancient Curses: A Collection of Anecdotes. Journal of Magic Medicine, Issue 32: Jinx Edition.

“Ah, here it is.” Raven fishes out a maroon book with a few sticky notes jutting out of it--Unique Magic: Nature & Nurture--and hands it to Octa A-kun, along with a spare quill, an inkwell, and a fresh sheet of paper.

She gestures toward the seat adorned with wisteria. “Have a seat and work on your half of the report. I’ll be working on my half at my desk after I clean up. We can compare our halves and edit as is necessary when both parts are complete.”

He complies, sitting where he is directed and flipping open Unique Magic: Nature & Nurture.

Two sticky notes immediately pop out at him. One sports a list of various unrelated words (Nostalgia, Sorrow, Regret, and an L word that appears to have been blotted out, left illegible).

The other sticky note has a little diagram labelled Unique Magic, a heart in the center with arrows pointing outward. Needs faith, trust, and a little pixie dust, one arrow remarks. Infusion of feelings requires experience, says another. Practice with Nostalgia, a third states.

Octa A-kun slowly lifts his eyes from the page--carefully watching Raven tidying up her desk.

With the flick of her magical pen--or quill, rather--she extinguishes the flame beneath her flask and sets it into a test tube rack to cool. Raven collects her plants into a basket and tucks them under the desk, along with the rest of her glassware. Then she gathers stray papers and pops open her drawer to stow them away--

And that’s when Octa A-kun catches a glimpse of it.

An unopened letter, in a pale blue envelope.

To My Dearest Raven scrawled across it.

“...And that is the g-gist of it,” Octa A-kun concludes his report, “dorm leader.”

“Excellent work, Kon-san. You efforts are greatly appreciated.” From behind his ornate office desk, Azul clasps his hands together and beams. “I suppose there is no longer any need for Floyd to pay your friends in Pomefiore and Scarabia a little visit.”

“Boooo,” Floyd groans from beside him.

“Th-Thank you for your kindness, dorm leader!” Octa A-kun gushes--if only to (poorly) mask his own fears. He wants to sink into the couch cushions and disappear like sea foam. “B-But...But if I can make a request, sir!”

“What is it?” Azul sounds mildly annoyed, but Octa A-kun steels his courage and persists.

“Um...i-if possible, can you assign s-someone else to check on Miss Raven? I-I’m scared of what Rook-senpai will do to me if I make the wrong mo--EEP!!”

Before he has even finished his sentence, Floyd is flying at him like a shark tearing through water.

WHAM!

Octa A-kun screams as Floyd’s foot connects with the couch, boxing him in and nearly knocking the furniture over. Azul’s glasses flash a pure white, and he makes no move to restrain the feral eel.

“What was that, Konbu-chan?” Floyd asks--no, demands--as he leers down at him. Teeth gnashing. “Did I hear you right? Umineko-kun got in the way?”

“E-Eeeep! Ch-Chill out, Floyd-senpai! You’re...you’re scaring me!!” Octa A-kun whimpers, his poor heart pounding out of his chest.

“Speak freely, Kon-san,” Azul prompts, waving a gloved hand to silence Floyd--but his tone is just as icy and cruel as the eel’s eyes. “What is this I hear about...interference?”

“W-Well...h-he seemed to know that you sent me. And he said he might...do things if I make a misstep.” Octa A-kun furiously shakes his head. “I’ll need a replacement hat after th-that encounter...I-I’m sorry, dorm leader, but I r-really don’t want to be involved in this any more than I have to...!”

Azul leans back in his chair, and his face settles into a serious expression.

“Uwaaah, Jade wasn’t kiddin’ when he said Umineko-kun was guarding Black Pearly like a shark on sunken treasure,” Floyd flicks his tongue along his teeth, which gleam dangerously under the lights of the VIP room. “Even the low level lackies get chewed up and spat out, ehehehe~”

“This is not funny, Floyd. This just makes things that much more difficult,” Azul snaps, pushing his glasses up.

“It’s fine, it’s fiiine,” Floyd insists dismissively with a giggle. “I’ll just follow Konbu-chan--and if that creep Umineko-kun gets close, I’ll beat’em bloody~”

“I-Isn’t that a bit extreme?!” Octa A-kun protests, only to earn a withering glare from Floyd.

“Shut your trap, guppy. No one asked for your opinion,” Floyd hisses--then his expression brightens considerably when he addresses his dorm leader. “Ne, ne, Azul! Can I, can I?”

“Absolutely not. We still need to collect more information before taking such drastic action,” Azul says, his voice tinged with irrtation. “Might I remind you, Floyd, that Octavinelle is, once again, in poor standing with the headmaster? It would not do to further tarnish our reputation with another incidence report.”

“Laaaame~” Floyd pouts, backing away from Oct A-kun. “I’m not allowed to do anything fun anymore.”

“As I was saying,” Azul continues, ignoring the eel, “thank you for bringing this to my attention, Kon-san. Your work here is done--you are relieved from your duties until further notice. Dismissed.”

“Y-Yessir!! Th-Thank you so much, sir!” Octa A-kun breathes a massive sigh of relief. He is quick to gather his coat and hat, then bow to his senpais and hurriedly exit.

Azul pinches the bridge of his nose. “...This will become a problem if it persists.”

“I don’t get it, Azul!” Floyd whines loudly, slamming his hands on his dorm leader’s desk. “Why don’t we just kidnap Black Pearly already and make her ‘n Jade ‘fess up? That’d be sooo much easier than dancing around Umineko-kun!”

“That is not how proper reconciliation works, Floyd,” Azul points out. “If we are to fix this mess, then we cannot hope to resolve it overnight.”

He thinks of the details Octa A-kun had divulged--the countless books that litter Raven’s abode, the fixation on work, the strangely named ink, the interest in curses...Surely they must all mean something.

He pauses, before adding, “...I feel as though I am missing a vital piece of the puzzle.”

“Ehhhh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Call it...octopus’s intuition. There is something bigger at play here, something far more powerful than you or I can comprehend.” Azul folds his arms. “And if we intend to bring back Miss Raven into Jade’s arms, then that is one puzzle piece we must find.”

“Hmmm.” Floyd leans down, peering into Azul’s solemn face--then breaks out into a toothy grin. “Ne, ne, you really care a lot about Jade, don’t you?”

“Hmph. Don’t be ridiculous,” Azul snaps, lips pursing into a straight line. “This is merely a case of an employer fretting over the well being of his employee. Jade cannot perform at his best if he is emotionally distressed. I am simply doing my due diligence as his employer to ensure that he is content--it benefits the business.”

“Ehehehe~ In the end, Azul’s heart is juuust as squishy and soft as his octopus form~” The eel wraps his arms around Azul, squeezing the dorm leader against his chest. “That’s sooo cute~”

“FLOYD, DO NOT PRESUME TO KNOW MY INTENTIONS...!! AND UNHAND ME THIS INSTANT!”

“Nope! Don’t wanna~”

Octa A-kun is halfway down the corridor when a hand clamps down--hard--onto his shoulder. The student squeaks in terror as he is whipped around--and comes face-to-face with his smiling vice-dorm leader.

“Good evening, Kon-san,” Jade says nonchalantly, his tone light but his aura dark. “Might I have a moment with you?”

For the third time that day. Octa A-kun’s stomach sinks--but he lacks both the strength and the willpower to resist.

“S-Sure...Wh-What is it?”

Jade cranes his head down, his single golden eye glowing despite his sinister shadow. “I have received word that you have been snooping around campus. Naughty, naughty Kon-san. You should know better.”

Octa A-kun instinctively takes a step back, putting some distance between him and his vice-dorm leader--the information broker of Octavinelle. No secret can evade him, it seems.

“Th-The dorm leader asked me to...!” he confesses, cheeks turning pink in embarrassment.

“Please, be at ease. I do not bite,” Jade says smoothly, chuckling into his glove. “Now then, my sources tell me that you happened upon Miss Raven’s quarters. Is this correct?”

“Y-Yes...”

“Then let me ask this of you--did you, by chance, see a blue envelope?”

“Blue envelope...” Octa A-kun’s eyes light up in realization. “A-Ah, I do seem to recall seeing something like that. She...She keeps it in a drawer. It was unopened.”

“Unopened...?” Jade repeats the word carefully, as though handling a delicate artifact. He brings a hand to his chin in contemplation, his brows furrowing. “It is no wonder why she continues to behave in such a vehement manner,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Um...vice-dorm leader? Is everything alright?” Octa A-kun asks nervously.

“...No. It is nothing, I assure you.” Jade composes himself, smiling once more--this time, without a hint of darkness to it. “Think nothing of it, dear Kon-san. Please, do retire for the night--that was all I wished to know, fufu.”

“O-Of course, vice-dorm leader...”

Jade sees him off with a polite wave.

Octa A-kun waits until Jade is completely out of sight before he collapses into a heap on the ground. He clutches onto his stomach, which twists and knots with fright, and sniffles softly to himself.

Why, oh, why was he not sorted into a normal dorm with normal non-scary students and normal, healthy relationships with their peers? No, instead he’s trapped in the mermaid mafia and witnessing Overblot incidents every single month.

Go to Night Raven College, they said. It’d be fun, they said. You’ll get a great education, they said.

J-Just...Just give me a quiet, peaceful life already...!!

