#it would only be part time as an adjunct but I’d still be making almost double an hour than I would as a dental assistant | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dragonmuse · 2 years

Note

I'd love to see some wmits Izzy and Alma interactions.

(you've got it!!)

“Charlie!” Alma called as soon as she walked in the door. “I need to borrow your husband!”

“How did you get in here?” He called back, coming out of the office with a frown.

“I made a copy of your key, obviously,” she tossed her braid over her shoulder. Dressed down today, just a little black dress, acid green tights and her lowest heeled boots. “What if you had an emergency and I needed to get in?”

“I’d call Read,” he said dryly. “What do you need Iz for?”

“Ugh, you know Mom’s whole charity thing?” She perched on their couch, reaching down to untie her laces. Apparently she was staying a while. Charlie headed for the kitchen, turning on the coffee pot.

“Which one?” He asked wryly.

“The warming centers thing, you know? Help the homeless?”

“She’s got the arts education thing too,” he reminded her. “But okay, warming centers. What about them?”

“She’s doing a big fundraiser and asked if I would help her out with some of the admin. It’s been fine. You know how much I love to part stupid old men from their money.”

“It’s one of your best hobbies,” Charlie agreed. “Mocha or caramel?”

“Mocha,” she kicked off her boots. “Anyway, the actual event is in two weeks and I cut Kyle loose yesterday.”

“Oh ouch, I thought that was going well.”

“Turns out, he’s a dick and a half,,” Alma sighed. “People are such fucking liars, it’s exhausting. But he would’ve made a bad date to this anyway. All those old men are going to be all over me.”

“So you want Izzy to growl at them?”

“It would make my night,” she beamed at him. The machine started to grind beans, filling the air with the sharp bitter smell.

“He’s at work for another hour. Stick around for dinner and you can ask him yourself.”

“That was the plan. I’m not in the mood to figure out food anyway. What’re you up to?”

“Addressing my advisor’s latest round of critiques,” Charlie sighed. “I think I’m almost done. We’ll see. I don’t know how you survived this.”

“Who says I did? I’m a shell of my former self. And what was left has been devoured by adjuncting. But I got an interview for a tenure position. Came in this morning.”

“Holy shit, where?” He poured the coffee slowly. “What exciting flyover state can we plan on visiting?”

“Oh, I think you’ll find I might be quite close to home.”

“...no fucking way.”

“Way,” she laughed. “I’ve got to get it first, but can you imagine?”

“You’ll move here!” Charlie beamed at her. “Really?”

“Really really, if I get it. Can you imagine? You’ll probably get a gig on the oppisote side of the planet as soon as I do though.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “I’m thinking of looking for virtual teaching positions, honestly. Something that leaves me enough time to research.”

“Ah, ‘the book’,” Alma nodded. “Sure, why not?”

He stirred in the chocolate syrup and brought her the mug, settling beside her with his own. Within a few minutes, they were both on their phones, doing their own thing, but Alma turned around, resting against the arm of the couch, her legs draped over Charlie’s lap. That was the scene Izzy came home to.

“Am I cooking for one more?” He asked wryly.

“Yep,” Charlie looked up, beamed at him. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Izzy set his shoes next to the door then crossed to kiss him. “Can still keep you in style.”

“Oh, you’re keeping me now?” Charlie ran a hand down Izzy’s arm slowly. “How novel.”

Alma’s toes poked into Izzy’s stomach and he caught her foot, “What, princess?”

“Charlie said I could borrow you.”

“I said ask him,” Charlie corrected. “He’s not a library book.”

Izzy dropped her foot, “What for?”

“I’ve got this fundraiser thing I have to go to for mom and you would be an excellent shield against gross old men.”

“I am a gross old man,” Izzy pointed out.

“You’re not that old and you’re definitely not gross,” Charlie squeezed his hand.

“Anyway, blending in can only help,” Alma sniffed. “Be my date?”

“Do I have to be diplomatic about it?”

“Not on my account,” she shrugged. “I’ll do the schmoozing, you bring the glaring.”

“Send me the date then.”

A month later, Izzy picked her up at the Bonnet family home in a black on black suit, no tie, silver embroidered black vest in a pattern of roses, one button undone at his throat, the silver chain he always wore catching the light. He looked like a very classy mobster.

“Did you dress to match me?” Alma asked, clearly delighted. She was in a silver dress, hugging her slight frame with shining jet black accessories.

“Charlie bought it,” he shrugged. “So probably.”

“Amazing.”

When they reached the venue, he opened her door and offered her his arm.

“Oooh giving me the full treatment,” she said happily, taking it, resting her hand butterfly light on his forearm.

“What’s the use unless you sell it?” he acknowledged. “Your mother know I’m coming?”

“I had to tell her,” Alma sighed. “Can you imagine how funny it would’ve been if I didn’t? But alas. Sitting arrangements etc.”

“She must’ve been thrilled.”

“There was a lot of deep breathing,” Alma agreed. “Too bad for her. I reserve the right to make this bearable for myself.”

It was stuffy inside which felt a little on those nose symbolically. Most of the attendees skewed closer to Izzy’s age than Alma’s, affluent and boring as hell. There was a ten-piece band and a lovely woman singing ballads.

“They’ll have to stop when they give out all the ridiculous awards, patting people on the back for making tax shelters for themselves,” Alma murmured. “I need to talk to the man in the hideous blue number first.”

“Sure,” they approached and it was actually easier to keep pace with her. They were of a height and Alma wasn’t the kind to dash ahead.

“Miss Bonnet!” the man exclaimed.

“Mr. Landon,” she acknowledged. “Thank you so much for coming tonight.”

“I would never miss an invitation from a lovely young lady to such a well put together event. I haven’t spotted your mother yet, but you’ll have to give her my compliments. Truly an outstanding showing,” he plowed on before Alma could say a word, “there used to be a time every night out was quite like this. When I was a young man, there used to be a dozen events like this a month. You were spoiled for choice, now you’re lucky to get a ‘thank you for your donation’ letter. Just leaving money on the table for good causes.”

“I hope you got my thank you note,” Alma said lightly. “Parties are good, but I do like a personal touch.”

“I did,” Mr. Landon realized they weren’t alone at last. “And this is your-”

“Date,” Alma supplied brightly. “Izzy, this is T. Landon, CEO of Metro Formation Banking.”

“I’m familiar with them,” Izzy held out his hand. Mr. Landon glanced down, taking in the tattoo, and shook once very lightly.

“A pleasure,” Mr. Landon glanced between them. “How did you two meet?”

“My brother introduced us,” Alma said merrily.

“Oh,” Landon’s face closed down. “I see. Give my best to your brother. If you’ll excuse me, I see Amanda and I’ve been trying to catch her for weeks.”

“Of course.”

Izzy watched him go, amused. “What did Charlie do to him?”

“His son was selling steroids to the jocks at the high school. Charlie called the cops on them,” Alma smiled faintly. “No idea if he actually was or not. Charlie always hated him. There’s Mrs. Donogue. Try to look extra disreputable. She’s a beast.”

Izzy went around the room with her. He stayed at her side, except to fetch her a glass of champagne that she used to punctuate statements rather than drink and nursed his own along. Each time she introduced him as her date, there were crestfallen looks from the men, followed by a sizing up. He’d meet their assessment with his toothiest smile. Go ahead and ask. I dare you.

The women kept their council better, but he heard the flurry of whispers as they moved around the room.

“Evelyn!” Alma said brightly as they neared the end of her circuit. She sounded genuinely thrilled. “Have you met her before?”

“Charlie has mentioned her, but no.”

“You’ll love her. Aunt E!”

“Don’t call me that in public.” Evelyn was in a billowy deep purple dress that set her breasts on display and hid most of the rest of her. Her eye patch was in the same fabric. She wore no jewelry except for a single ring on her middle finger, an aggressively large diamond. “People will think I’m old enough to be your aunt.”

“You are,” Alma laughed.

“Stop that,” Evelyn groaned. “Or at least stop sounding so happy about it.”

“You have to meet Izzy,” Alma told her. “Izzy, this is Evelyn, Evelyn, this is Izzy.”

“Izzy,” Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “As in, Charlie’s husband.”

“That’s right,” Izzy held out his hand. She shook it, strong and even.

“And where is the problem child?” Evelyn asked Alma though her eye stayed on Izzy’s face.

“Probably reading past my bookmark so he can spoil the ending,” Izzy smiled faintly.

He’d solemnly promised he wasn’t going out alone. Izzy gave it a 50-50 chance of being true. Charlie did not do well in an empty apartment.

“That sounds about right. Tell him that I missed him at the birthday bash this year.”

“I will,” Izzy agreed.

“I’m going to get another drink,” Alma declared, holding her still mostly full glass. “Anyone want anything?”

“A negroni,” Evelyn said evenly.

“No,” Izzy held up his own champagne, still half-full. Alma moved with purpose across the room.

“Not content with just one of them?” Evelyn asked coolly.

Izzy snorted, “I’m here as a distraction, not a real date. Alma can do better than me.”

“So can Charlie,” Evelyn shrugged. “And yet. Here we are with my best friend trying to figure out just where she went wrong.”

“He’s in a long term stable relationship,” Izzy said mildly. It was nice, actually. To have someone be honest about their distaste instead of hiding it in pointed questions. “About to get a doctorate. Most people would consider that a very successful turn out.”

“It has lasted longer than I predicted,” Evelyn admitted. “I kept telling Mary ‘oh, just wait it out’. And then you got engaged and I told her it was a stunt. And now here we are. You’re very serious about him.”

“Yes,” Izzy snorted. “That’s why I married him.”

“People get married for many reasons, Mr. Hands,” Evelyn gestured at the floor. “It’s a lucky few that do it for love.”

“I consider myself lucky,” he agreed. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m very unlucky,” she said without any change in her tone. “I’ve lost two husbands.”

Izzy nodded slowly, “Charlie mentioned.”

“I’m not a very maternal person. Never grieved not having children, but I’ve enjoyed being something like an Aunt to those two. Alma always had a million questions and Charlie took an interest in the business.”

“I’ve heard. He talks about that autopsy a lot.”

“He snuck in,” Evelyn said, a hint of fondness creeping in. “In any case, I take an interest, you understand?”

“I’m glad someone does,” Izzy said dryly.

“I didn’t come to the wedding because frankly, I hate weddings. I hated my own, hated every one I’ve ever been too. So I didn’t get a chance to say this then, but I think it still applies.”

“I’m listening.”

Evelyn shifted her weight, coming inches closer to him. “I have no issue with dead bodies, Mr. Hands. Least of all the ones that deserve to be dead, yet insist on drawing breath. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Izzy smiled at her, pleased as anything.

“I’m...not sure you do?” She straightened.

“No one has threatened me over him yet. It’s fucking great,” Izzy sipped his champagne.

“You...I’m lost,” Evelyn decided.

“Your Mary was furious. Stede-”

“Oh, don’t even mention him. We’ve had words,” Evelyn spat.

“He’s an asshole,” Izzy agreed merrily. “Who blustered at me. No one else has had the guts to do more than that. Even Alma just rolled over to it and she’s the kind of girl that brings an automatic weapon to a knife fight. No one else seemed to give a shit.”

“Guess that makes me special.”

Izzy saluted her with his glass, “Very. A fucking pleasure to meet you, honestly.”

“Here, Auntie,” Alma returned, holding out a glass for Evelyn. “Have fun?”

“You know what,” Evelyn tipped her fresh glass at Izzy. “I think I did.”

They had to sit to eat dinner after that. Izzy ignored his plate, in favor of listening to Alma schmooze her way around the table. Mary was sitting one over, apparently listening intently to some blowhard though Doug kept interrupting with guileless jokes that she laughed over and the blowhard winced at.

There were speeches and awards as dessert came around, then at last the band started up again.

“Dance with me,” Alma demanded.

“Yeah, fine.” Izzy got to his feet.

“We can just do a stomp and sway,” she offered as they got to the floor.

“Fuck that,” Izzy decided. “You know how to foxtrot?”

“No?”

“I’ll teach you.”

“How do you know?” She asked amused as she settled her hand at his waist.

“Long story. But it serves you, so don’t ask questions.”

Alma was a good partner. She moved gracefully, picking up the steps. Charlie liked his dancing dirty and had little interest in the formal. Would he if they came to an event like this? Maybe they’d have to crash a party one day and find out. For now, Alma flew lightly on her feet.

“We make a good couple,” she said impishly to him as they swirled around the floor.

“I look even more like a predator with you then I do with him,” Izzy countered.

“Because I’m a woman?” She asked tartly.

“Because idiots think I could convince you of something. Or force you,” he spun her out, then reeled him back in “If they haven’t met you. They see a guy like Charlie, think he can fend for himself.”

“If only they knew the terrible truth,” Alma snorted.

“Which is?”

“That without Charlie, you’d be lost at sea. And without you, Charlie would be dead.”

“I don’t-”

“Please,” Alma rolled her eyes. “I know my brother. I know what he was like when you met him. I like you a lot. Probably would’ve anyway. But I only love you because you keep him on his feet.”

“Does the same for me,” Izzy offered helplessly. Hurricane Alma. What a force.

“Can’t get divorced then. Mutually assured destruction. Anyway, no one thinks you're a predator tonight. Just a guy with enough cash to turn my head.”

“I’ve got fifty bucks and a triple AAA card.”

“Great, we can have a breakdown and get fast food.”

“It’s a date.”

They left not long after. The Bonnet house was dark. He turned off the car, but she made no move to get out.

“What is it?”

“If I get the job...Charlie says he doesn’t want to leave the area. You think that’s true?”

“We like it,” Izzy considered. “The apartment is a good deal. Know all the decent spots. I’ve got a good amount of clients. Could move, but not a lot of incentive just yet.”

“I want you both to stay,” she kept her eyes on the house. “I might need you.”

“What for?” Izzy frowned. “You don’t need anyone.”

“That’s not the same as wanting to need someone. I don’t....I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”

“About the job?”

“And my entire fucking life,” she snorted. “Ingrid is barely talking to me. Owen is never going to move back to the area. Shawna travels so much, it’s impossible to pin her down. I was counting on that. On them. And now it’s just...gone. So I need to know you’ll be around.”

“I’m not making promises,” Izzy sighed. “But I can’t see where we’d go.”

“Good,” she looked up at last with a half-smile. “If I need a ride in a few days, would you take me somewhere and not ask any questions?”

“Any day,” he said carefully. “Are you all right?”

“Not sure yet.” She leaned over the console, suddenly in his space. She kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Iz. For tonight. And the maybe ride. You headed home?”

It would be a long drive. He could get a hotel room or at least, catch a nap here before going.

“Yeah,” it wasn’t even a question, really.

“I figured,” she grinned. “You’re both so predictable. Don’t fall asleep behind the wheel. It’d be a loss to the accounting community.”

“Fuck off, princess,” he said fondly.

“Night!”

He waited until she was safely in the house, lights flickering on one by one, before turning the car around and headed back home.

#leda house and the kraken verse #wake myself in the shadows #charlie bonnet #alma bonnet #izzy hands

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pursuitoftruth · 1 year

Text

i just need to take a moment and vent my frustrations.

there are several things i would like to do with my life.

but so many of them are unattainable for a variety of reasons. sometimes it’s not as simple as the cliches and toxic positivity would lead you to believe. sometimes you can’t will yourself into the life you want. sometimes you can’t be anything you want to be.

and most of the barriers stem from our society.

i would love to teach.

but to teach in high school, i would need to go back to school. despite having taught high school for nearly two years, i would have to go back to school to obtain licensure. my experience and extensive education in social studies would not be enough.

but to teach in college, i would need to go back to school. despite having taught college courses, i would have to go back to obtain a PhD. my experience and master’s degree would not be enough to secure a position beyond an instructor or adjunct. most of those positions are part-time and do not offer insurance.

i would love to be a lawyer.

but i would need to go to law school. most law schools forbid students from working jobs while earning their JD. i do not have the financial resources to go that far into debt for law school. i am chronically ill and must have health insurance, which is really only affordable if it comes packaged with a full-time job that i couldn’t have while in school.

there are other paths i’d love to take. all of them follow a similar narrative.

i’d need to go back to school.

i’d need to go into substantial debt to do it.

i’d need to forgo health insurance or full-time employment to do it.

i’d need to sacrifice my health to do it.

i’m single. i have no one with which to split life expenses or share health insurance.

i’m chronically ill. i do not have the capacity to work a full-time job AND go back to school. i am not able to be without health insurance.

i’m not financially stable. i do not have the financial resources to afford to go back to school. or to work only part-time and go back to school. or to afford insurance on the marketplace so i could at least take care of my health while going back to school.

(because of various laws in my state, my marketplace options are limited. most of the plans available to me would not cover all of my medications or doctors. and most would require i pay $8000-$9000 out of pocket before the insurance company would start covering anything, co-pays would kick in, etc.)

anyway.

i’m tired.

i’ve been unemployed minus two contract positions that don’t remotely make ends meet for almost a year.

i’ve been searching for a fulfilling job for nearly seven years.

in that time, i’ve received two job offers.

i want a job that pays the bills and fulfills me. i’m finally beginning to understand that notion is quixotic.

it’s becoming increasingly difficult to remember that i am worthy. that i’m not a failure.

i know it has a lot to do with capitalism. with the society we live in that so often fails to value who i am and what i have to offer. .

i know it has a lot to do with an impossible number of hoops to jump through. the right font for resumes. the right resumes. applying at the right time and the right day (yes, really). knowing the right people (i don’t know the right people).

i have a myriad of resumes and cover letters. i network. i reach out. i send letters of interest.

i’m doing everything “right.” i did everything “right.” (so much for that “if you go to college, you’ll be employable” story).

and i’m getting nowhere.

and i’m falling so behind in life. in where i thought i’d be in life. in where i wanted to be in life. and i don’t know if i’ll get there. i don’t know if i’ll ever own a home or be able to travel or know what it’s like to not be in survival mode.

i’m getting older. my degrees are getting older. my chronic illnesses are becoming more unmanageable.

and i’m still waiting for my life to begin. and every path seems closed.

#amanda rambles #unemployment #job search #i'm tired #if you read any or all of this #then you are a gift to the universe and to me #personal

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jessbakescakes · 3 years

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“I’m fine with where I am now.” Thanks!!!

“I’m fine with where I am now.” from this post.

My fluffy tendencies are back, post-series on this one! (This one also got long, OH WELL.)

March 2012

It’s strangely quiet when Donna walks through the door. Depending on what time she comes home, there’s usually some combination of incessant chatter and TV background noise that fills the house. But she can’t hear anything tonight, even as she kicks off her heels and walks toward the living room.

It all makes sense when she finds Josh, asleep on the couch with Caroline tucked under his arm. There’s a stack of books on the coffee table, indicating that a request for more bedtime stories was likely granted. Donna kneels down next to the couch, moving Caroline’s stuffed unicorn out of the way, and presses a soft kiss to Josh’s forehead.

He opens his eyes, stirring just a little, and grins at her as he stretches his free arm. “You’re home early,” he whispers.

“More like you two are up late,” Donna teases. “Well, one of you at least. It’s almost midnight.”

“It couldn’t have been any later than eight when we sat down,” Josh says, stifling a yawn.

“Nora go down okay?”

“Yeah, no problems,” Josh confirms.

Donna gently extricates Caroline from under Josh’s arm, careful not to wake her. “I’ll go put her to bed,” she says, carefully standing and grabbing the unicorn on the way up. She walks Caroline to her room, expertly tucking her in without so much as stirring her. Donna turns around to find Josh leaning in the doorway, watching. She walks toward him and gently pats him on the chest in an attempt to get him to move out of the way so she can shut the door.

Josh leans forward and gives her a kiss, slow and sweet, before abandoning his post. “I had to do that first,” he says once the door is closed. “How was the thing?”

Donna rolls her eyes. “The usual. Spent too much time talking to people who weren’t going to give us what we wanted.”

“Did you try Parker and Sullivan?” He puts his hand at the small of her back and guides her toward the kitchen, pulling out a stool at the breakfast nook for her.

She nods, taking a seat. “You were right on Parker. She and I worked really well together. I can’t tell if Sullivan hates me, but... actually, I’m pretty sure he hates me.”

Josh laughs. “He hates everyone. He does, however, begrudgingly show respect when it is earned. And you, Donnatella Moss, will earn it. I made honey lemon chicken tonight, do you want some?”

“That sounds amazing,” Donna says. “I’m starving. They only had crappy appetizers and by the time I got to eat any, they were mostly picked over. The girls ate that?”

“They did. The vegetables were a bit of a negotiation, but I managed to get Caroline to agree to eat all of her carrots. Nora just picked at all of it.”

Donna listens as Josh recounts the events of the day, preparing some leftovers for Donna as he talks. Sometimes when she gets home he launches right into a recap of what went on while she was gone, presumably eager for adult conversation. It’s Donna’s favorite part of the day. She has always loved the political side of Josh, loved watching him deal with recalcitrant congressmen or rub elbows with heads of state. But it’s possible that she loves the domestic side of him just a little more, listening to him recall a funny conversation he had with Caroline or watching him put another piece of Nora's crayon scribble art on the fridge.

Josh slides the plate over to her, then moves to fill a glass of water. “So I got a phone call today from Sally Doyle from the D-triple-C.”

“Yeah?” Donna asks, accepting the plate.

“She called to ask if I’d thought about getting back into the game. Wanted me to run for the open seat in the Massachusetts 7th.”

“That’s Boston, isn’t it?” Donna asks.

Josh nods. “She was telling me all of the NGOs you could work for if we moved. She’d found the best school districts and everything. She was surprisingly prepared for most objections I had.”

“I always got the impression that you weren’t interested in running for office,” Donna says before taking a bite of chicken.

“I’m not. I turned her down. Then she asked if I’d help them find a replacement.”

Donna takes a sip of water. “What did you tell her?”

Josh raises his eyebrows at her as if to indicate that the answer should have been obvious. “I told her no. I’m not getting back in it.”

“Josh,” Donna starts.

“No, seriously. I’m done, Donna. I like the adjunct gig, I like being home with the girls. I like seeing you every day. I’ll never say never, but for now, I’m done.”

Donna smiles. “If it was something you wanted, we would have made it work.”

“I know.”

“I’m not the only one with a career here,” she continues, waving the fork as she talks. “If you want to do something…”

“Donna,” Josh cuts her off with a laugh. “I’m fine with where I am now. Seriously.”

She looks at him, studying his expression for any hint of doubt or hesitation that he’s not sharing with her, but finds none. From what she’s able to tell, he’s completely sincere, and it makes her heart feel like it’s going to burst out of her chest. Josh Lyman -- the man who was sending her outside with his coat and a cell phone to bully a vote out of some Hartsfield's Landing residents around this time ten years ago, the man who once regularly sparred with senators to further President Bartlet’s agenda -- is satisfied with being a primary caregiver to their children and teaching one night class a week at Georgetown.

“Come here,” she says, leaning across the counter for a kiss. Josh moves toward her, and she drops her fork to gently cup her hands on either side of his face, deepening the kiss just a little.

When she pulls away, he’s grinning. “What was that for?” he asks.

“Everything,” she says. “All of it. What you said, what you’ve done, for me, for us, for our family. Sometimes I can’t believe this is our life, you know?”