#Floyd Leech #Azul Ashengrotto #twst #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #Rook Hunt #Jade Leech #Rave. Crowley #angst #this installment was hard to pace #Octavinelle A-kun #Tale of the Cursed Raven #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #enchanted inks

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thecrownnet · 4 years

Link

October 3, 2020

Series four of The Crown takes on Princess Diana: exclusive pictures and interviews Charles has found a wife, Andy’s got a racy new girlfriend and Thatcher’s coming for tea... Megan Agnew gets an exclusive tour behind the scenes of the most wild and lavish series yet

Lasers. That’s what helped Emma Corrin understand Princess Diana in the latest series of The Crown. When the cameras were rolling, she imagined that lasers were pointing at her, as if she were in a spy film or a bank heist drama. It was her way of imagining hundreds of people staring right at her. Lasers helped her with the iconic Diana head tilt. She pretended she was shying away from them.

Corrin could also draw on her own trajectory as a 24-year-old actress. Before landing her part in The Crown, she was an unknown. Suddenly “there’s a huge amount of pressure”, she says.

When I visit the set at Winchester Cathedral, which is pretending to be St Paul’s, the paparazzi arrive to catch Corrin pretending to be Diana. She’s dressed in a replica of the outfit they papped at the actual royal wedding rehearsal almost 40 years ago. Every time she moves between buildings and trailers, Corrin has to be shielded with umbrellas. Life imitates art imitates life.

youtube

Almost every person Corrin has spoken to since getting the role has their own “Diana moment” — they might once have waved at her car in the street, been a pupil at a school she visited or knew someone who sat next to her at a dinner. Diana was one of the first celebrities to whom people laid claim. “Everyone has this ownership,” says Corrin. She was, and still is, the People’s Princess. But Corrin is trying not to think too much about it. Public expectation has been “overwhelming since the beginning”, she says. She wants to do Diana “proud”. “I know that’s strange and cheesy, but I feel like I know her.”

Emma Corrin as Princess Diana/ NETFLIX

The first television series of The Crown, which aired in 2016, was at the time the most expensive in history. Each series since has been estimated to have cost upwards of £50 million. The first two covered the first decade of Elizabeth II’s rule to wide acclaim, but series three — in which Her Majesty Claire Foy was succeeded by Olivia Colman — had mixed reviews. “The jewel in Netflix’s tiara has lost its shine,” said one. It was “okay”, said another.

Now, with series four’s reported £100 million budget eclipsing the Queen’s own sovereign grant last year of £82.2 million, The Crown is barrelling straight into the Eighties era of celebrity glamour and modern party politics grit. Peter Morgan, the show’s creator, is taking on two of the most controversial public figures of the past 50 years: Princess Diana and Margaret Thatcher. “The word ‘iconic’ is overused, but in the case of these two women quite justified,” Morgan says. Both have passionate fans and detractors. “Writing them was a bit of a high-wire act, but it was exhilarating.”

We meet Diana as a teenager, scampering around her huge family home in Northamptonshire. She is young and apologetic. The Prince of Wales, at that time dating her eldest sister, is rather distracted. A number of years later, Diana is leaving her relatively modest flat in Earls Court and her job as a nursery school assistant to move into Clarence House — but finds herself in solitude. Bored and lonely, 19-year-old Diana rollerskates down corridors to Duran Duran and sits all by herself in her chamber. One night, after finding out about Prince Charles’s affair with Camilla Parker Bowles, she gorges on puddings and makes herself vomit them back up.

Behind the scenes: the latest series of The Crown/ NETFLIX

*Spoilers*

It is a dark moment that Corrin wanted to get right. She listened to real-life accounts of people who had suffered from bulimia and talked with experts from the eating disorder charity Beat. Diana herself said that it was the most “discreet” way of harming herself: “Everyone in the family knew about the bulimia,” she said in recordings from the 1990s later made into a Channel 4 documentary.

“Drawing on my experience,” says Corrin, “not that I’ve experienced that kind of self-harm, but mental health in general, it can lead you down a very dark path when you’re struggling to cope, when things feel out of control. Diana very much doesn’t have the love and comfort and attention she needs from the man she loves or the family, who aren’t really acting as a family to her. There is a build-up of emotion she can’t deal with and making herself sick is a way of taking back control.”

When Josh O’Connor, who plays the Prince of Wales, first read the script for this series he thought: “Oh God, how can Charles be like that to Diana? But he feels wronged. He feels like she has an addiction to the spotlight,” he says. “I have to feel sympathy for him in that world. This is a family who have an intense inability to be emotional and he has inherited that awkwardness. In this series there’s an awful lot of Charles trying to explain himself and not being allowed to. He’s trying to say that if he can be with Camilla, then at least two of the three people can be happy. As it is, there’s three miserable people.”

The Crown works differently to other shows in that the “writers’ room” is not made up of writers but researchers, who constantly feed back to Morgan, the king of The Crown. It means that for each word eventually spoken on film, there are pages and pages of briefing notes. Annie Sulzberger, head of research, started this series by hiring a young team. “I wanted people who did not grow up believing one or the other [Diana and Thatcher],” she says. “You have to be curious enough and ignorant enough, I suppose, to write the kind of work we need.”

This series will span the Thatcher years — 1979 to 1990 — and will include the assassination of Charles’s great-uncle, Lord Mountbatten, by the IRA, Charles and Diana’s wedding, and the Falklands War. Once the team has laid out a timeline, Morgan picks out the events he wants to feature. The research team starts to hone in on each, getting increasingly “micro” in their investigations. In the making of this series, one of the team spent two weeks researching the label on a bottle of wine from which a character briefly swigs.

Dress rehearsal: Josh O’Connor and Emma Corrin act out Charles and Diana’s wedding run-through/ NETFLIX

As the show has progressed, the fact-checking work has multiplied, thanks to the tabloid journalism of the 1980s. “It’s not just about words being printed,” Sulzberger says, “but who wrote it. Diana will become very close with a journalist called Richard Kay and feed him information, and Charles’s team will do the same. So you need to start unpicking the biographies of all the writers in order to know that what you’re doing has some objectivity.”

Did the team speak to any of Diana’s family or friends? “No.” Do the producers give any material to the Palace to see beforehand? “No. We have no connection to them that would result in editorial shifts. These are real people, these are real stories and we are filling in the moments that aren’t recorded — private conversations, moments of reflection, philosophical moments.”

When I ask Morgan if it’s true that he meets high-ranking courtiers four times a year, he is keen to clear up that he doesn’t. “I have never had any discussions with anyone actively working at the Palace,” he says. “The two worlds, the royal household and The Crown, exist in a world of mutual deniability, which I’m sure is every bit as important to them as it is to us.”

Corrin, though, did speak to Patrick Jephson, Diana’s private secretary, who appears as a fictionalised character in this series. “I got a sense of her joy from him,” Corrin says. “He said she was so naturally happy. When she joined the royal family, she had come from living with flatmates in Earls Court and she was a very normal girl. Patrick said she was still full of that girlish silliness, very down to earth.”

The couple themselves at the real thing in 1981 MIKE LLOYD/SHUTTERSTOCK/REX

The executive producer Suzanne Mackie says that “particularly now” The Crown team feels a sense of responsibility “to living people, people’s children, people’s parents. Obviously what we don’t do is engage on a fact level with the royal family. We have a tacit understanding that they need distance from us and we need distance from them.”

It is a cold day in January and I am watching Charles and Diana’s wedding rehearsal in Winchester. About 75 per cent of the show is filmed on location around the world, over the course of seven months. The rest is filmed at the show’s base, Elstree Studios, just north of London.

Today in Winchester Cathedral there is a crew of 78 and a cast of almost 200. The sight is as epic as the show’s budget would suggest. Between takes, Corrin sits on the stone steps by the altar, scrolling on her iPhone with one hand and biting her fingernails on the other. Even before the clapperboard snaps shut, the resemblance between her and the princess is uncanny.

Sidonie Roberts, head buyer and assistant costume designer, has a timeline of photos of Diana covering the wall of her studio at Elstree. Roberts is devoted to the cause. She travels to Paris to buy buttons from the same shop the Queen’s dressmaker uses (it sells more than 30,000 types of button) and to Soho to rummage in basements for fabric. Last year she was in a Bangladeshi fabric shop in Brick Lane, east London, when she saw a roll of material right on the very top shelf. “It was still in its plastic, but I just knew — that’s Diana’s colour,” Roberts says. She got a ladder, climbed to the top, pulled down the fabric and bought it for £3.50 a metre. When Roberts got back to the studio at Elstree, she unrolled it and saw a stamp at the bottom: “The Lady Diana Collection, made in Japan.” Roberts did some research. It was real silk, from a collection made in the princess’s honour.

In the corner of the studio an assistant is gluing tiny pearls to Diana’s flat wedding shoes. She has been decorating them, exactly like the originals, for a day and a half. “We’ve had a long conversation about the size of those pearls,” says Roberts. David and Elizabeth Emanuel, who designed Diana’s original wedding dress, donated patterns to the show, which were used to make the new version. With its 25ft train, it took ten people to get Corrin into the dress. In the show it is seen in full, and only from behind, for no more than 15 seconds.

Paying their respects: Olivia Colman as the Queen and the rest of the royal family at the funeral of Lord Mountbatten/ NETFLIX

Corrin is masterful at inhabiting Diana’s coyness — hunching her shoulders towards her ears as she walks, the smirk, her intonation. Diana’s voice was the “polar opposite” of the royals’, says William Conacher, The Crown’s dialect coach. “She moved her jaw twice as much, so her voice was more forward, open, easier to access, and I don’t think it’s especially revelatory to suggest accessibility was her shtick,” he says. “She used a minor key that made her seem vulnerable. Despite the Queen’s and Prince Charles’s accents being ‘stiffer’ to listen to, I think it comes entirely naturally, whereas I find Diana’s voice more studied. I think she spoke to have an effect.”