He steals the fork she abandoned and takes the bite of food still on it. “I know,” he says with a mouthful of chicken and a smirk. He returns the fork and walks around her, gently placing his hand on her shoulder as he passes. “I’m going upstairs.”

“That an invitation?” Donna asks, turning around on the stool to watch him as he moves out of the kitchen.

“Finish your food and come find out,” he teases, heading up the stairs.

He’s asleep by the time she finishes eating and getting ready for bed, a few pillows propped behind his back in an attempt to keep him awake and upright. She turns off the lamp on his bedside table, then works to remove the pillows from behind his back. “Josh,” she whispers. “That can’t be comfortable. Get in bed.”

He opens his mouth, presumably to either protest or to apologize, but she moves to her side of the bed and pulls back the covers, trying to yank them out from underneath him. “Get in,” she repeats, cutting him off before he can argue.

Josh does as he’s asked, lifting his arm so she can lay her head on his chest and curl up against him. He presses a kiss to her hair, and soon she hears him snoring softly.

#josh x donna #my fics #hufflepuffhermione

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psychedellic-phase · 4 years

Text

Hold Me While You Wait

Tw: mentions of death/ maeve story line. Angsty & Fluffy

A/N: Hi Everyone! This is my first little one shot so any feedback would be awesome! xx

word count: 2132

“If I had known I was in silent competition with a dead girl for the last eight months, maybe I would’ve rethought this,” Y/N said, poison dripping from every word. Spencer winced and tried to keep his composure.

“It’s not a competition Y/N! It’s just—“

She cut him off. She was seething, and she had every right to. Her boyfriend for the last eight months had decided, right now, while they were in bed together, would be the best time to mention his dead ex girlfriend that Y/N had never known about. It was just a mistake, all he had done was moan ‘Maeve’ into Y/Ns ear. All he had to do was vehemently apologize and Y/N would forgive him.

Instead of doing that, he did the complete opposite.

“It’s just that you think of your ex-girlfriend who you never even really met while we fuck! What’s it been? Six years?”

She was understandably angry, but she didn’t get the full story. All Spencer told her was that he had a girlfriend, Maeve, and they only met once before she died five years ago. He had never even touched her. And here Y/N was, alive, real, in the flesh, and he couldn’t even see her. All he saw was the ghost of a woman who visited him far too often.

“Five years, seven months and 21 days,” he corrected her. She just rolled her eyes

“Y/N?” he whispered, his voice cracking signaling he may cry.

She softened then. Y/N loved him, above all else, she really loved him.

“Yeah?” She whispered now too. They finally made eye contact, their eyes both rimmed with red but for completely different reasons.

“I love Maeve,” He said, letting out a big breath and falling onto the bed.

“You mean loved, you loved Maeve,” She clarified. Fear was clawing its way into her heart, ready to rip it to shreds when she heard what he said next.

“No, I still love her.”

Y/N looked away, the tears that had been threatening to spill out finally letting loose over her cheeks. She was sympathetic to Spencer. His girlfriend died and it was tragic, but also it was almost six years ago.

“She would’ve wanted you to move on,” She sputtered out through sniffles. Spencer didn’t even move to console her; he just let his own tears flow now too.

“I know, and I keep trying Y/N. I’m trying so hard but you don’t get it!”

She took three deep breaths, the way you do in yoga class, and turned to him.

“Was I close?”

“Close? What—“

“Was I close? Were we close?”

“Close to what? Y/N...”

“Because I felt like we were this close to having it all,” she said, holding up her pointer finger and thumb to show a sliver. The sliver that represented where they were right now. Limbo.

“Yeah, you were the closest I’ve ever been,” he mumbled.

She turned away and stood up now, clutching the sheets to cover her bare body. She didn’t want to give him the privilege of seeing it anymore. She grabbed a shirt and threw it on, stomping around the room.

“Y/N, stop please,” Spencer croaked from the bed. His face still flushed and streaked with tears. She stopped but didn’t turn around.

“You said were, as in the second person singular past, plural past, and past subjunctive of be. Were. Meaning that this,” She gestured wildly between them, “Is over. In the past.”

He almost cracked a smile, remembering then what drew him to her all those months ago. She was an adjunct professor of early 1900s literature. He remembered how she bumped into him and knocked his coffee all over them both. How she apologized, frantically wiping at his chest. The memory felt warm, inviting, a place he’d like to stay. But the second the warmth came it was gone, replaced by guilt and the image of Maeve and the blood all around her. He remembered Thomas Merton and how close he had been. How could he let himself be happy when he couldn’t save Maeve?

“Spencer? Hello?” Y/N took him out of the day dream.

“S-Sorry, I-“ he stammered.

“I’m here, begging you to beg me to stay and you’re still thinking about her,” Y/N allowed him to see the hurt on her face now. His eyes followed the tear going down her cheek.

“Yes, I am,” He started, taking a deep breath and standing up, taking her hand. He pulled her back onto the bed with him so he could look in her eyes. The feeling of his hand on her wrist sent electricity through her. She caved and sat a few inches from him, their hands intertwined, his thumb playing with the ring she always wore on her middle finger. She nervously looked around everywhere but his face.

“I just, I don’t feel like I deserve this.”

“Why wouldn’t you deserve it? You hurt so much, you deserve some happiness Spen,” She said, moving in to wrap her arm around him.

“I couldn’t save her,” he said, only above a whisper, “I tried but I couldn’t save her.”

“And you have to forgive yourself for that. Did you ever talk to anyone?”

He nodded, “Yeah. I just don’t think I deserve to be happy when she’s-Maeve-s-“ He took a deep, shaky breath, “I don’t want to lose you too.”

She took the same breath, shakily bringing her hand to his cheek to wipe off a tear, “I know.”

She held back the rest of what she was going to say. What she really wanted to say was ‘Please let me love you. Let me feel with you. Let me heal with you. Please don’t throw me away because I can’t take anymore. I need to be enough.’ But she didn’t, she stopped. She pulled away.

“No, please,” he begged, reaching out for her. She swallowed, her mouth feeling so impossibly dry all of the sudden.

“I just want you to love me,” she said through her tears. His heart ached the same way hers did. He also noticed his breath matched hers, everything about them matched perfectly.

“I do love you,” he whispered, making eye contact with her.

“Then you need to stop grieving what ifs.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again and ran his hands through his messy hair.

“I know, I know. And I can’t ask you to wait for me to be okay, because honestly I’ve been waiting to be okay for–“

“Five years, seven months and 21 days,” She finished.

“I’ve been waiting five years, seven months, and twenty one days. And I feel as if I’ll be waiting forever.”

His eyes stayed on the floor, not daring to look at Y/N. He could feel everything she felt. All the pain, anger, sadness. It was as if it was rolling off of her in waves and he was trying to stay afloat.

“But I can’t wait forever Spence! I just can’t wait anymore! We’re already old for this,” She said, her hands running through her hair and messing it up, “I just- I can’t start over again. I can’t do this anymore.”

Her hand came to his cheek now, lifting it up so he could look at her. His eyes darted all over her face, his tongue poking out the left of his mouth as it often did while he was thinking.

“You don’t have to start over again, you can stay,” His voice cracked. Her mouth opened slightly at the shock. He was asking her to stay. Her only response was shaking her head no. His hands came up to his face in frustration, “Why? Why won’t you stay?”

“Because! Spencer! I’m not spending the rest of my life wondering if I’m good enough, when I know right now I never will be. I’ll never be Maeve,” She admitted, shaky hands smearing her tears all over her face. Her skin was hot under the tears. Spencer felt this when his hand met her cheek too. The two if them sat across from each other, just holding their faces and nuzzling into each other’s touch slightly.

“I know that, but I love you. Different than how I loved Maeve. I loved her when we were together but after I lost her I-I fell in love with what we could have been. I’m so tired,” He admitted, sighing so heavily he thought his lungs may give out, “I’m so tired of waiting for her ghost to stop following me. Tired of waiting for everything I do to not remind me of her.”

Y/N pulled him in for a hug. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in so tightly as if to keep her here. On Earth. With him.

“That’s the thing Spence,” She said, pulling out of the hug and moving a tear stained piece of hair out of his face, “You have to stop waiting. You need to start doing.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever it is that will get you out of this. You can’t spend your whole life waiting for Maeve. You’ll get her on the other side, I know that for sure. But here, on Earth, can you just be with me?”

What she was saying felt so easy but also impossibly difficult. She was saying that she was okay with being his second love and not his truest love. The realization made a bitter taste in his mouth.

“No,” He croaked.

“No?” She asked, equally baffled and offended.

“I mean yes, but also no.”

She stood up now, walking away as a new set of tears came to her eyes.

“Y/N, I want to spend my time on Earth with you, but my time after?” He cleared his throat, “I think I’d also like to spend that with you.”

Her eyes widened. Was this this real? She pinched her arm. It was.

“I feel like there are two types of people in this world. The ones that get over their grief and move on and the ones that descent into some sort of endless misery. For a while I accepted my endless misery but, now? I want to move on. I want this. I want tangible love. Maeve will always be part of me, but I don’t have to be sad to remember her. To honor her.”

She smiled at him sadly, and considered every word he said. Could she be his second? Sure, she had a few people she thought could’ve been her true loves too, but they weren’t. And, yeah, maybe she’d be competing with a ghost, but was that really a bad thing? She was who he would see, touch, feel. The new energy he was going to put into his life made her hopeful that maybe this time it was right, she could be the one.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah, Y/N, I really mean that.”

He stood then and closed the gap between them, wrapping her up in a hug. He lifted her off the ground and her legs wrapped around his torso.

“I love you,” He mumbled into her hair, “And I’m sorry I should’ve told you.”

He put her down and she walked him over to the bed. They laid down, face to face, with her hand on his heart feeling the beat.

“Do you believe in soul mates?” She asked, feeling his breath on her face and moving closer to him.

“I don’t know,” He admitted, putting his large hand on the small of her back, “The statistical probability of finding your ‘soulmate,’ if there even is such a thing, is only about 1 in 10,000, assuming we’re all paired up at random your soul mate may not even be born, or may be long dead.”

He whispered the last part, remembering Maeve again. He forced himself out of the gray daydream this time, and made himself look at Y/N and how the sun cast a warm yellow glow on her face. How her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. How her eyes were so bright and seemed impossibly wide, waiting for every word he said.

“I believe we have multiple soul mates,” She said, “A soulmate is defined as a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner. So I think we all have a few.”

She gave him a smile and he knew what the smile said. It said that she knew Maeve was his soulmate, but maybe she could be too.

He smiled back and made his final decision then, to stay here, in the world of warmth and feverish kisses with Y/N, and to leave the cold, gray, dreamscape he often met Maeve in behind.

#spencer #reid #spencer x you #spencer reid #reid x you #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #mgg #mgg fanfiction #fanfic #imagine #angst #maeve donovan #reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #fluff #reid fluff #reid angst

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midnightartemis · 4 years

Text

Chapter Three Up Now ~

Read Me Here

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about her every second of every day since he first saw her. It was beginning to turn into a waking nightmare almost. One fucking conversation with this girl and he was gone. She didn’t even give him her last name. She had fallen asleep on the couch not long after she stopped giggling about his tax evasion quip. He wasn’t surprised; she had finished off the rest of the joint on her own. He could watch the smoke pour from her lips for eternity. He was usually an adamant follower of the puff puff pass rule.

Rey from Jakku was going to be the death of him.

When he went to put a blanket over her again, she barely even moved.

The only thing that did distract Ben from her was the impending showdown between him and Kuruk. The man almost matched him in height, though he was much skinnier. That just made him a little bit faster. And Rey taking a liking to Ben has only pissed Kuruk off.

Much to his disappointment, Rey left before anyone else in the loft woke up. No one woke up before two anyway.

Ben rolled a joint as the coffee brewed. The smell eventually woke everyone else up and soon the couch was full, the room smelled of freshly ground sour diesel, and Saturday morning cartoons played on the projector. After a cup of coffee, AP pulled out a wad of cash and divided it out into piles. The largest went to Ben for supplying, the second largest to AP for manufacturing and delivery, and The rest was split between Kuruk, Trudge, Ushar, and… Ben frowned. He hadn’t seen Cardo or Vik and there was one last pile. AP saw him eyeing it. “It’s for Rey.”

“Rey?”

“Yeah, got a problem?” Kuruk was already starting to dig in. Push the issue until it came to a breaking point.

“Thought it took a unanimous vote to let someone in.” Ben eyed each of the guys.

AP, ever the peacemaker, stepped in. “She’s not in.”

Ben relaxed a little. They hadn’t forced her through initiation.

“If she was, Kuruk would not be left standing.” Trudge chuckled.

“Yeah, how’s your nose doing fucker?” Kuruk seethed.

Trudge threw his meaty hands in the air. “Hey, I learned my lesson. She could tell me to eat shit and I’d listen.”

How had a girl that tiny instilled so much fear and reverence into this tiny fucked up group?

“She helps me with the books sometimes. That’s why she gets a share.” AP finally supplied. “We trust her.”

Ben gave a shallow nod. “And Cardo. Vik?”

“Vik’s been MIA since the baby. Cardo will show up when he feels like it.”

Ben let his face drop into his mask. Unfazed from the outside. Warring on the inside. He hadn’t even known Vik was having a kid.

The impromptu meeting ended as quickly as it had begun. Trudge and Ushar settled into their cartoons. At least that much hadn’t changed. Kuruk fucked off to somewhere else and AP sat on the couch looking conflicted. After a few minutes, the quiet guy seemed to resign himself to an answer. He stood, his face dead serious as he looked Ben in the eye. “We should talk.”

That was one of the many things Ben secretly admired about AP. He was one of the originals and in the ten years Ben had known him, the man had barely changed. He didn’t sugarcoat. Didn’t play games. Though he could be a bit cryptic, everything was always dead serious with AP.

Ben nodded and followed the dude out the door and onto the small patio. The dry heat of the afternoon hit him in full force as they stepped out. He lit his joint and didn’t offer it to AP knowing the dude would just say no anyway.

“What the fuck are your intentions here, Ben?”

Ben stilled as he brought the joint to his lips. No one in the Knights ever called him Ben. He was pretty sure Trudge and Ushar didn’t even know his name wasn’t actually Kylo. And AP- AP only used it when he was beyond dead serious.

“You know what my intentions are.”

“You were supposed to get out of this. You were supposed to leave and never come back.”

“Yeah well that didn’t fucking work out, did it?” Ben growled and smashed the lit end of the joint into the metal railing.

“You can’t just come waltzing back expecting to throw a few punches and make everything magically the same as before. It’s not the same, Ben. Why the fuck did you come back?”

Ben huffed a laugh. “Where else would I go?”

“Did you even call your mom? Have you even told her you dropped out?”

“I never said I dropped out.”

“You didn’t have to.” AP scowled and he dropped his gaze to the dead fields of grass. “I would have heard about it if the chemistry lab purposefully got blown up.”

Ben narrowed his eyes and gave AP a long side glance. “You’re still seeing that TA?”

“He’s an adjunct Professor now.” AP sighs. It’s the happiest thing Ben thinks the guy’s ever done. “I know she’ll kill you herself if you hurt her but just know that the rest of us will help bury the body.”

Ben laughs a little and AP turns sharply to face him. “I’m fucking serious. You hurt her even just a little bit and I will wipe you off the face of this planet. She’s been through enough. So if you think she’s just some sick game to piss off Kuruk or a quick lay you back the fuck off and leave her alone.”

AP’s dark eyes are enough to tell Ben that if Rey didn’t kill him, he would. “She’s not. I don’t want to hurt her.”

AP smiles sadly. “You don’t want to. But you will.”

By the time Friday comes around, Ben is looking for a fight. He and Kuruk have steadily been pushing buttons and digging under each other’s skin for days now. It was only a matter of time before the party was set in motion. AP was noticeably absent first thing in the morning. It only takes Ben seeing the look on Kuruk’s face to know that time is up. They’re nearing breaking point and only one will come out victorious. It calls for a party the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Kylo took on Ren himself.

AP was out gathering the more illicit provisions while Trudge and Ushar carried a nearly endless chain of kegs and tubs and ice into the recently ‘unlocked’ basement of the warehouse. Ben and Kuruk were left to simmer. Ben poured himself a drink and set down to rolling the last of the weed to sell or smoke tonight. Rolling was one of the few things that calmed him- even when he could feel Kuruk’s pissed of stare burrowing into the back of his head. Even when AP’s words had been rattling around in there for days now, mixing with the images of her soft smile he held tightly onto. The one she tried to hide from him. And those hazel eyes that looked right at him and kept on digging. Everything about her drew him in. He couldn’t resist the chance for one touch of the light.

He hoped she wasn’t there tonight. He hoped she never saw what he really was. What he could do.

All hope of that was lost when she turned up beside AP a few hours deep into the party. His eyes latched onto her the moment he spotted her hair, up in three little buns. Her eyes were dark as bruises and anger boiled in him until he got a better view in the dim red right and realized that it was makeup. It was only wearing makeup. She wore a black holy t-shirt with a band logo on it so faded it was almost beyond recognition. Her jeans were covered in black sharpie doodles. Flowers, he thought. She had that scowl on her face not at all dissimilar to the one she first gave him. Within seconds AP had a drink in her hand.

Her eyes drank in the crowd, scanning the room until they landed on his. And stayed. A flash of pain danced across her eyes. There and hidden in an instant.

What did he do?

What-

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

Ben looked back down at the tiny brunette clinging to his side. The woman had been incredibly persistent for the past hour, even going so far as trying to force him into an old, musty janitor's closet.

“Not particularly. No.” Ben barely spared her a glance.

“God, you’re a fucking asshole.” The woman stormed away, finally taking his hints. When he searched the crowd again, Rey was gone.

He knew he was an asshole. He knew it and he went off in Rey’s direction anyway. He needed to explain. He needed to know why she looked so hurt when she saw him. He found AP first.

“Where’d she go?”

“It’s almost midnight.”

Ben could give two fucks about Kuruk and midnight. “Where’d she go?”

AP sighed and shrugged. “I’m not her keeper. She can handle herself.”

“You’re a dick you know that, Finn?”

The dude shrugged and went back to fucking off. Ben pushed through the crowd. Most people parted automatically for him mostly thanks to his size and his ability to not give a fuck about anyone. Anyone but her. He couldn’t explain why now at this moment he felt like the entire world rode on his ability to get to her, to find her, to explain himself when there was nothing yet to explain.

He pushed through a rather large group of people and stumbled into an open pocket in the middle of the crowded room. Music screamed through every inch of the room- the bass shaking the foundations.

His eyes searched the room until they landed on the messy row of three buns, the faded black tee. The hand gripping her waist. The anger in her eyes. The smirk on Kuruk’s lips as he turned to look at Ben.

Ben felt the dark thing inside him snap. Kuruk has found the breaking point. Ben grabbed the nearest glass bottle and slammed it on the ground.

He comes to when he feels her touch burning hot against the skin of his wrist. So feather-light he shouldn’t have been able to feel it but it stops him like a live wire. The room around him has gone deadly quiet and it takes a moment for him to feel the stares of dozens of silent people. There’s a groan from underneath him and he looks down to see what’s left of Kuruk’s bloody face. The man is completely slack underneath him, not even trying to fight back.

“Ben. That’s enough.” Rey says quietly, her voice firm. He lets her pull him away with gentle tugs. His mind wars between

She’s touching me she’s touching me she’s touching me

And

Is he dead is he dead is he dead

AP, Trudge, and Ushar emerge from the crowd to haul Kuruk away. He’d gone too far. Way too far. He could tell by the terrified looks he got as he passed through the crowd.

She’s touching me she’s touching me she’s touching me

Outside that small basement room, the party is still in full swing, blissfully unaware of the night's main event. He doesn’t feel a thing but the touch of her skin around his wrist. She leads him deftly through the crowd and up the narrow staircase to the loft. Vik steps away from the lofts' entrance, letting them by. Door duty . Kylo thinks stupidly. He used to hate door duty.

Rey’s touch left him as she sat him down on the couch. He let out a small pitiful whimper at its loss.

“Relax. I’m only going to get the first aid shit.” He might have been imagining it but he thought he saw her smile.

Rey disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a minute later with a giant box of medical supplies. It was even labeled medical supplies in handwriting he didn’t recognize. Her handwriting.

She took out a white bottle and a piece of cloth to wet with the liquid. Ben shuddered and forced himself to stay still as she brought the cloth to his bloody knuckles and began dabbing at them. He dared not to speak as she took her hand in his and turned it this way and that to clean away his skin. The cloth came away bright red. She moved to his other hand and added more of the clear liquid to the cloth. He sucked in a breath as she ran the cloth across his knuckles. Her hands worked quickly then to wrap his hand in gauze.

When he thought she was done she grabbed a fresh cloth and sat close to him. Closer than she ever had before. He could count her freckles against her tan skin, smell the warm earthy scent coming off of her, feel the heat of her against him. He was too dumbstruck to move and was fighting a losing battle against his desire to look at her lips. To taste her just one time. Rey brought the cloth to his lips. Her fingers gently guided him to look at her, to tilt his chin down to her reach. The throbbing in his face slowly came to the front of his mind. It seemed Kuruk had gotten a couple hits in after all.

She cleaned his skin carefully, working up the side of his face. He closes his eyes as she gets to his brow, letting her soft touch consume him. She had seen him at his worst and yet she was still here. She wasn’t flinching away.

“Rey.” Her name came out as a soft whisper that hung in the air between them. She had to come to him, he knew that much. He couldn’t open his eyes. He could only hope that she understood. The cloth dropped away from his eye. Soft lips pressed against the corner of his own. Ben opened his eyes to see her looking up at him. Hopeful. Hungry.

The door to the apartment swung open and the rest of the knights piled into the apartment. Trudge carried a half-conscious Kuruk over his shoulders. Ben cursed under his breath as Rey moved away from him and made room for Trudge to set Kuruk on the couch. The man moaned pitifully and Ben bit back a smirk.

“Cops got called.” AP moved through the room quickly, clearing off the coffee table and locking everything away in the safe built into the wall.

“Warrant?” Ben asked.

“Not likely. Unless they’ve been sitting on it.” Vik shut the door after Cardo slipped in and locked it. Cardo had been at the front door taking entrance fees. He was probably the one to sound the alarm.

“You need to take off?” Ben asked Vik. The dude had a kid now. He couldn’t get caught up in petty shit.

Vik shrugged and moved through the room, picking up a warm, unopened beer. “I’ll just hide in the back. Jenny and Ambrose weren’t expecting me.”

The man tossed him the lock's key and disappeared through the hole in the wall. Trudge and Ushar moved the one giant bookcase over the hole.

“You shouldn’t be here either.” Ben turned his focus back to Rey. She was kneeling beside Kuruk and cleaning him up with a fresh cloth, though she wasn’t being half as gentle with Kuruk as she had with him.

“I’ll just hide under the spare bed. The cops don’t give two shits about me.”

Spare bed?

Ben was about to argue the point until he saw the look AP gave him. Rey could take care of herself.

Ben let it go. “Take Kuruk to his room. Don’t need cops coming in ‘cause there’s a half-dead dude on the couch.”