What sort of research did Colman do for series four’s Queen? “Yeah, I don’t do research,” she says when we speak on the phone in the summer. “The research team on The Crown is a bit like the British Library. It’s extraordinary, and when they kick in, your computer can’t really cope with the amount of stuff they send you.” Was there something in particular that the team sent her that made things click? “No.” There is a longish silence. It seems Colman’s royal duty is waning. “They’ve got every image and film of the Queen ever made. I’ve also got three kids, so I can’t spend all my time going through all of it.”

As she wraps up a second series of The Crown — Imelda Staunton will take over for five and six — Colman knows that she would “really not like” to have the Queen’s job. “There are very few people who are forced into a job and have no choice about it,” she says. “She’s done it with dignity, for decades, bless her. It’s amazing.”

The funeral of Lord Mountbatten took place in 1979 BENTLEY ARCHIVE/POPPERFOTO/GETTY

If there were rumours of Elizabeth II being unhappy about the last series of The Crown, I can’t imagine she’ll be too chuffed about this one. Series four’s Queen is colder and more distant, and the effects of her duty on her children more obvious: Charles is heavy with melancholy, Anne feels unheard, Edward is portrayed as a spoilt bully and Andrew is dangerously arrogant.

Speaking of Andrew, there is a subtle nod towards recent events. At one point the prince discusses a young American actress he is dating. The actress had recently played a 17-year-old who must entertain several “old predators who seduce the vulnerable, helpless young Emily”. The real prince dated the actress Koo Stark in 1981, who had starred in The Awakening of Emily, which had a near-identical plot.

In series four, the pivotal relationship between the Queen and Margaret Thatcher begins well. They are respectful of one another as no-nonsense working mothers, but tensions arise — not least, over tea etiquette at Balmoral.

In preparation for her role as the Iron Lady, Gillian Anderson met Charles Moore, Thatcher’s biographer, as well as secretaries who worked with her. “The only way for me to go about sitting inside of her was to find the reason behind her actions — growing up, what she learnt from her father, how much she truly believed that she was the answer and as long as we all took the sour medicine now we’d be able to turn around this country, completely shutting her eyes to the people that she was turning out on the street.”

Anderson eventually “settled into” the body of Thatcher. “She walked very fast, always up ahead,” Anderson says. “She would power forward in front of presidents. With [Ronald] Reagan she would supposedly be alongside him, but was walking ahead. Always walking ahead of [husband] Denis, telling him to catch up.”

Thatcher’s barnet also features. In one scene she spends an asphyxiating four seconds hairspraying it in preparation for a showdown with the Queen. The hairdo took endless camera tests before Morgan was happy with it. “It essentially meant destroying it so it had an overprocessed ‘frothy’ quality,” says the hair and make-up designer Cate Hall. “To treat a wig so badly was against all of our instincts — they’re so expensive — but I’m grateful now that we went through the process with Peter, with him saying no, more, it’s not right, try again.”

Clash of the titans: Margaret Thatcher, played by Gillian Anderson, is filmed meeting the Queen, played by Olivia Colman, in a memorable scene from series four/ NETFLIX

Series five will have a whole new cast. Colman says she is “not the sort of person who keeps the shoes of a character they played 20 years ago”. But Helena Bonham Carter is going to miss Princess Margaret. “She does pop out [in everyday life],” she says. “The other day I was at some public event and there was the normal scramble of people and I just told them, ‘No, shut up.’ The finger came out, which is very her, and I said, ‘Shut up and wait. Don’t get hysterical.’ So I’ve got the bossy side of her.”

Originally Morgan said there would be two more series after this one. Then he changed his mind, describing series five as “the perfect time and place to stop”. Now there are two more again (“To do justice to the richness and complexity of the story,” he reneged). The show is creeping closer to the modern day. It is now said to be ending in the 2000s, spanning, perhaps, Charles and Diana’s divorce, the deaths of Diana, Margaret and the Queen Mother, the marriage of Charles and Camilla, and the teenage and twentysomething princes. “I want to end it close enough to present day to feel that we have completed a long journey and distant enough to feel historical,” says Morgan. “I have a specific incident in mind, but until I’ve actually written it and seen if it works, I can’t commit to discussing it.”

On set with Mackie, I mention Harry and Meghan. “Too often,” the couple posted on their Instagram page that month, “we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring.” Is it possible, I ask Mackie, for the royal family to humanise themselves while still justifying their existence as something mightier, more important, regal? “That’s where you go wrong, as a public figure, letting light in on the magic, especially as a monarch,” she replies. “You have to be an ideal. After years and years of that subjugation of self in order to put duty first, you, the essence of you, is buried somewhere. The Queen is a tiny little person inside many, many Russian dolls.”

Series four of The Crown is available on Netflix from November 15

#olivia colman #helena bonham carter #gillian anderson #the crown #the crown spoilers #tobias menzies #josh o'connor #emma corrin #princess diana #ben daniels #erin doherty #emerald fennell #charles dance #marion bailey #the crown netflix

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spine-buster · 4 years

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The President Wears Prada (William Nylander) | Chapter 1

A/N: To celebrate William “Thirst Trap” Nylander’s birthday last Friday, I’m going to do a double post this week! (Also maybe because he’s technically not in this chapter). Make sure you set your clocks for Thursday at 7:30pm cause that’s when I’ll post Chapter 2. Chapter 3 will then proceed next Monday on our regular once-a-week schedule.

September 3rd, 2019

Aberdeen Bloom was still looking for a job.

She was still sending out her resume to companies. She was still making follow-up phone calls. She was still creating alert notifications for jobs she’d be interested in. She was still going for interviews. She was still shaking hands and thanking people for their time. She was still writing follow-up thank you emails. She was still getting rejection calls. She was still submitting work to writing contests and magazines. She was still getting “It’s not what we’re looking for right now” emails.

She sighed.

So maybe getting the dream gig was harder than she thought.

It wasn’t like the bank had let her go. She was still earning something to keep her afloat, but it was the bank. It wasn’t writing, it wasn’t anything else. It was the same stuff every single day and Aberdeen was starting to resent it. She didn’t move downtown to stay a bank teller. She moved downtown to start her career, and this was not starting her career.

But then a phone call came on Sunday – peculiar, she thought, since it was a long weekend and had expected everybody and their mothers to be at a cottage – asking if she wanted to come in for an interview. To MLSE. For the personal assistant job. Aberdeen didn’t even remember applying to MLSE. But she was desperate, so she said yes, and now she found herself looking in the mirror with her best “interview outfit” on ready to ace it.

She took a deep breath. She could do this. She packed her bag, made sure she had her wallet at keys, and left the condo, deciding to walk the short way to 50 Bay Street so she could pick up breakfast on the way. Even while eating the ham and swiss sandwich, she could feel the butterflies in her stomach – it didn’t calm her nerves at all. For some reason, she felt like this was her last chance to build something towards her career. If she didn’t, she’d be stuck bank-telling forever. When she stood outside the doors of 50 Bay Street, she took a deep breath before walking in.

“When you arrive, tell the receptionist you are looking for Frances Munro” the woman on the other line had told her when she called for the interview. As she approached the receptionist, she tried to look as confident as possible. “Hi, my name is Aberdeen Bloom. I’m here for an interview with, um, Frances Munro?”

“Aberdeen Bloom?” another voice called out.

Aberdeen looked up to see another woman lurking in the back, a clipboard in hand, dressed impeccably well. “Yes. Hi.”

The woman looked at her. Aberdeen could see her give a quick up-down. “Great. Human resources certainly has an odd sense of humour,” she quipped, chuckling for nobody but herself. “Follow me.”

Aberdeen did as she was told, giving a polite nod to the receptionist who was already ignoring her. She circled around the desk and followed Frances, who walked through the door but didn’t hold it open. “Okay, so I was Brendan’s personal assistant but I recently got promoted so now I’m looking for someone else,” Frances explained.

“Oh, so you’re replacing yourself.”

“Well, I’m trying to. We tried to be proactive and hire early but the last two Brendan sacked after only a few weeks. We need to find someone who can survive here – who can survive Brendan’s schedule and survive the pressure of the Leafs. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Aberdeen looked around awkwardly. “Who is Brendan?”

“What?” Frances stopped dead in her tracks to look back at Aberdeen. “Oh my God, I will pretend did not just ask me that – Brendan Shanahan, he’s the president of the Toronto Maple Leafs,” she practically hissed at her, continuing her walk. “Not to mention a hockey legend. If you work a year for him you can get a job in any adjacent field you want – sports, media, journalism, writing, whatever. A million people would kill for this job.”

Writing. Writing. WRITING!!!!! Alarm bells were going off in Aberdeen’s ears. “It sounds like a great opportunity. I’d love to be considered.”

Frances giggled, pushing her clipboard up to cover the smile on her face. They had stopped in front of a series of doors and Aberdeen felt like she was going to have to pick the one without the tiger in it. “Aberdeen…the Toronto Maple Leafs are a hockey club. An interest in hockey…even just a little bit, is crucial,” she explained condescendingly. Aberdeen wondered how someone like this could even get promoted. “Do you play hockey?

“No.”

“Do you watch hockey?”

“No.”

Frances looked shocked. “Do you know who the Toronto Maple Leafs are?”

“Of course I know who the Toronto Maple Leafs are,” Aberdeen huffed. “I just don’t…I mean, I don’t…”

“If I put a picture of Mats Sundin in front of you right now could you pick him apart from Wendel Clark or Doug Gilmour?”