Trudge and Ushar pull Kuruk off the couch and Rey packs up the medical supplies. A few minutes later, the loft looked like almost any other night. Trudge and Ushar argued over what game to play and AP took up his spot on the couch, scrolling on his phone. Rey, however, was the one to go back to the projector to turn it on. He watched as she opened up the projector and blew inside. The projector came seamlessly to life. She turned on the Wii and tossed two of the remotes to the twins. “Mario Kart.”

They groaned as she smiled wickedly.

“Fucking fine. I want Moo Moo Meadows this time though.” Ushar pouted. Rey hesitated as she picked up the fourth remote. He guessed that was the one Kuruk usually got. Her hesitation only lasted a second before she lobbed it across the room to his hands. Ben caught it and held his breath as she slipped over the back of the couch to sit beside him. She was careful to not touch him and he was careful to do the same.

She picked out Moo Moo Meadows, Wario’s Gold Mine, and Rainbow Road. Ben barely tried as he watched her easily beat them as Daisy. Trudge always gave up halfway through and would start going the wrong way for fun. Ushar spent more time dying than racing. Ben managed to finish in a solid sixth place twice. She had no competition here. As she crossed the rainbow road finish line in first (a feat even he considered almost impossible), there was a loud knock at the door.

“CPD! Open up.”

Rey was gone before Ben could say anything. The door to his old room swung shut. So, that was the spare bedroom. He spared a glance at AP before standing up to open the door. He held his hand on the lock.

“This is a private residence. You got a warrant?”

“No, sir. Just a few questions.” Ben undid the heavy U lock and slid the heavy metal door open slowly. Two uniforms stood in the hall, their eyes hard and their hands near the guns on their hips. He didn’t recognize either of them. Newbies. Ben placed his hand against the door frame and the door, his body blocking most of the view inside.

“What’d you want?”

The guy cop's eyes went wide as he looked up and down Ben. “Are you in need of medical attention, sir?”

Ben glanced at the bandages on his hands. “Nah, I’m good. Just took a tumble down the stairs. Bit of a clutz.”

Neither of them believed him but that didn’t matter.

“Is there anyone in the house with you?”

Ben shrugged as the sounds of Mario Kart started up again. “Just my roommates.”

“Were you aware that there was an illegal event happening in the basement of this building?” The woman cop took over. She gave him a look like she would never believe anything that came out of his mouth.

“Illegal Event? No. I’ve been kicking their asses at Mario Kart all night.”

“Mario Kart.” The woman raised her eyebrows.

“That it?”

The cops didn’t reply.

“Great.” He said gruffly. “Have a good night officers.”

Ben slid the door shut and snapped the lock back on. He waited for another knock but it never came. He went to the kitchen to make an old-fashioned. It wasn’t as smooth as usual with bandaged hands that were beginning to shake. The fresh cut on his face was beginning to burn and tingle against the open air.

The twins moved the bookshelf away from the hole in the wall to let Vik back in. They switched from Mario Kart to COD. The door to his room stayed shut. Ben crossed the room and knocked softly. No reply. He pushed the door open slowly, letting the light shine in but not entering himself. The light landed on the black sheets of his old bed. Rey had curled in a ball in the center of it underneath the comforter. Her ribs moved up and down ever so slightly. She had fallen asleep. Ben shut the door softly.

He guessed he’d be sleeping on the couch tonight.

AP retired to take care of Kuruk not long after Ben sat down, drink in hand. He mindlessly watched the twins play COD. Vik took off once the cops had cleared out and Cardo followed soon after. Ben couldn’t fall asleep even with the pull of alcohol and his mindless staring. The twins cleared out, disappearing to their rooms in the back. Ben shifted out of his shoes and jeans. His shirt had turned almost solid with dried blood at the neck so he shed that too. Ben turned on the Wii. Alone in the glow of the projector, he thought about the touch of her lips against his skin. What would it feel like if she dared to touch him? What he would do to her if she let him touch her back? He was going to need to take a very very very cold shower. He tried to focus on Mario Kart instead.

Night passed into the wee hours of the morning. A cry echoed through the loft and Ben paused his failed attempt at Rainbow Road.

“No!”

The cry came from his room. Rey. Ben’s heart pounded as he leaped over the couch and opened the door to his room. Rey laid where he had left her, still curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed. She twitched, her head rolling back and forth as if she were trying to escape from something invisible. She cried out again at her nightmare.

“Rey.” His voice was hoarse from not speaking for hours. She twitched again, not waking up. “Rey- Rey, wake up. It’s only a nightmare.”

She whimpered and Ben crossed the room. He’d have to touch her to wake her up. He tried again. “Rey, wake up.”

She cried out again, a painful whimper that sent an ache shooting through his chest. He reached his hand out, prepared to snatch it away the moment he touched her. He touched her shoulder and she sprung awake, pushing herself to the far side of the bed so her back was against the wall. Ben backed up two steps, his hands in the air. “It’s just me. You were having a nightmare.”

“Ben?” Rey swallowed trying to hide the panic in her voice.

“Yeah. Just me. I tried calling your name but it didn’t work.”

Rey nodded slowly as she caught her breath. “I heard you. I think. I just couldn’t… get out of it. Did I wake you up?”

Ben shook his head. “Nah. I was practicing Mario Kart so you can have some actual competition.”

Her lips quirked up in an actual smile. “Well, at least someone has the balls to challenge me.”

Rey’s hair had fallen half-way out of her three buns. Her eyes were soft with sleep and there was an imprint of his pillow across her face. Her mind drifted to something else and she frowned. “Are you sleeping on the couch?”

“You were in my bed.” Ben shrugged. “Didn’t want to wake you up. Seemed like you needed it more than I did.”

“I can move to the couch.” Rey offered sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to steal your bed.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ben moved to go back out to the living room.

“Wait.”

Ben froze in his tracks trying not to get his hopes up too high. He turned back to her and found her eyes unabashedly looking over his bare chest.

“There’s room for two.”

“Are you sure?” He asked slowly.

The girl nodded. “Yeah.”

She shifted as he crossed the room and laid down on his back across the edge farthest from her. He risked a glance at her. She hadn’t moved from her spot against the wall. He said nothing beyond his silent plea.

Come to me. Before I break. Before I redesign myself to loneliness for the rest of my life.

He could feel her watching him. Evaluating. Fighting. She slowly lowered herself away from the wall and curled up beside him, not quite touching him but close enough that she might. Ben closed his eyes and let a new calm darkness wash over him.

I know it's warmer where you are And it's safer by your side But right now I can't be what you want Just give it time...

Well it's cold when we're apart And I hate to feel this die But you can't give me what I want Just give it time...

But for now we stay so far 'Til our lonely limbs connect I can't keep you in these arms So I'll keep you in my mind...

Can we meet in the middle Bodies and souls collide Dance in the moonlight Where all the stars align Oh you and I, oh you and I, oh

- You and I, PVRIS

#reylo #rey x ben #kylo x rey #reylo fanfic #reylo ao3 #reylo fanfiction #reylo au

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iblameashley · 4 years

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Star Trek Picard S1 Ramblings

Not that anyone from CBS will ever see this or even care if they did – once you create art you create a critic. I’m the critic and I am not a “toxic fan” for not praising every little detail from Star Trek Picard Season 1.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Spoilers<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

So ST: Picard ended its first season and I have spent the last week or so thinking over the series. There was so much and yet so little I am still finding it difficult to find the words to describe how I feel about it.

Lets start with the pilot (Season 1 Episodes 1, 2 & 3.)

First and foremost, I despise 3-episode pilots. They are almost always a waste of time, and the story can almost always be condensed into 2 episodes. This was no different for Picard. I understand that this was meant to set-up the world of Picard and also allowed new fans to be introduced to the world of Trek, but it seriously delayed the plot.

I also believe that if you are new to Trek, you don’t really need a whole lot of set up. The basics can be conveyed rather easily; Picard was a part of a Space Navy called Starfleet. He lives on Earth, it’s a paradise in the 25th Century. He’s being asked for help from a stranger and that will launch him on an adventure that takes him back into space. Honestly, Trek is easy to slide into.

What could have been:

This is the part of my review where I get to Fannon my own idea’s.

Season one as it was could have been completely different and still lead into the events that we had. I would start my ret-con around the attack on Mars.

Pew Pew

The Pitch: Its is only a few months before the Hobus Supernova explosion will reach the outer Romulan colonies, killing hundreds of millions. Admiral Picard is attempting to oversee the final phase of the operation when he discovers a Romulan Spy in Starfleet Ranks. He sets out on a search to discover the true identity of the spy and stop their plans to hijack the Synth construction workers. Along this adventure he meets with Dr. Soji from the Daystrom Institute – a genius cyberneticist, and his trusted friend Raffi who discover the plot may be more sinister than just hijacking of synths, and may hold a dark fate for the planet of Mars.

Episodes 1 & 2 Would be the set-up. Episodes 5 & 6 would reveal the plot about the Zhat Vash and their goals and Episodes 9 & 10 would have the Mars attack happen, reveal Soji as a Synth and the connection to Data and that he (or some part of him) may be alive.

There are things from season 1 I enjoy, though! I just feel this story was rushed and yet… so poorly executed it felt slow.

Excuse me, this is my emotional support crew. Where I go, they go. #foundfamily

For Example, my Pro’s:

· Visiting Chateau Picard

· Ex-Tal Shiar agents working for Picard

· Use of real-locations! Real sunlight! It felt more REAL.

· Swearing (subversive opinion!)

· The Archives

· The holograms of Rio’s as the crew (And by extension the use of Holograms more freely in the Star Trek Universe)

· Elnor. <3

· Seven of Nine <3

· Hugh <3

· Picard and Hugh hugging

· Locutus (any reference)

· Soji’s meditation Journey

· Soji-hulk. Soji-smash.

· TNG REUNION!

· 7 of 9 tertiary adjunct of BORG QUEEN

· Spot II

· More Synths (though less than I was hoping for)

· Synth alliance (in concept)

· Picard flying a ship

· Gay Seven (or, Bi? Not-straight Seven!)

...My face says “where am I” and my eyes say “not a single thought has ever passed through this head”

And then there are some things that I would put on my Con’s:

· Soji Dying so early on

· Jurati / Maddox relationship. Gross. (age difference)

· Far too little of my favorite Ex-Tal Shiar Romulans

· Narek. I like nothing about him.

· The holograms of Rios and their “backgrounds” / Accents

· Ichebs death!!!! >:(

· Vjayzl (Don’t know if that’s the spelling. Don’t care. She and her name were terrible)

· The whole Stardust City episode. Ugh.

· Narek / Soji Relation-shit

· Riker and Troi having a dead child because ~~reasons~~ Wasn’t necessary.

· Borg rebellion too short.

· Dr. Alton. Should have been Maddox.

· The flowers? Like??? ????? !!! ????!?!?!??!!?

· Beacon = Large; shoots beams of light.

· Tentacle porn Synths (also obvi evil)

· Ctrl + C, Ctrl + V Starships

· Gay Seven (or Bi?) **see below**

And that’s it I guess. Overall, if I had to score Season 1 of Picard out of 10, I’d give it a solid 6.5.

There was a lot that could have been done better, and they should have created a more cohesive story that would leave a few threads open for a renewal (before they knew they were being renewed) but have a conclusion to the main arc. The references to prior Trek were nice, but references don’t make for a good story. I hope going forward we get a more tightly bound story. And for fucks sake, someone show Elnor the damn cat! He’s waited long enough!

Role model and Queen.

** Now some of you may be wondering about the Gay 7 of 9 thing being in the con’s too. Let me be clear. I am Gay, and I support the LGBTQ+ community and its representation in media. My issue is less to do with Seven being gay or bi, and more about how that was literally just dropped at our feet last minute. FIRST OF ALL, she’s clearly been eye-banging Janeway for years. Gimmie that or nothing! I’ll write v-jazzle off as rebound fuck during a rough patch with Janeway.

This part is harder for me to articulate, but I hope y’all will get the gist. Showing lesbians sharing an intimate and non-sexual moment on tv is taking the easy route. Its in the same vein at Catsuits for women on old trek. It is meant to appeal to Straight Boys. In this way, lesbians are generally more accepted than gay men. The flip side to that is, lesbians become more fetishized.That is a separate issue and another topic for another day. It deserves its own post.

If Star Trek wanted to really be more progressive, give us some more gay men in non-sexual yet intimate moments. I know we have DISCO and Staments/Culbur, but there is still such a huge stigma around gay men because TV still equates it with sex. Show me men who just like to cuddle! Get them holding hands and making heart-eyes at each other. Maybe season 2 will open up some possibilities on that front. Until then… if they majorly fuck up what they started with Saffi(Seven/Raffi?? Anyone? Is this a thing?), imma be pissed.

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jeannereames · 5 years

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Hello, Dr. Reames! I love your work (and am very excited to read your novels very soon!). I am thinking of doing a phd (not history or classics, but maybe sort of related to Alexander) but I'm scared that I'm not going to have the motivation to go through with the whole thing... Do you ever lose motivation and get discouraged when researching/writing and how do you deal with it? I know that this is completely unrelated to Alexander/ancient history so feel free to ignore it☺

Hi, there! This reply is going to be in 3 parts. First, about my own motivation…

I think everybody (even Alexander!) has periods of feeling discouraged. It’s part of being human. This is especially true when something you put days, weeks, or sometimes *years* of effort into doesn’t work out, or isn’t well-received, or comes back with “revise and resubmit.” Ha.

So, real life recent example: About a year and a half ago, I finished an article that took me (literally) 5 years to research and write, because it combined research into two different areas, only one of which is my research area. It took a huge amount of reading, and I’d even presented it at a couple of conferences, where I received good feedback. It was supposed to be published in conference proceedings, but that fell through (not my part of it, the entire publication didn’t happen because the editor quit). So I had to shop it around to journals. It went out to three readers, and all three returned it with “Revise (substantially) and resubmit,” + large *additional* bibliography (mostly not in English) in the area not my field. Two of the readers thought my chief point was valid, but needed more support. (The third just flat disagreed with me, but it’s academia; that happens.) But that was after it had been presented 3xs already, and revised after each.

OTOH, I was pretty discouraged. But OTOH, the suggestions and reading lists were helpful. These are blind reviews, so it wasn’t personal. And the entire point of peer review is to help a book or article improve. Lord knows, nobody wants to put out something that will get you laughed at. But after all the time I’d already spent on it, it was still really discouraging as I’d thought it in pretty good shape.

Almost everybody in academia is going to have an article or three turned down, or a book refused, etc. And after a while, it can be really hard to keep trying. And it’s not just in academia.

Do you know how long it took me to sell Dancing with the Lion? 15 years! I got my first serious query from an agent in 1996. (The first words of the novel were written in December of 1988–that’s how old it is.) That agent eventually decided it wasn’t for her. I’ve had a couple others since…same thing. I’ve sent out probably around 500 queries to agents or publishers. In fact, I’d put the book AWAY and started a completely different trilogy (which I’m in the middle of now), because I figured it would only sell later.

Then I happened to read comments about Madeline Miller’s A Song for Achilles written by an English professor and new acquisitions editor at Riptide. She liked it, but there were a couple of things she really didn’t like. And they were the very ways (I thought) my novel was different. So I emailed her. She asked for sample chapters, then the whole thing, and finally, Riptide offered me a contract. They’re not a major press, they’re a Romance publisher primarily, but they were willing to take a chance on my coming-of-age historical, so I grabbed the opportunity. Now the book is out (well, the first half is), and it’s getting pretty decent reviews.

So persistence can pay off.

That said, if someone else had told me that story 10 years ago, I’d have snorted and said (in my mind), “Maybe it did for you. Maybe I’m just a bad writer and I’ll never succeed.” I’d also just been through a divorce and was having trouble selling my house in the housing bust, etc., etc. So a lot of things in my life were pear-shaped at the time, and that can make it really hard to keep trudging.

The “Dark Night of the Soul” is a real thing, and we all go through it.

The only way I get through it, myself, is to remember things in the past that went well, times I succeeded. Plus, I’m just a really stubborn SOB. Ha.

But discouragement is normal, and there will be points in everybody’s life where not just one or two things are going wrong, but it seems as if EVERYthing is going wrong and you’re just a total failure. You have to believe it’ll get better.

Now, part #2, about motivation to complete a degree. It’s a bit like the AA motto: one day at a time. Or really, one semester at a time. One hurdle at a time. When I first got to Penn State, the long, long road ahead made me freak out a little, but Gene Borza (my advisor) told me to take it in bites. And to remember that other people had made it through; I could, as well.

Also, don’t let yourself get thrown by “Imposter’s Syndrome.” This is the feeling that you don’t belong somewhere: in grad school, in a PhD program, in a department (or really, ANY arena). You’re not as good as the others. Minorities, women, and first-generation college students are those most likely to suffer imposter’s syndrome, but it can hit others too, such as the children of academics (I’ll never measure up to mom/dad), etc.

Last, part #3, and this may seem an odd coda to all the above rah-rah cheerleading. But as a (now former) graduate program chair, I would be terribly remiss if I didn’t put out a warning.

Not only is the field of humanities in trouble right now, in the US and Canada, and elsewhere, too, but the entire university system is changing. This latter is especially true in the US, but I hear rumblings from other places. Partly, this owes to the rise of online education. But even more, it’s what I call the “Wal-martization” of the university, where tenure-track lines are being replaced by a bunch of part-time instructors who have to teach 6 classes just to make enough to EAT. “Adjunct” professors, even those with PhDs, are paid a pittance. It’s absolutely immoral and ridiculous.

Universities are turning into profit more than education, with a degree seen as “job training” instead of learning to think critically and exploring Big Questions, which are increasingly viewed as a waste of time. Administration levels are increasingly bloated with deans, assistant deans, supervisory boards, etc. They’re (mostly) not teaching, but their paycheques are high. Tenured faculty positions are being eliminated. Colleges and unis realized that they could turn over a lot of (especially intro and survey) courses to part-time instructors for a *fraction* of what they paid tenured and tenure-track faculty, but still reap high tuition.

When I was finishing up in the ‘90s, I was teaching as an adjunct while writing my dissertation, then for a bit after, as was expected for “teaching experience” before being hired. The phenomenon of the “Visiting Assistant Professor” (or VAP) was *starting* to gain traction, but was still usually just a year or two until these people would find a tenure-track position (VAP is not tenure-track). But now, I know people who’ve been VAPping for YEARS. And some just give up. Also, adjuncting like what I was doing has gone from “teaching experience for a real job” into “the only lane for employment” for a lot of PhD (and some MA) graduates. Especially women PhDs get caught in that trap.

These are the realities of where we are right now.

And THE MOST USELESS DEGREE ON THE PLANET is a PhD in the humanities. I say that as one who holds it. With a few exceptions, a humanities PhD prepares you for pretty much one job: being a professor. And those jobs are winking out of existence with frightening speed. This is a change that has accelerated over the last 10 years, and especially over the last 5. We’re turning out PhDs with no available positions. Museum studies, Classics, archaeology, philosophy are in even worse shape. SOME history PhDs are more popular. This year, H-Net has a bunch of Latin American positions open, for instance.

An MA in history (or related) is still useful. There are certain jobs that like them, ranging from state jobs like the Park Service to the FBI and CIA.

But a PhD? Think loooooong and hard before investing that time and money. This is not a matter of *you* not being able to do the work to get one. It’s a matter of the university system as we’ve known it crumbling away under our very feet. I have no idea what the American university will look like in 10 years. And once you have a PhD, it educates you out of most other jobs.

So that’s the unfortunate bad news. And I’d be a very irresponsible advisor if I didn’t tell you the truth. IME, people who really want a PhD will ignore me and go after it anyway. But at least you’ll go in with your eyes open.

#encouragement #dealing with discouragement #imposter's syndrome #academia #PhD track #Adjunct Hell #Think twice (and then a third time) about getting a PhD these days #Humanities tenure track jobs are drying up #asks

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clockworkouroboros · 5 years

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Y I K E S why are orchestras frequently so bigoted? Is there a history lesson in this?

Alright, this is probably going to be a long post, and for that, I’m sorry. This is something that’s obviously very important to me, given that I’m seriously looking into going into music (and specifically classical music) as a career. I don’t talk much about sexism because it’s not something I experience very much—I sympathize with people who do experience it, but it really is their story to tell. I can’t add anything. However, this affects me very much, since I’ll be dealing with these orchestras as part of my career, very probably.

Women were not allowed in regular orchestras until 1913. Fifteen years earlier, in 1898, specific ‘women’s orchestras’ were formed so that women could play, but obviously these weren’t as popular as the big name orchestras like, say, the Vienna Philharmonic.

Even then, it was difficult for a woman to get into an orchestra. If I remember correctly, it was 1930 before a woman got into an American orchestra. And big-name American orchestras were faster than European orchestras to allow women to play with them.

I suppose I should explain an orchestra audition. The person auditioning plays technical passages, certain excerpts from orchestral repertoire, and sight reading. They are judged by a jury made up of members of the orchestra for which they are auditioning. My cello teacher has sat on several juries himself. It’s up to the jury to decide whether or not the person auditioning will join the orchestra. This makes sense; after all, they’re going to playing with them potentially until they retire. This is an audition based off of skill and the ability to play well with others (literally).

So, if it’s an audition based off of skill, why is sexism so rampant? Well, think about it. The juries are made up of orchestra members. And who are the orchestra members? That’s right. Men. Women were, whether deliberately or not, being discriminated against by the men.

How do I know that this was sexism and that the women weren’t just subpar performers? Because eventually, orchestras began implementing blind auditions.

A blind audition is exactly like a regular audition, except there’s a screen between the performer and the jury. The performer is given a number, and the jury doesn’t find out until afterwards the gender or race of the performer. Blind auditions have become commonplace among orchestras now because of the sexism exhibited so strongly in literally every orchestra.

Now that blind auditions are commonplace, we should take a look at the statistics. A hundred years ago, orchestras were almost entirely men, because it was only after 1913 that women were allowed into orchestras. Now, women make up something like 35%. Take into account the fact that orchestra members often play in an orchestra until they’re in their 60s (meaning they auditioned before blind auditions were commonplace). The younger people entering the orchestra are a slightly more even mix than the older generation. (Check out the big orchestras and see how many older players are women).

But that’s not all. When you begin breaking it down into categories, you’ll find crazy differences in the different sections of an orchestra. Strings are 47% women. That sounds good, doesn’t it? Well, brass is 3% women.

That doesn’t mean that women suck at brass in some innate way. It’s because women won’t be hired even if they did really well at the blind audition once the jury finds out that he’s a she. I remember reading a story, I think it was in Blink by Malcolm Gladwell (I’d hunt it down, but currently my copy of Blink is hidden in stacks of books that don’t fit on my bookshelves). It was about a woman who auditioned for one of the prestigious orchestras—I think it was the Berlin Philharmonic, one of the foremost orchestras in the world since it was founded. The woman played brass (French horn? Trumpet? I don’t remember, sorry. It’s been a few years since I read the book) and the jury loved her. Until they found out she was a woman.

This was in the 21st century! This was within the last twenty years! There was a whole battle over this because the jury insisted that she couldn’t possibly have been the person auditioning. They said that women didn’t have the lung capacity that men had, and thus couldn’t achieve the same kind of sound a man could. Therefore, she couldn’t have actually played in the audition because she was a woman and physically couldn’t play that well.