There was an awkward pause. “Are those Mr. Shanahan’s right-hand men?”

“Oh my God,” Frances muttered under her breath. “Have you ever been to a game?”

“Yes.”

“Are you lying?”

“No – no, I’m not lying,” Aberdeen said quickly. “One of my friends – her dad gets tickets through clients or whatever. I’ll go to maybe one a year with her family. But it’s not – I’m not like…the experience is fun.”

Before Frances could respond with something that was ruder than the last thing she said, her phone let out a really loud notification. She balanced the clipboard on one hand as she took out her phone. But as she looked at the message on the screen, her face dropped. “Oh my God, oh my God, no!”

Aberdeen’s face dropped too. “What’s wrong?”

Frances dropped her clipboard onto the desk and ran around it, grabbing the phone receiver and dialling a number. Almost automatically, she began talking. “He’s on his way. Tell everyone the story needs to be retracted now,” she barked before hanging up. A man walked through another door and suddenly, it was complete mayhem. People were running through everywhere.

“He wasn’t supposed to arrive until 9:30. What happened?” the man asked Frances.

“Those idiots at the Sun had the audacity to actually post the story about his daughter online. God, these people!” Frances huffed.

Aberdeen stood awkwardly as everyone seemed to go into mayhem mode. Frances was running around like a chicken with her head cut off, that one guy had mysteriously disappeared, and men in suits were in and out of everywhere with panicked looks on their faces. She watched as Frances whipped into the office and began putting stuff out on the desk – a glass of San Pellegrino water, a venti Starbucks, and the sports sections of all the local newspapers. When she was done, Frances grabbed the clipboard from her desk, a pen, and ran back down the corridor they just came from, leaving Aberdeen there, standing alone. Awkwardly.

Eventually, she could hear Frances’s voice again – much more polite this time – and footsteps of very expensive shoes clacking down the hallway. “Yes Mr. Shanahan, of course.”

“And tell David at The Sun that I’m this close to revoking media access to the locker room if he publishes another article to do with my children ever again,” a voice Aberdeen could only assume was Brendan Shanahan’s was echoing down the hallway.

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Then tell Ben up in the legal department to draw up the paperwork necessary for that to scare them,” she heard, and finally, they rounded the corner. Frances and Mr. Brendan Shanahan, President of the Toronto Maple Leafs. He was angry. Aberdeen could tell, even if she didn’t hear any of his last sentences – his body language showed it all. She stepped back a few steps so he could get into his office unimpeded, where he would very obviously yell at the top of his lungs once he shut the door.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Frances stood in front of Aberdeen, shielding her from Brendan’s view as he looked back at Aberdeen from inside his office. “Nobody – well – human resources sent her about the personal assistant job and I was going to interview her…but, but she’s hopeless,” she chuckled out, “and totally wrong for the job—”

“Well clearly I’m going to have to do that myself, since the last two you sent me were completely inadequate,” he deadpanned. Frances’s back stiffened at the words. “So send her in,” he finished as he sat down at his desk.

Frances walked out of Mr. Shanahan’s office. “Mr. Shanahan would like to see you,” she said politely, loud enough for him to hear. It was when she leaned in closer that she began to whisper so he couldn’t. “Brendan Shanahan is the absolute nicest person you will ever meet,” she began, “but he is also the busiest, most intense, most dedicated hockey professional in the entire National Hockey League. Do you understand?”

Aberdeen gulped. “Yes.”

“And I hope you know that this is a very difficult job for which you re totally wrong, and if you mess up my head is on the chopping block.”

‘That might not be so bad’, Aberdeen thought. She would have appreciated some words of encouragement, like what Kasha had given her this morning, rather than the shpeal she was getting now. But Aberdeen digressed, and nodded her head. She took out a copy of her resume from her purse before walking in.

When she did, she couldn’t help but notice all the fine detailing of his office. A lot of oak, bookcases, a lot of framed pictures of his family, and a giant Toronto Maple Leaf logo plastered – literally plastered – onto the wall. He even had a giant oak desk – so regal – in the middle of the room.

“Who are you?” Brendan asked in a tone much softer, but still angry.

Aberdeen took a deep breath. This was her time to shine. “Hi Mr. Shanahan. My name is Aberdeen Bloom,” she said, stepping forward awkwardly to place her resume on his desk. “I recently graduated from the University of Toronto—”

“And what are you doing here?” he asked.

Aberdeen blanked. What was she doing here? “Um, well, I think I could do a good job as your assistant, and um…” she started, noticing that Brendan was putting on his glasses. Her gave her a look as those words left her mouth. He grabbed the newspapers off his desk and placed them in front of him, over her resume.

‘Alright Aberdeen. Cut the bullshit’ she told herself. “Yeah, so, I graduated U of T and want to become a writer. I sent my resume out everywhere, and my work to try to get published, and finally I got a call from the MLSE human resources department, and…well, basically it’s this or bank-telling.”

Brendan didn’t look up from his newspaper. “So you’re not a fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs.”

Aberdeen’s body stiffened. “Uh…no?”

“And before today you had never heard of me.”

“…No.”

There was an awkward pause. Brendan didn’t seem like he had any more questions in him – if he even cared. It was so clear that he didn’t and that she was bombing this interview. But Aberdeen felt more words coming. “I was recently published in Acta Victoriana, the oldest continuous university magazine in Canada – twice, actually – and was also published in the Hart House Review—”

“I think we’re done here,” Brendan said, not looking up from the newspaper. That was it. Cut throat. Didn’t care.

Aberdeen swallowed her pride. So this interview was a dumpster fire from the get-go. But it was him that came in angry and him that came into this without an open mind. She couldn’t help but scoff at how he dismissed her; he didn’t even have the courtesy to look up. She turned to walk out.

‘Don’t let it end like this’ her mind told her. ‘You have so much within you that he doesn’t want to see’.

So she turned around. “You know what? You’re right. I know nothing about hockey,” she began, her voice as strong and powerful as she could make it. “The woman who brought me in asked if I knew the difference between Matt…Gilmour and something…something Sundin, and I didn’t. I don’t fit in here,” she continued, noticing that he finally looked up. “I’m a girl who grew up in an old bungalow in Etobicoke with immigrant parents. I’m an English major with a double minor in classics and film. But I’m smart. I’m really f…really smart, and I learn fast, and I will work hard if you give me the chance to do so here—”

“Good news – they’ve agreed to take down the story,” somebody burst into the room interrupting her speech. Brendan looked at her until the person laid their iPad down in front of him. “The tweet linking the article is gone and it’s completely gone off their website. Adrienne Batra wants to call you to personally apologize.”

“There’s no way I’m speaking to that woman,” Brendan mumbled. “Tell her I want it in writing. And one to my daughter as well.”

“Thank you for your…time,” Aberdeen said, as if he gave her any. She walked out of his office and out of his life forever.

Aberdeen decided to take the stairs, slowly walking down the flights of stairs, hearing her shoes clack against the bare concrete. There, she could at least wallow in her self-pity after that train wreck of an interview. She could deliberate about her next choices and steps. Keep bank-telling? Go back and get her Master’s? Take a new course? Tell her parents how she was failing? Move back home? Never do anything with her life? Live in her parents’ basement for the rest of her life? Maybe she should just stay in this stairwell. Maybe she should start living here, since there was nothing else for her out there in the big wide world. Maybe she’d become a hermit.

As she finally reached the ground floor, she thanked the receptionist again, who ignored her again. Typical. As she was about to walk out of 50 Bay Street, she heard her name being called. “Aberdeen!”

She turned around. Frances was waving her back, rolling her eyes at the same time. Aberdeen furrowed her brows. Did she forget something? What was going on? She scurried over to Frances. “What’s wrong?”

“Brendan wants to speak to you.”

Aberdeen gulped. She was going to get yelled at by the President of the Toronto Maple Leafs. He was going to completely obliterate her entire life and not-yet-burgeoning career for that little stunt she pulled inside his office with that speech, and she’d never be able to find a job anywhere in Toronto again. She may as well just move into her parents’ basement now.

As they both rode the elevator back up, Aberdeen’s heart kept beating faster and faster. “Do you know what he wants to speak about?” Aberdeen asked.

“I have no clue,” Frances said absent-mindedly, typing something into her phone.

When they arrived back upstairs, Frances led her straight back into Brendan’s office. He was working on his laptop now, instead of reading his newspaper over Aberdeen’s resume. “Brendan, I have Aberdeen back for you,” Frances announced.

“Excellent,” he said, his voice much more upbeat than what is was five or ten minutes ago. “Franny, I’d like you to take Aberdeen to get her picture taken for her new MLSE identification badge,” he said.

Frances’s eyes bulged out of her head. So did Aberdeen’s. “W-What?” Frances stuttered out.

“And after that, I’d like you to take the town car and take Aberdeen to the Eaton’s Centre to get her an iPad Pro with a keyboard so we can start the process of downloading all the necessary apps and internal mail server she’ll need to do the job.”

Aberdeen’s stomach dropped. “I…I got the job?” she asked, completely flabbergasted. Was he nuts? Completely, certifiably insane?

“You start next Monday. Is that fine with you?”

Aberdeen found herself nodding.

***

“I’m so glad Steven could get that done for you today,” Brendan said as he rounded the corner of his desk so he could sit in his fancy big chair. Aberdeen nodded, looking at the screen of her new iPad Pro. Steven, one of the guys from tech support, had helped her download everything she needed to have on it.

“Yeah. It was all really fast.”

“After you finish up here today you may need to go back to the Eaton’s Centre,” Brendan informed her. “You’re going to need to purchase a work wardrobe. Keep every receipt because MLSE will reimburse you. I prefer black, but really…get whatever you think is appropriate for an office.”

“Okay.”

“No heels necessary. When we travel, I obviously don’t mind something more laid back – especially trips to the west coast. Do you have a valid and working passport?”

“Yes sir.”

“Make sure you have it when traveling. Our charter plane will still need to see it. We’ll make copies.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’ll need to be available every game day. We usually have Sundays off, but it’s a very untraditional schedule. You’re okay with that?”

“Yes sir.”

“And I have your contract for you,” he said, grabbing some paperwork on the desk. “We’ll have someone from the legal department come and explain it shortly,” he handed it to her, “but you’ll see the salary at the bottom of the first page.” Aberdeen looked down. Her eyes bulged at the number. “If everything is to your liking, then we can sign.”

“Okay,” she nodded her head. She gulped.

Brendan looked at Aberdeen and could tell she was nervous – it was obvious in her short “Yes sir” responses anyway, but she looked like she wanted to curl into her shell. “Before Ben from legal gets here, I would like to apologize about this morning,” he said. “A local newspaper ran an article about one of my daughters, and my children…well, my children are completely off-limits. Everybody knows that. But sometimes some journalists like to see how far they can take things, even though they know family is off limits.”

Aberdeen understood where he was coming from. If anyone ever said anything bad about Siena or Camden, she’d have their head on a spike. She couldn’t even imagine what it was like for a father, or any parent for that matter, to have an article published about their child without their permission. “I understand, Mr. Shanahan.”

“We are like a family here, you know – MLSE, but the Leafs especially. You will feel part of that family soon enough.”

Aberdeen nodded nervously. “I’m sure I will, Mr. Shanahan.”

“Well…” he shrugged his shoulders, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her. “Congratulations, Miss Bloom. You are now an employee of MLSE.”

***

“With the Leafs?!” Kasha was shocked when Aberdeen told her. She’d started pouring glasses of wine when Aberdeen told her she got a job, but once she revealed the specifics, Kasha was shocked. “Gosh Aberdeen, remember when my dad would bring me, you, and Siena to games with the company season tickets?”

“I know.”

“And now you’re working for them?!”

“For the President. I’m his personal assistant.”

“Oh my God!” Kasha exclaimed. “Seriously though, I bet a million jocks would kill for that job,” she commented as she finished pouring the wine.

“Yeah. Great,” Aberdeen shrugged her shoulders. “Thing is, I’m not one of them.”

“Well, you gotta start somewhere, right?” Kasha offered. She picked up both wine glasses, handing one to Aberdeen. Kasha held her glass up. “To jobs that pay the rent.”

Aberdeen giggled. “To jobs that pay the rent.”

#william nylander #william nylander imagine #william nylander fic #william nylander fan fic #toronto maple leafs #toronto maple leafs imagine #toronto maple leafs fic #toronto maple leafs fan fic #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl fan fic #hockey #hockey imagine #hockey fic #hockey fan fic #the president wears prada series

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ataswegianabroad · 3 years

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Alone Amongst the Gum Trees Part 4 - Digital News Report: Australia - A Murdoch Review

NOTE - this article has been migrated to Medium. As of 2021, A Taswegian Abroad will be closed down, and all of my writing will be published on my Medium profile.

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After seeing a significant public outcry to my story based on a response to Sally McManus on twitter - I recently spoke with the ABC on being an Aussie overseas and the challenges we’ve faced getting home. The failure once again of Morrison’s government to provide enough vaccines and a proper quarantine system (covered up by the Murdoch Press protection racket) is having real implications on everyday Australians.

I strongly believe that for this to change, the media needs to perform its function of holding both elected officials, and their peers in the press, accountable for such actions.

Until Australia has reestablished media fairness among the press, improved media literacy amongst its citizens, and have mostly removed the cancer of Murdoch’s News Corp dominating mainstream media, we will never break this cycle of government ineptitude, gaslighting, negligence, and outright corruption with little to almost zero accountability.

You don't need to look far for proof. The ones that immediately come to mind for me:

2020 Bushfires and consistent climate change denial - "I don't hold a hose mate"

Freedom of speech is threatened where internet comedians get arrested in their own homes for making jokes about a LNP Deputy Premier

Kate and the horrendous Christian Porter alleged rape case

The four stage plan to make a plan about having a plan for Covid, 18 months into the pandemic, with literally no dates or vaccination targets.

Back in March, I caught onto calls for a Murdoch Royal Commission by former prime minister Kevin Rudd, and since then I’ve been keeping a very sharp eye on the Australian media landscape.

Despite over 500,000 petition signatures and the ramping exposure by Rudd online (leading to a full senate enquiry), the Murdoch press is doing its best to discredit, misdirect, or, blatantly ignore the storm that’s brewing. A couple of major things have caught my attention since that date.

News Corp outlets are still consistently cowing their competitors at Nine, Seven, the ABC, and more into towing the pro-Coalition narrative THEY choose, or, risk facing character assassination. This applies to everyone who dares step out of line: reporters, ministers, producers, senators, editors, presenters, janitors… no one is safe.

This sort of behaviour and influence is not easy to show on graphs and charts, but if you read between the lines, you can see it. Let me show you.

The ABC Presents the Data

In April of 2021, the ABC published a fact-file article outlining the power of the Murdoch press - the first article from an at least somewhat reputable source addressing this that I’ve seen on this topic.

The biggest things I took from it are that despite there seeming to be a diverse ownership pool across many mediums, News Corp (Murdoch) newspapers significantly dominate the national market for print papers, and, have recently been crowned leaders of the #1 source of news for Australians: social media (via mostly viral, opinion, and video based content primarily from News.com.au and Sky News pages on Facebook and YouTube).

Remember this point - spoiler alert: it’s important.

At the recent senate enquiries, News Corp claims there is in fact diversity - focusing on different mediums such as online, social media, radio, television etc. available to represent “diversity”. This is response refers to medium diversity, and is quite frankly a misdirection based on a technicality to avoid the real question. Classic News Corp.

Rudd says “each story published online or broadcast over the airwaves finds its point of origin in a print story, often a Murdoch print story". The former PM is referring to content diversity where factual reporting reigns supreme, and different points of view are given equal time in the sun without the blurring of opinion and fact.

As Kevin likes to say: “pigs might fly”

While you might be thinking “so what? News Corp is strong in print and social, Nine is strong for television and online news, ABC is strong on radio and social, Seven is strong on radio and television etc” - I’d like to ask you a question: where then is the accountability for elected officials in the media?

The Murdoch press won’t say a word about the Coalition’s ever growing laundry list of corruption, negligence, ineptitude or incompetence, but if a Labor politician sneezes, they’re likely to be labelled a Covid super spreader on the front page of 15 national and state papers the next day.

How about this doozy from the Herald Sun in May 2021 after Dan Andrews quite literally broke his back and took medical leave:

I didn’t see one peep from the Murdoch reptiles about Morrison's three day actual disappearing act only last week after his bogus "AstraZeneca is OK for under 40’s / go to your GP” comments.

The key thing to point out here is that the news provider who ranks number one in Australia's largest news medium (social media) is a well known right wing protection racket that doesn’t show any signs of slowing down, and there's mountains of evidence that exists to prove they don’t play a fair game.

Let’s Go To the Numbers

To really drill down into how important online media control is, I found the Digital News Report: Australia 2021 (i.e “the report” for the rest of this article), recently published by the University of Canberra by way of the Reuters Digital News Report: 2021

Below I've outlined a number of key headers from the report, and more specifically tried to point out exactly where Murdoch and News Corp are exploiting and manipulating their way into control. The data shows us both what has been going on, and the direction it will likely continue in.

Having worked in digital marketing for the better part of the last four years, I couldn’t wait to dive into this data and explain just how much of a rort this all is for the sake of profit.

1: Local News

Replaced by Murdoch Sky News, Invests in Social Media

“For ‘hard news’ such as local politics, economy, crime and health, local news consumers continue to turn to traditional local news outlets, such as the newspaper or TV. However, for most other news and information, consumers are using internet search and other internet sites to get localised information.”

The report tells us that:

“2020 was a difficult year in Australian news sector, with news companies closing or suspended. This is in part a response to the COVID-19 pandemic, but it reflects a longer-term gradual decline in newspaper consumption that is replaced by online offerings”

So why did the BBC report in 2020 that Murdoch shuts 112 Australia print papers in major digital shift? CNN covered it too, as did the Guardian. I couldn’t find anything on a Murdoch owned site or outlet. That’s because Rupert is rolling out “Sky News Regional” to replace them all.

The report outlines:

“This year’s data highlights the important role of newspapers in generating a sense of community, particularly among older news consumers . Further, newspapers are perceived to be the best source of information about local government and politics, which is central to the functioning and accountability of local communities. It is important for industry and government to remember that the closure of a local newspaper not only leaves a gap in the provision of quality news, but also a loss of critical information that is connected to people’s sense of attachment to their community”

How on earth does one far-right Sydney run “news” channel represent hundreds of regional communities? Answer: It doesn’t - it’s designed to influence regional voters to think the way that suits the Murdoch press agenda.

2: Impartiality of News

Murdoch Cuts ABC Funding via Coalition, Ramps-Up Online Polarisation

The report tells us that

“traditionally, values of independence, and impartiality — or ‘objectivity’ — have been central to journalism’s mission and deemed important to perceptions of trust in news. However, in the digital media environment, former demarcations between news, features, opinion, and advertising continue to blur.