This is all bs, of course. I just want to point out that things are still pretty bad out there for women.

But Emily, you may say, this is specifically for brass! You play strings! The plight of women in the orchestra is indeed bad, but this won’t affect you nearly as badly because of your instrument choice!

Let’s take a further look at the strings. There are, of course, four stringed instruments (not counting the harp) in the orchestra: violins (divided into 1st and 2nd violins), violas, cellos, and basses.

In a typical Romantic-style orchestra (and this is how all the big orchestras are arranged), there are a minimum of 30 violins total. 14 2nd violins, and at least 16 1st violins. This is just slightly under half the total number of strings in the orchestra. There are 12 cellos.

Violins are viewed as a ‘girly’ instrument. They’re small and high and you can play the most breathtakingly beautiful emotional music on them. This means that the majority of violinists are female.

(Women are more likely to learn a musical instrument than a man just in general, but certain instruments have certain stereotypes. A man is more likely to pick the trumpet, which is loud and bombastic. It’s another stereotype that trumpet players have huge egos, but I won’t open that can of worms. What I should be saying is that, since women are more likely to learn a musical instrument, we should be seeing much different statistics about how many women are playing in orchestras).

The cello, on the other hand, is perceived as a more ‘masculine’ instrument. This is, once more, total bs, since instruments don’t have genders, but this is the way it is right now. The cello is big and has a lower register and a truly gorgeous resounding tone when played well.

Double basses are perceived as a more ‘masculine’ instrument, too. They have an even lower register than the cellos. They’re even bigger than the cellos. You need big fingers. There are 8 of those in a traditional Romantic-style orchestra.

Violas are, as far as I can tell, a mixed bag. They’re forgotten about most of the time, so I honestly have no idea if they have feminine/masculine connotations. That being said, there are 12 of those in a traditional Romantic-style orchestra.

Women make up 47% of the string section. Violins are the most feminely-perceived instrument. In fact, most women in the string section are violinists. I’ve seen a few female cellists. A few female bassists. I kind of forget about the violas, tbh.

The thing about feminine/masculine perceptions of instruments is that they are part of the reason women struggle to find positions in an orchestra. If half of the strings, some of the woodwinds, and literally all of the brass has masculine connotations, then yeah, people are going to expect a man to play those instruments better than a woman.

There are bs arguments against women in this section, too, they’re just not heard nearly as often. My hands aren’t big enough to do big extensions in first position. Some people would say, “that’s because you’re a woman.” No, that’s because I am a small person with small hands. My cello teacher struggles with those extensions and he’s a man. Another one is, once more, about getting a full sound. I sometimes struggle to get a full sound because I’m tense. I have to learn to relax and use my arm weight. It’s something everyone has to learn. But if I don’t work on it, it’ll be framed as “you’re a woman, so you don’t have the weight or strength to get these big fortissimo sounds.” No, it’s from tension. A good cello teacher can tell you as much. A good cello teacher has told me as much.

The thing is, men in the orchestra are serious divas, and divas are remarkably self-centered. This is an irritating but relatively inconsequential behavior, except all of these prestigious orchestras are catering to their manly needs. Seriously. The big-name orchestras, especially in Europe, worry that having women in their orchestra could affect the sense of camaraderie and emotional support that the men have in their little group. They all can diva together, but the moment a woman shows up, it’s curtains.

Remember kids, the Vienna Philharmonic didn’t allow women to be permanent members of the orchestra until 1997. That means that women could only play with the orchestra as adjunct members, meaning that they couldn’t get tenure, they didn’t get the same kind of pay, they went unacknowledged in programs and on the orchestra’s website, and they wouldn’t get any kind of pension when they retired. Meanwhile, the male permanent members of the orchestra are making a six-figure salary, exposure, tenure, and a really nice pension upon retirement. The Vienna Phil also said that they were unwilling to allow women to play in the orchestra because of maternity leave and so on and so forth. The usual arguments.

Talk about a pay gap.

Even today, the major orchestras around the world (but especially in Europe, where the best orchestras are) have statistics like ‘women make up 6% of that particular orchestra’ (the Vienna Philharmonic again). I believe the Berlin Philharmonic (ranked 2nd best worldwide) is around 15% women.

You hear stories from women who did blind auditions for orchestras. “Oh, I took off my heels when I went in to play,” they tell you. “I didn’t want anything to give away my gender.”

The thing is, women shouldn’t have to do that. If I’m going to get turned down from an orchestra, I want it to be because I legitimately am not good enough, not because they heard me walk in in high heels and immediately discounted me as unimportant. (Granted, I’d never wear heels to an audition because it messes me up when I play cello, but the thing is, I should be able to wear them if I want. It shouldn’t be, essentially, an automatic disqualification).

I keep bringing up the Vienna Phil because that was my dream orchestra. To be part of them would be amazing. Except, you know, they’re incredibly sexist and also racist. (They couldn’t be racist against me since I’m white and of mostly German descent, but it’s still a crappy thing for them to be). Things are slowly getting better for women, sort of, but you need only go to the Wikipedia page for ‘orchestra’ to be given examples from prestigious orchestras about how bad it is.

These guys want to keep classical music a man’s world. I don’t want to be on the warpath, but they started it. I’m going to do the best that I can to help finish it.

tldr: sexism has been prevalent in classical music for a long time, and still is prevalent today, it’s just largely overlooked because classical music itself is an often overlooked form of entertainment (the reasons for that being the topic for a whole other rant/essay), and the world’s foremost orchestras, especially European ones, are really bad.

#asks #tompkins square ditmas #music #classical music #if you want more info just google ‘sexism in classical music’ or some variant of that #there are tons of well-written articles about it #many of them are from within the past year

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micropenisunveiled-blog · 5 years

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How Having a Small Penis Messes With Men’s Minds

I noticed my penis was one of the smaller in the bunch as a kid, when I used the communal showers after swimming, track and basketball practices. So for a long time public washing was strictly off limits—I'd rather drive home from the gym in my sweaty clothes and shower in the privacy of my own apartment.

My insecurities about his 3.3-inch erection affect more than just my hygiene habits. Condoms didn't stay on well, and that made sex more of an anxiety trip than it already was. In a recent bout of obsession, I gathered a "database" of scientific papers on penises and measured myself multiple times a day for several weeks to see how I sized up. Growing up, it shaped me socially, even when my pants were on. Because of teasing from my brothers and some team mates at school I became quite insecure. I had an ongoing fear that I would never grow up, never become a man. I feel that my low self-esteem, due to my size, was a main driver for this. I did an interview with Michelle Malia, freelance reporter on November 3 2017 that was published in Tonic.

I am reprinting the article here.

I suspect that lots of guys can relate to my story. It is part of why I started this website.

THE TONIC ARTICLE

Almost one in five American men are unhappy with the length of their erection, according to a recent study of more than 4,000 men, and another 15 percent have a problem with their girth. You won't be surprised to learn that the guys who thought their penises fell short had less sex than the penis-proud group. "Being small can be the heaviest of burdens. I'm genuinely afraid of everything and everybody alike," says David, 30. "I feel I just can't be truly sexually desirable to women with my size."

There's a lot of dick-shaming that perpetuates this idea. When Marco Rubio exposed Donald Trump's small hands, Trump felt the need to tell the whole country that his penis was perfectly fine, thanks. (On national television. During a presidential debate.) In a Fat Shack ad, a seductive blonde—lips parted, a trail of mustard dripping out of her mouth á la cum—holds a sandwich. "Four inches has never been so satisfying," the caption reads.

It goes beyond mainstream news and marketing and weasels its way into casual conversation. "A lot of the jokes we make in everyday life are often sexually related in one way or another," says Abraham Morgentaler, a urologist and the director of Men's Health Boston, whose practice focuses on the health effects of testosterone deficiency. "It's sort of standard humor for guys to josh each other about masculinity type stuff, including penis size."

Movies and television frequent take jabs at villains and characters by assaulting their masculinity. No one would consider making fun of a man with one arm, or a blind individual. When asked in a recent Bloomberg poll what bothered them most about Donald Trump voters picked one action above all others: when he mocked a reporter with a disability in November 2015. But no one winces when someone makes fun of a man’s small penis. Interesting!

Morgentaler calls men with dick fixations "peno-centric." The idea that the size of your junk validates you as a man might start as early as boyhood. "When we're younger and coming of age sexually, when there's a lack of sophistication about what it means, number one, to be a man, and number two to be a good lover, the thing that men can see and point to and certainly think about is really the penis," he says.

Boyhood is synonymous with inexperience, and sadly, we don't magically figure everything out as adults. Some guys may think they're small even when they're not, but for the ones who do fall left of the bell curve, the best way to get over it is by being realistic about what your penis "should" look like and how important it really is in the long term”, Morgentaler says.

Lots of people never have the chance to see other people having healthy, real-life sex, so they might base their expectations on the sex they do see, usually in porn. But—shocker—porn is not real life. Those macho men are more than well endowed and that can give off the wrong idea, that you need to sport an eight- or nine-inch shaft (also, ow—but we'll get to that later) to satisfy your sex partners.

"If a guy watches 50 or 100 of these video clips, he's going to feel inadequate because he may be smaller than every one of those," Morgentaler says. "But those men are extremely unusual." When researchers sifted through data on more than 15,000 men, they found that the average penis is 3.6 inches soft and 5.2 inches erect. Nothing like many of the massive dicks we see on our laptops.

On a purely biological level, it's also irrational to think size has anything to do with your baby-making skills. "If it matters from an evolutionary standpoint, the best question would be, does it increase fertility?" says Robert Martin, an evolutionary biologist and adjunct professor at the University of Chicago. "The testes size indicates the potential of producing sperm, but I don't see any connection between penis size and anything that would be important in evolutionary terms." There's no evidence that primates have ever used their penises as a power display, he adds, and it may even have little to no effect on how physically desirable you are as a man.

Australian researchers generated 343 life-size male figures that ranged in body shape, body height, and penis size. They projected these "men" on a screen and asked 105 heterosexual women to rate how sexually attractive they were. The women cared most about body shape, which was responsible for 79.6 percent of attractiveness. (They preferred a triangular torso with wide shoulders and narrow hips.) Height came next with 6.1 percent, and penis size fell by the wayside, accounting for only 5.1 percent of attractiveness. "It seems to be a male preoccupation," Martin says.

It's a preoccupation that can be debilitating. Andy, 24, has never heard complaints from sex partners about his 4.7-inch erection, but he still can't shake the feeling that he's coming up a half-inch short. "It lingers in my mind throughout the day on a regular basis," he says. "It causes great anxiety and depression most of the time." Andy started to notice he was smaller than average when he was 19. Like Jase, he also measures a lot. "There [have] been days when I find myself spending a huge amount of time with a ruler next to my penis."

When he's naked in front of sex partners, he often tries to cut through the awkwardness of the initial reveal by being self-deprecating—"It's small, huh?"—but nobody has ever complained or agreed.

It's not crazy that Andy's partners aren't throwing him shade. When it's part of the equation, the penis is an important part of sex—whether it's the real thing or the dildo equivalent. But it's not everything. "How we talk and behave in bed, how we touch, these are all important parts of what makes for good sex," Morgentaler says. "The hands and the mouth and the lips are all part of that. The penis is just one part of the repertoire."

Bigger is not always better, and that goes for anal, too. Research in the Journal of Sexual Medicine found that 72 percent of women and 15 percent of men feel pain during anal sex. In another study, 76 percent of bottoms reported pain during anal, and for 23 percent of those guys, it was worse than mild.

Not to mention more than a third of women need clitoral stimulation, not penetration, to reach orgasm.