“News audiences are becoming more polarised and are increasingly attracted to news brands that offer partisan perspectives.”

What you’re seeing here is that while the data reveals a strong desire for news outlets to attempt fairness, balance, and an impartial approach to reporting - the demographics more likely to use social media (the medium that Murdoch now leads, mostly containing Millennials and Gen Z) are less supportive of impartiality, neutrality and giving equal time. More on this in Part 8.

On the flip side:

"news consumers who prefer impartiality are much more likely to say they distrust news on social media.”

“Both the 2020 and 2021 data highlight that these traditional journalism ideals are more strongly supported by older generations and those who use traditional sources of news."

You need not look further than the blatant defunding of the ABC to see how the Murdoch Cancer continues to take over.

So, if the majority of Australians believe the ABC is impartial and does a “good job”, why has the ABC had $783m in funding cut since 2014 by the Coalition government?

Seems to suit the Murdoch agenda pretty nicely.

3: News Representation

Low Media Literacy in Under-Represented Demographics

“Importantly, a large proportion of Australians say they don’t know if the amount of media coverage of ‘people like them’ is sufficient or fair. Those who have low education are much more likely to say they don’t know. This indicates a lack of engagement and adequate media literacy to identify misrepresentation and bias in the news.

“Combined with a lack of awareness about misinformation, lower interest in and consumption of news, these findings confirm the ongoing need for targeted media literacy interventions"

The only way the public can push back against misinformation is by knowing they’re witnessing it first hand. That does not suit what Murdoch is selling.

Misinformation breeds confusion, smoke and mirrors, and is aided by political spin, gaslighting and stone throwing to keep people moderately confused and ultimately giving up on understanding the “truth”, or, deciding their own convenient version of truth.

The closure of the Australian Alternative Press due to revoked funding by Nine and News Corp in 2020 should be enough to tell you the media landscape is gravitating consistently to the right.

4: News Access

People Losing Interest, Murdoch Keeps the Elderly Onside

As traditional mediums (television, radio, and print) are on the decline, social media and online news is on the rise with the aid of mobile device popularity (45% of Australians preferred news devices).

It's not a surprise to learn that during COVID-19, older Australians have increasingly turned to social media platforms to get news.

“The percentage of 75+ who use social media as their main source of news has more than tripled in two years from 3% to 10%. Among this age group, social media is now comparable to print use.” the report states.

While it’s hard to point this as a direct plot by News Corp, this is still great news for Murdoch. All News Corp had to do was weaken the traditional mediums that aren’t making them as much money, and push the audience toward social media. It worked.

75+ votes still count, and they are more likely to click the “clickbait” articles to make News Corp that sweet, sweet ad platform revenue.

5: Emerging New Habits

Murdoch Funds the Fuel for the Fire

Despite people being somewhat varied on their social media usage for news specifically, the important statistic here is that more than half of Australians consume news videos.

The below statistics from the ABC should set alarm bells screaming. To put it plainly:

More people on social media than ever before

Murdoch ramps up social media content (Facebook posts / videos & YouTube videos mainly), then mega-funds paid advertising on said content

Drives subscribers and views through the roof

Overtakes ABC (yes, the one he’s got his politician friends/puppets actively defunding)

Don’t believe me? See for yourself.

The ABC outlines that:

“Fact Check has analysed audience data for media accounts on what Canberra University found were the two most popular platforms: Facebook (used by 39 per cent of news consumers ) and YouTube (21 per cent).”

“Data from the analytics site Social Blade shows that Sky News Australia's YouTube channel had more than a million subscribers at the start of 2021, having doubled its following in just six months. Its subscriber base began to pull ahead of Channel 7 and Channel 9 from mid-2020, and by March 2021 Sky had overtaken ABC News”

The University of Canberra report aligns to these trends, and summaries that:

“Australian news consumers are accessing news online from a diverse range of sources including news videos, podcast apps, and numerous social media platforms alongside traditional branded news websites.”

“Although social (media) is the most common main pathway to news online it is common for consumers on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and Instagram to say they mostly see news incidentally while they are on those platforms for other reasons.”

6: Trust and Misinformation

Rupert’s Bread & Butter

“Tackling disinformation and misinformation is complex and won’t be solved by platforms alone. Responsibility must be shared across governments, digital platforms, users, news media and society to make sure Australians can access accurate and reliable news and information online, while ensuring rights to freedom of expression are protected.”

Creina Chapman, Deputy Chair, Australian Communications and Media Authority

This in part ties back to my earlier points in part 3 regarding media literacy - the report indicates that trust remains high where people use both multiple mediums AND multiple sources for news. This is further compounded by the evidence that low educated readers are less likely to know they’ve encountered misinformation.

The report confirms this by indicating:

“The differences between high and low educated Australian consumers in relation to concern about COVID-19 misinformation and their ability to discern it, points to an ongoing need to boost media and information literacy among socio-economically disadvantaged groups in Australia”

The ABC and SBS still continue to be the most trusted brands, however, it needs to be highlighted that “Local or Regional Newspaper” comes in third (62% trustworthy) - the vast majority of which Murdoch owns.

In 2020, survey participants were most concerned about Australian governments and politicians being sources of general misinformation (35%), followed by activists or activist groups (20%).

Despite this, 2021 shows that trust in news has increased in 2021 (43%), rebounding off trust associated with COVID-19 news reporting. The report breaks this down further:

“The data show(s) that concern about journalism as a source of misinformation about COVID-19 is very low (9%). In 2018, we asked about ‘fake news’ and 63% of news consumers said they were concerned about poor quality journalism as a source of ‘fake news’, and 40% said they had encountered it. This signals a possible positive shift in perception of journalism after 12 months of reporting expert health advice about the COVID-19 pandemic.”

"The data also highlight(s) ongoing low levels of trust in news found on social media (18%) compared to trust in news generally. Given much of the news encountered on digital platforms is the same as that which appears on the homepages and front pages of well-respected news brands, the findings suggest that the nature of the online environment itself is one the factors lowering perceptions of trust, rather than the news content."

Creina Chapman, Deputy Chair, Australian Communications and Media Authority states in the report that:

“In the context of online news, nearly two-thirds of Australians remain concerned about what is real and fake on the internet. And a variety of surveys over the past 12 months have shown a concerning portion of the population believe dangerous falsehoods about COVID-19 that have been circulating online.

"Any lack of trust in authoritative or reliable sources of news and information is particularly worrisome during a global pandemic, as it may drive people to spaces where misinformation is more prevalent. This, in turn, increases exposure to false conspiratorial narratives that can result in real-world harm to both individual users and broader societal institutions”

Where does Murdoch benefit here? Same as always: smoke, mirrors, confusion, and spin all wrapped into enormous volumes of social media content.

7: Paying for News and Funding Journalism

Conveniently Avoiding the Issue

“To ensure media diversity and plurality in Australia, a mix of substantive, fiscal measures is necessary to support, transition and stimulate existing news businesses and encourage new entrants”

Anna Draffin, Chief Executive Officer, Public Interest Journalism Initiative

Despite a fair and balanced media being a must-have for any democracy - this is not surprising, given the low amounts of trust for online media content. Overall, given that Australians are not concerned about the poor financial state of news outlets, it’s sad but not surprising that many feel the government should not step in to help.

What is the most dangerous here is the simple fact that when there’s no money to fund decent and ethical journalism, we end up with tabloids, opinion pieces, shock jocks, and anything that just gets you to first: SEE it (an “impression” in the marketing world) and second: CLICK on it. Both of these things make News Corp richer.

Here’s the report evidence:

“A quarter (25%) of left-wing news consumers and 27% of centre-leaning are supportive of government intervention (to assist struggling journalism). However, more than half of right-wing (58%) news consumers are opposed to government assistance for financially struggling news companies."

“This is consistent with the findings that left-wing news consumers are more likely to say they are concerned about the financial state of news businesses (41%) compared to centre (37%) or right-wing (34%) news consumers”.

News consumers who think their political views are represented fairly for online news are another win for Murdoch. This is compounded by the fact that those who think news should take a position are also more likely to pay for that news.

That means if the mainstream media is pro-right wing, for example, then more people look at right wing news and pay for right wing reporting, ultimately leaving the left without funding, and fighting a losing battle. All Murdoch needs to do is discredit who he deems as “left” and it’s game over.

But Murdoch doesn’t need subscriptions. That’s just pocket money for him. With the introduction of the News Media Bargaining Code, Rupert & News Corp continue to improve their financial revenue streams through digital marketing strategies (views and clicks) without needing people to pay for fact based, objective journalism.

8: Political Orientation

Stealing the Centre & Making Opinion the “News”

Of all the elements of this report, this one shocks and upsets me the most.

The majority of Australians (61%) identify with the centre-left of politics (30% political ‘centre’ and 31% identify as either ‘very left-wing’, ‘fairly left-wing’ or ‘slightly left of centre’).

Only 22% of Australians align themselves with the right wing, and 18% don’t know their political orientation.

Younger generations have historically been the drivers of progressive social change, and younger Australians are more concerned about the environment and the impacts of things like climate change and equality.

Clare Armstrong, National Political Reporter at the The Daily Telegraph outlines in the commentary that:

“many young Australians may rightly feel their futures, livelihoods and social activities have been either jeopardised or overlooked by a centre-right government, and subsequently a larger cohort has been pushed toward the left”

To begin in closing, based on this - how do Conservative/Right Wing parties keep winning federal elections?

It’s by doing exactly what we’ve mentioned in the first 7 sections:

Flooding the online and social media landscape with non-factual spin and confusion

This is aided by the bedrock of owning the majority of national, capital city, and regional papers which in turn steer the daily political narrative on television/radio

This is all driven home by bullying competitors into following suit, or, suffering the consequences

There is no governing or peer run body with teeth (or guts) to hold Murdoch and News Corp responsible or accountable

According to the report;

“Younger generations, who say they feel less attached to their local community, and who also access social media widely for general news, are more likely to seek local news and information from the internet and online platforms.”

As Clare Armstrong also states:

“Social media has significantly fuelled political polarisation in the last decade as its algorithms, by design, show users more of what they want to see, rather than a broader mix of ideas presented in traditional media.”

In summary - this quote from the Political Orientation trends leaves a long-lasting impression on my psyche:

“Left-wing news consumers (61% of the country) are more comfortable with news that takes a position rather than maintaining neutrality.”

Rupert has them right where he wants them: thinking that opinion is news.

#murdochroyalcommission #scotty from marketing #covid australia #auspol

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beanaritadrunkz · 3 years

Text

June 17, 2021

I wake up every morning with a billion things going through my brain at 100 mph. So many things I want/need to do. It is almost energizing, as if I have the energy to complete everything by the end of the day. Sometimes it feels like I can’t make a decision when my brain is like this- any decision. Today, it felt like I couldn’t do anything or get anything done properly. I felt like I was forgetting something even though I knew I wasn’t. Thats when I started panicking. Almost as if I couldn’t go through the door because something would happen if I really was missing something and with my brain going 100 mph in all different directions, I knew I would miss something. No matter how many times I went through my list.

I’m remembering now why I don’t like journaling. My hand can’t write as fast as my brain is going. Every morning it starts like this. I feel excited by the surge of determination but then its time to actually do something. So I sit down and try to knock things out. This is when the spinning, energy, and drive is cut in half. I make lists, I start with small tasks, but after about 10 minutes, it starts to feel impossible. Even simple tasks like writing an email. Only some tasks are doable, the rest less important. That way, its okay to take longer. It will be okay if I go home and get it done there. Yeah, thats it. I just can’t focus here. So I pack up my things. It’s been an hour, and I already got some stuff done. Everyone else will think I’m not working, they will see me as lazy. I become invisible, worthless, an outcast. No, I’m just going to work from home and their jealous. Another 20 minutes, I pack up my things. I say bye and walk to the car, convincing myself its just the environment. I think about what I will get done when I get home but suddenly the mountain of tasks has doubled yet it is fading away. Thats when the overwhelming feeling starts, I don’t know what to call it but its the same feeling I have when the ocd starts. No. Thats not happening. When I get home, I will relax then get back to work. Its a great plan.

I open the door and look around. What can I do to relax? Oh yeah, I need to let my dog out. A walk would be nice and she will love it. Thinking about it, the 1 mile walk becomes 100 miles, even going around the complex is way too far. I let her out to go to the bathroom but now I feel ashamed. Can’t even take my dog on a walk. She looks back and forth at me longingly. A simple task. It would be great for both of us. But it has been an hour and all I have now is shame. Any flinch or small movement makes her jump up. She thinks its walk time. We settle with sitting on the patio but in the back of my head I start to remember the day is still going on. I sit with her for 2 minutes before deciding to tackle some tasks. Anything from work seems too big so I will start by cleaning. I get overwhelmed by the mess and the shame starts to creep back. No. Thats too big. Lets check email instead. Nothing. Of course theres nothing, no one asks me for help and I have so much to do. 2 hours later, I realize I’m online shopping or reading weird articles. Well there is still time in the day and I did work today, for a few hours. I can play a game or watch a show.

A few hours later, I am still on the couch. Shame comes back. Nope. We are done with that. I check my phone. A reminder for all the friends I failed. Okay, back to the show. Oh, its 1 am. I guess I should go to bed. As I lay down, my brain starts up again. I am now wide awake with all the energy I didn’t have earlier. My brain spins but slower this time. It is much different. All the things I didn’t do go spiraling by. Remember that form you were supposed to sign a month ago? You didn’t sign it and they will have to track you down so you can... again... for the 4th time. You spent the whole day doing nothing. Pathetic. Okay, tomorrow is a new day. I push it out of my brain and turn on a distraction. 3 am and I am falling asleep.

6 am, alarm goes off. The day repeats. 2 weeks later, I am having anxiety attacks because I am meeting with the boss and nothing is done. I have been able to hide it the last 2 months with only 3 more sentences. No wonder why no one in the office likes me. I shower it off and get to work. 3 hours until meeting, thats enough time. So many things are going through my head. I think I am having a big self realization moment. Okay, talk to therapist. Wait, therapist is booked out for at least 2 months. Journal? No, I hate doing that. But I need to think this through, stop ignoring it. Okay, I’ll journal. 2 hours until meeting. I haven’t even opened the word doc. I’m hiding elsewhere on campus. I don’t want the others to see how big of a failure I am. 2 hours until meeting yet I am sitting here writing this.

#journal #mental health #anxienty #notherapist #everyday

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

kiss me in the d-a-r-k .epilogue iii.

after hours

masterlist

Warnings: dub con sex (oral, intercourse)

This is dark!(dad)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader is surprised.

Note: Fic daddy here. Please tell me to stop calling myself that. I’m here, writing this still and this part is 🔥🔥🔥 I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply!

...

Sunday morning. You woke up in a foreign bed with a foreign feeling of someone laying next to you. Steve's hand was on the blanket along your stomach.

You barely remembered falling asleep. He was too tipsy to drive and didn't trust your own state on the subway. So you relented and stayed, only too eager to sleep. Now you wished you'd left as you peeked over at him.

He laid on his side, his arm stretched across you. He was peaceful. He looked older. Well, he acted younger than he was. You rubbed your forehead and slipped out from beneath the covers.

You grabbed the white robe hanging from the closet door and wrapped it around yourself. You went to the floor length windows that overlooked the city and stared out at the early morning traffic. You yawned and lost yourself in the distant lights and muffled cacophony of the streets.

You sensed movement behind you. You didn't look back as you focused on the colours and people below. What were you doing? Why had you done it again?

You just couldn't help yourself. He had this power over you. The ability to pull your guiltiest urges to the surface. To make you forget all qualms and surrender entirely.

"Coffee?" His voice was still thick with sleep. "There's a machine here."

"No, I think I'll get one on my way out. I gotta study. I've got my first midterm this week." You turned slowly to him as he neared. Naked.

"You got your bag. You can study here." He coaxed as he pulled you into his arms. "I have some running around to do so I won't bother you...until I get back."

"Thanks, but I can't." You ran your hand along his chest.

"Fine," He shrugged, "Will you at least leave me with a little something to distract me?"

Your brows knitted as you considered him. He was insatiable. "Again?"

"It's a new day," His hand dipped down and squeezed your ass. "Let’s end the weekend on a high note."

You sighed and brought your arms up along his shoulders. "I suppose you've got a point."

Monday you had class until one and then the workshop at three. You expected it to last a couple hours and you’d be ready to settle down and study until you fell asleep. A full day to start a full week.

Wednesday was your midterm and you spent every empty minute going over your notes, even at the expense of your other classes. Next week, you’d deal with those as you crammed for three exams in as many days.

Your morning classes were slow. The first lecturer was a small old lady who refused to use a mic so every student hunched over their desk to hear her. Your second was a younger man, a new hire all too eager to enrich the minds of those only a few years behind him. You diligently recorded your notes and ignored the buzzing of your bag. Steve was as relentless in text as he was in person.

In the hours between, you grabbed lunch and checked your messages. Kylie wanted a study night as she crammed for the exam she’d forgotten about and Steve wanted what he wanted. You told both you’d see what happened. Neither was happy. The Rogers’ were rapacious.

You were early to the workshop as you were early to everything. The door was open and you peeked inside to find only Professor Barnes inside. He was fiddling with the projector remote and you shyly stepped inside. Since your night of beer with the two older men and you little conversation with Steve, your nerves had grown more frantic when thinking of him.

“Um, hey,” You alerted him to your presence as you entered. “Looks like I’m early.”

“Or just in time,” He flipped the projector on and tossed aside the remote. “You wanna help set up?”

“Um, sure.” You set your bag down along the front table and crossed to him. “What can I do.”

“Just have some packets that need to be distributed. We have about twenty people. You can space ‘em out.” He pulled out a stack and dropped it on the table along the front. “Oh, and another favour…”

“Yeah,” You looked up at him as you pulled the pile over to you.

“Don’t mention our little beer night to anyone.” He lowered his voice. “I just don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

“Oh, of course,” You agreed with a nervous chuckle. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Thanks,” He smiled and turned back to dig around in his bag.

You went along the tables and doled out the packets. You glanced over at the professor now and then and wondered. Had Steve been wrong? He surely didn’t want to fuck you. Steve just liked to flatter you. He was good at that. Liked to tease you over your stupid little crush. You shook your head as you came to the end of the stack and kept the last for yourself.

You sat beside your bag and tapped your fingers on your desk. You picked at the corner of the front page and Bucky cleared his throat. Professor Barnes, you corrected yourself as you looked up. He neared the other side of your table.

“You have class after this?” He asked.

“Nope, only studying for my demise,” You answered.

“Hmm,” He nodded. “Would you be open to discussing your last paper then? Only fifteen minutes or so but I thought you’d rather that than stay behind on Friday.”

“My paper?” Your voice quavered without your consent.

“Oh, it’s nothing bad,” He assured you. “Don’t worry so much. So, does that work for you?”

“Sure, yeah,” You shrugged. “I haven’t got anything else to keep me.”

“Great,” He smiled and backed away.

He glanced up as voices echoed down the hall and grew nearer. Other students began to trickle in and you pulled out your phone. You sent the same message to Steve and Kylie. ‘Appointment tonight. Dunno when done. Sorry.’

The workshop went relatively quick. Barnes reviewed the schedule and the basics of journalism and publishing. The ten-week program would include visits to magazines and editors all over the city and culminate in the chance to have an article published by one. It was exciting and you wondered what kind of strings the professor had to pull to set it all up.

When he dismissed the class, chairs scraped and voices filled the silence quickly. You packed up and checked your phone. Kylie had sent a sad face and Steve was much less affected; ‘no problem ;)’. As you slipped your phone away, Barnes looked up from his bag.

“Hey, you didn’t forget already, did you?” He kidded.

“Of course not,” You grabbed your jacket and bag. “Just in here?”

“Nah, there’s a class coming soon, we’ll have to head to my office but it’s just a few floors up.” He hooked his bag over his shoulder and waited at the end of your table. “Elevator’s under service right now though. You’ll get a decent work out in.”

You giggled and followed him out of the room. You hated how dumb you sounded when he was around. How you must have seemed like some little girl. You weren’t, not anymore. The summer had made you a woman and you were tired of being treated otherwise.

When you reached his office, you were out of breath. You needed to start walking as much as you read. He unlocked the door and ushered you inside with a wave of his arm. You entered first and were surprised when he closed the door behind him. Most professors made a point of leaving their offices open.

“I don’t wanna keep you all night,” He put his bag on his desk and threw the flap open. “We’ll just go over a few things.”

He sifted through the papers within and pulled out a stapled bunch. You neared the chair opposite his desk and set down your bag and jacket. he was beside you before you could sit.

“I’ve underlined all the errors, as few as they were. Comments in the margin.” He handed you your paper. “Again, minimal, but helpful. We learn something new every day.”

“Uh, yeah,” You took it and thumbed through it. “Thanks.”

“You make all the corrections and it’s perfect.” He praised. “Ready for submission.”

“Submission?” You turned and looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a contest in Media Scope Journal. I think you’ve got a good chance of winning and I’d hate for you to miss the opportunity.” He explained. “A second year, published in a scholarly journal is a hell of a thing to have on your CV.”

“You--you really think I could get in?” You marveled up at him. “I--” You looked down and let the title page fall flat. “Thanks. I’ll make the changes and get it back to you.”

“Great,” He patted your arm but his hand lingered. “You’re a smart girl. You could go very far.”

You looked at his hand and then up at him. His blue eyes gleamed and his silver-laced beard defined the natural angles of his jaw. You smiled back at him and your cheeks burned. He squeezed your arm and slowly his fingers brushed along your sleeve.

Without a second thought, you stood on your toes and pecked his lips. The tickle of his beard and the smoothness of his lips broke you from your trance at once. You backed away and slapped your hand over your mouth as the paper threatened to slip from your grasp. He blinked but was calm as ever.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” You pressed your palm to your hot cheek. “I didn’t--I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have--” You turned and grabbed your bag and shoved the paper inside. “I should just go work on this.”

“Wait,” He followed closely, his hand planted on the back of the chair to block you as you turned to flee. “You don’t have to. It’s...okay.”

“It’s really not,” You cringed. “That was so--so--”

“Right.” He finished for you. “Don’t you feel it? This thing between us.”

You stared back at him stunned. Did you knock your head and pass out? What was going on?

“It’s wrong,” You insisted. “You’re my professor.”

“So,” He countered. “It shouldn’t matter. I mean, I’ve never...with a student. Never felt like this but…”

“Professor--”

“Bucky,” He corrected breathily, his hand on your shoulder again. “Call me Bucky.”

“I...I...I…” You stuttered.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” His hand came up to cradle your face. “You’re young. You have the whole world ahead of you. What’s one little lapse.”

You searched his face. His finely lined eyes, his cheekbones still perfectly chiseled, his soft lips just beneath his thick beard. He was a handsome man, despite his age. The time only seemed to have complemented his looks. He leaned in and all your reticence slipped away. As his lips met yours, the tension snapped and you were swept up in the rush. You dropped your bag and jacket to the floor.

He turned you and pushed you against the desk so that you were caught between him and the wood. He was strong but gentle, his hand tickled your neck as he kissed you deeply. He was fervent, determined, as if he has been thinking of this as long as you had.

His hands traveled along your arms and gripped your hips. They slipped around and he lifted you onto the edge of the desk as he slouched to keep his lips on yours. He pulled at the hem of your knit sweater as he pushed between your knees.

You raised your arms as he parted to pull the sweater over your head. Your wore the same grey bra beneath and his eyes flared along the top of your breasts. He cupped one and bent to bury his face in your chest.

His beard tickled and you giggled. His teeth surprised you as he nibbled the flesh and you exclaimed. He was rougher than Steve, his touch as decisive but without the same tenderness. Bucky didn't think of you as a girl, you realized, liked Steve did. He treated you like a woman.

His fingers unhooked the button of your fly and pushed the zipper down. He slipped below your panties and you spread your legs wider. You welcomed him as he played with your clit, his lips inch back up you neck and to your mouth.

He rubbed your bud as your breath caught and you pulled away to gasp. He kissed your neck and teased your skin with his teeth as he continued to toy with you. You grinded against his hand and his fingers slid back to your entrance.

He pushed two fingers inside and you moaned in surprised delight. You never expected him to be like this. Straight to the point. He pressed his palm to your clit and curled his fingers. His hand moved steadily and he raised his head to watch your face contort in pleasure.

You pouted and rasped as your nerves started to buzz. His other hand grasped the back of your head as his blue eyes bore into yours. Don't look away. You were ready to burst as you clasped his shoulder and your other hand squeezed his bicep.

"Come on," He bent and whispered in your ear. "Let it go."

The orgasm tore through you like a storm and left your wits scattered. He eased you down from your peak and slowly removed his hand. He held up his glossy finger and licked them. The sight inflamed you.

"Get down." He ran his hand along your thigh. "Turn around."

You stood shakily and obeyed. When your back was to him, he took your hands and placed them flat to the desk. He grabbed your hips and pulled you back so you were slightly bent over.

He tugged your jeans and panties past your ass and the cool air tickled your pussy. He grabbed your ass and squeezed. Then slapped it so hard you squealed. He gave a dark chuckle and drew his hands away. You heard his belt, then his zipper. Your lashes fluttered and you peeked over your shoulder.

He spanked you again. “I didn’t say you could look.”

You bit your lip and faced the wall. A small window behind his chair looked out onto campus below. You had a sudden sense of deja vu. He stepped closer and his cocked poked your ass. He purred as he pressed himself to your back and his hand fiddled around between you. He guided himself to your entrance and pushed inside.

He was thick and stretched your as he got deeper and deeper. Your nails dug into the wood of his desk and he reached around to cover them with his own. He bottomed out and nibbled your ear with a growl.

“Fuck.” He swore and squeezed your hand as his other floated up to your chest. He pushed your bra up and tweaked your nipple. He kneaded your tit and gave a long slow thrust. “You want more? Ask.”

Your tongue slipped out between your lips and you groaned. You pushed back into him and wiggled your ass.

“Ask,” He pinched your nipple again.

“More, please?”

“Please?” He repeated and nuzzled your neck.

“Please, Professor Barnes.”

He snarled and slammed into you. The buttons of his shirt rubbed against you and caught on your bra. You were on tip toes as he crashed into you again and again. You whined as the reverberations rippled through you. Your thighs and back tingled with the mounting pleasure. Steve was firm but never this harsh. Never this savage.

Your hips hit the edge of the desk each time he rocked his hips. Your hands slid across the wood and messed the papers and pens atop his desk. He pounded into you until you were bent over it entirely. His hands went to your shoulders and he pinned you down.

He never wavered. His grunts and groans filled you with pure heat. You gripped the far edge of the desk and panted into the wood. You exclaimed as you came again. This time it was even more intense. Your feet were off the floor as he rutted against you.

He grabbed your hips and fucked you harder. His thrusts grew erratic as his breathing got louder. He pulled out of you all once and growled. You felt warm ribbons spill along your left thigh as he came. His fingers spread across your ass as his other hand stroked him through his climax.

When he was done, he tapped your ass and backed away. You trembled as you pushed yourself up and looked between your legs. His cum was all over your panties. You turned to him as he tucked his cock away. You would’ve been embarrassed if the haze of lust hadn’t blinded you.

“Just take ‘em off,” He said as he smirked at your dirtied panties. “Or keep ‘em on...that’d be kinda hot.”

You glanced up at him in shock. The eloquent professor, the disciplined scholar, was as lewd as any fratboy. You shoved your pants down and swiftly untangled your panties. You pulled your jeans back up and buttoned your fly. You frowned at the wet fabric. You folded them carefully so that the mess was hidden.

“I...should go.” You took your bag and buried your panties at the bottom. You grabbed your sweater from the floor and stood. “Study.”

“Sure,” He neared and his hand traced the curve of your waist. “I need those changes by Thursday. Can you do that, baby?”

You blanched at the nickname. It sent a thrill through you and yet it sent you into a spin. You had fucked your professor. In his fucking office. And he just happened to be buddy buddy with your best friend’s dad. Who you had also fucked.

“Of course,” You smiled and he brought both his hands up to cradle your face.

“Good girl.” He kissed you hungrily, his tongue pushed inside and he didn’t stop until you were breathless. “Go. Study.” He caressed your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll see you around.”

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