Jace told us that he wonders if he was born bisexual, or if his life experiences led him to exploring sexuality with men, specifically because of his fear of intimacy with women after bad experiences. In his relationships with women he told us that he had used large strap-ons, penis extenders, and sex toys of all kinds before he finally figured out all women need is need is clitoral stimulation to reach her oh-my-god moments. Now I helps her plateau using the basics: his mouth and, sometimes, a vibrator. In his relations with men Jace told us that he is exclusively a bottom, and has come to prefer orgasms through prostate stimulation.

Jace has three decades of life in the books, he's been married and in a long term dom/sub relationship with another man—that's a lot of time to figure out what is and isn't important in your relationships and sex life. Younger guys might need to live a little more before they figure that out. "Every time I hear stories about guys my age hooking up and having one-night stands and even being in relationships, it gets to me because I know I can't ever do any of those [things] because of my size," Andy says.

The peno-centric approach can keep you from engaging with others in all sorts of ways, whether fully clothed or bare-ass naked. Morgentaler recently saw a patient who was worried that he wasn't "developed" down there—despite his junk being "completely normal," Morgentaler says—and because of that, he was still a virgin.

Jace doesn't get regular checkups anymore, because at his last visit the doctor brought in several interns including a young woman to check him for a hernia. "I really thought that I was going to die of embarrassment right in the doctor's office," he says.

David doesn't like swimming or going to the beach because he feels exposed. "I can say with all my heart, I'd be way more happy and have a better life if I had a normal penis," he says.

It might seem like a huge deal when it comes to first-time hookups or one-night stands, but in the longer term, your penis does not take top priority. Most aspects of a relationship have nothing to do with what's in your pants—compatibility, mutual respect, and sense of humor, to name a few. Good sex is also high up there in importance, but using your penis is just one way to satisfy your partner, and it's naive to prioritize size over everything else.

"I would emphasize that this problem often goes away when a guy ends up in a stable relationship, because the couple figures out what they do that works, and penis size is usually not an impediment," Morgentaler says. "The quality of the man is not dependent on the size of his penis."

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loveofmylouis · 8 months

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#it’s 3 am I need to ramble #so I’ve been working both of my new jobs for about a month now #one being a traveling dental assistant and one teaching dental assisting #but with teaching since I’m an adjunct I’m only getting 12 hours a week with that #and working as a dental assistant 1-2 days a week #but I’m making almost double teaching as I do as a dental assistant #so it kind of evens out as it would if I was working full time as an assistant #and I really do enjoy the teaching part so much #but I don’t think I could move out and not struggle right now #like it would be tight #but I was talking to my supervisor yesterday and she was asking me how I’m liking teaching and if I would still be wanting to come back #next semester and I said yeah because I really enjoy it and she was like good so we can count on you? and I said yeah of course and she #said well it’ll probably be a lot more hours if you’re okay with that #and I was like shskakjd well duh yeah I would #if I can get more hours at the pay I get as an adjunct I could move out sooner than I thought I would #because I thought I’d be at home for a couple more years at least and I definitely couldn’t handle that #but I’m really hoping I can get at least 20 hours as an adjunct next semester I think we can only work up to 25 anyways #heck I’d be okay with 15 hours #so I’m really excited and i really enjoy teaching #I’m still learning and I hate that this class is my Guinea pig class but I’m giving them lots of extra credit opportunities to make up for #it and I gave my first anatomy and physiology class test yesterday and only one person got an F and I was so happy about that #because anyone that has ever taken a&p can tell you it’s brutal #so I’ll take that as a win and I guess it kind of means I’m doing something right #I even had one 100 and I was over the moon about that #and my other boss for my traveling temp assisting job texted me and told me that two offices were requesting me on Mondays since that #really the only day I’m available not teaching so that made me feel good too because I really don’t like being a temp it’s so stressful but #if two offices are requesting me that makes me feel good because I felt like I was doing horribly because it makes me so nervous doing it #since I just graduated #but yeah I just had to share because it’s 3 am and I slept late today and I can’t sleep now

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henry33tan · 2 years

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Leaving Classical Music?

Since the start of the pandemic, many classical musicians have made a shift away from traditional classical music work, in whole or in part. Clarinettist Zach Manzi writes about his experience on why he left the profession:

As much as I’ve felt like a failure over the last almost two years, I don’t regret my choice. I wish it was more normalized to move on from music as a profession , but there’s so much shame around “quitting.” I wish I’d known earlier that moving on would allow me to grow in ways that would not have been possible if I stayed. I’ve been working to know myself apart from my identity as a musician, which I always held in higher regard than my inherent worth as a human being. Even for musicians, life is much bigger than music, but I never really understood that until now.

When I think about why I want to share this story, I think about younger musicians who are struggling to figure out what they want to do with their careers. Many are anxious and depressed, trying to find their way, exactly as I was, realizing that their career in music is not giving them what they had hoped it would.

Zach's follow-up article on what it means to end a career in classical music looks at how is identity changed as he was no longer defining his self-worth in terms of success as a musician:

So what did I mean by ending my career? Although I would characterize ending my career by no longer depending on the classical music industry for income, that feels like the least significant part of it. I still practice the clarinet occasionally, take gigs when I want to , and enjoy talking about and listening to classical music. It’s still an important part of my life. The most significant part of ending my career in classical music has been far more existential.

The end has primarily involved attempting to separate myself from my identity as a musician, which has led to my understanding that I’ve let my talents and abilities define my worth. There were times in my adult life when I literally thought being a musician was the only interesting thing about me. I’d convinced myself I could not give up that identity because then nobody would want me. I thought worth came from being admired for the things I did, having talent and creating something beautiful in the world, and ultimately, my career choice.

How does it feel to "make it" outside classical music when there are fewer and fewer jobs in orchestras and university teaching jobs are mostly sessional/adjunct positions that don't pay very well? Some of the musicians that I've talked to mentioned these things:

once you leave classical music, there are way more than the half dozen positions available every year in your field across North America

the pay for an entry-level programming job is often the same as a position in a major orchestra

less anxiety

more time for exercise

since hours are often flexible in remote positions, you can still take on freelance performing work

Musicians who have left the profession, what have your experiences been like? Leave a comment below.

(Image courtesy of Michael Jasmund on Unsplash)

from The Collaborative Piano Blog http://collaborativepiano.blogspot.com/2022/02/leaving-classical-music.html

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ultimatestudyabroad · 3 years

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Returning to the U.S. Work Culture

I’m 3.5 months into my new job, so it’s about time I reflect on what it feels like to be back in the American work culture and, moreover, back in the administrative work culture. First, the positive: payday. Every time I open my banking app and see that the paycheck has been deposited, I feel this immense wave of relief that makes me realize how truly tense I have been for the last year and a half. It also feels really good to not have to shell out almost $600/month for health insurance! And the peace of mind that comes with stability cannot be overrated. I feel for all my adjuncting friends who don’t know what next semester’s workload will look like.

On the flip side, yup, this is just like I remember it. Nothing about the America work culture has changed since it drove me to move to the other side of the planet five years ago (I didn’t think that it had, but still, it’s a bit of a shock to be back in it.) In fact, it’s even worse now, because of covid. Before I moved to Australia, I observed that everyone was pretty miserable/stressed out/burned out, but most people didn’t acknowledge it because either they didn’t realize how miserable/stressed out/burned out they were since that state of being is the status quo – it’s just the way life is – or because they were desperately trying not to acknowledge how miserable/stressed out/burned out they were since there wasn’t much they could do about because this is just the way life is. Now, however, due to covid, everyone is fried to a crisp and they know it. The ridiculous amounts of work you were expected to do before have only been multiplied and moved on Zoom.

In I come, not burned out from work, but still reeling personally from a highly traumatic period of transition. And as I’ve discussed in this blog, I’ve been very concerned about losing “Aussie Mel” now that I’m back in the U.S. Re-entering the America work culture will be the ultimate test. So far, it is not going well. It’s hard to describe to my Aussie friends just what it’s like. The easy example is to point out just how little vacation time we Americans take/actually have. But, it’s so much more than that. It’s the day-to-day grind. It’s the fact that every single person is expected to complete way more work than one person can be expected to do. For example, while I was very excited by the job description for my new position from the first time I saw, once I started, I learned that the “and” in my title – Assistant Dean for Advising and Experiential Learning – is actually indicating two jobs. There was a person who did advising before. I get to do his job and this extra piece of “experiential learning.” Typical American workplace move. Kinda like that time I was promoted, but expected to keep doing all of my old job, plus the new duties of the higher level.

The way this unrealistic workload expectation plays out on a daily basis is chronic stress. I felt this before I moved to Australia, which was a huge part of why I wanted to leave. In my former role, I’d usually have the first hour of the day to answer email and prepare for my students before the student appointments began. I would work as fast as I could while watching the hour tick away. A voice in my head would say “Move faster, Mel, you’re running out of time. No, you don’t have time to look that up before the meeting. Shit, you’re out of time. When are you going to be able to get this done?” My chest would tighten and I would feel like I was constantly failing. When you feel like that, you don’t have the capacity to be patient with your co-workers, who are all also feeling the same way. When everyone is so overworked, they unintentionally make your job harder by, for example, not reading the email carefully which then creates three more follow up emails to clear up the confusion. Or, they only answer one of the two questions you asked in the first email. Or, they don’t take the time to look something up or find an old email in their inbox and instead just ask you again. All of this slows me down and I can’t slow down, because I have too much to do!!!! This new job is no different. That’s not a slam on the new job; it’s just the way life is here in America. I have a never-ending deluge of email that I can not get ahead of. It is what it is. I block off time to work on other projects for an hour or so and then I return to my inbox to realize that, if I had been doing email that entire hour, I may have kept up with the inflow, but maybe not. One thing I am very grateful for at my new institution is that I get very few emails on the weekends. That’s nice. I’m desperately trying to develop a healthy work pattern. One very helpful thing I did was silence the tone that sounds every time a new email comes in. But, the struggle is real and it’s largely out of my control. The voice in my head is back: “Move faster, Mel. When are you going to be able to get this done?” American Mel is back and I’m not happy about it.

I’m a bit surprised by how much I miss the academic life. I knew when I was in it that I loved it. My PhD supervisor used to check in on my mental health (because she was an amazing supervisor) and I’d say, “You don’t have to worry about my mental health. I’m great! I’m not at work!” I was working very hard, of course, but it was completely self-directed and about 90% was tasks I enjoyed (the exceptions would be marking/grading essays and taking notes on the stuff I had read). When I wasn’t teaching, I got almost no email! I also did a lot of my reading on the beach or outside in a hammock, which doesn’t hurt 😊 One of my new colleagues articulated the difference between academic and administrative work very well. She said that, though academics are obviously working very hard and also feel overworked, a significant chunk of the work they are doing is their work, their research, their classes. On contrast, as an administrator, your day-to-day tasks are determined for you. You might be able to carve out a little time to work on a project, but that project is something that relates to making the bulk of your job better, say by improving a process or redoing a website. There’s almost no time to pursue intellectual interests or anything that requires deep thinking. That framing really crystallized the difference for me.

Still, I’m surprised by how much I miss academic life, especially given that I knew all along I would be going back into administrative work, because, as we all know, there are no jobs in academia. I’m trying to stay connected to that world; finishing up my book manuscript definitely helped there! And, I was recently lucky to be able to participate in a weekly seminar focused on the works of Sara Ahmed hosted through Flinders University (the time difference just randomly worked). It was so energizing to read difficult works and then discuss them with brilliant people from around the world. When it ended, I found myself sitting down and going back through all of my notes on the books and the seminars, as if I were studying for an exam or something! That’s when I realized how much I was truly craving the academic work again. I’m continuing to work on my research as I can and I’m very much looking forward to next academic year when I’ll have the opportunity to teach (though I’m not sure how I’ll manage to fit that in). I’ve achieved my big hope of getting a position that allows room to combine my administrative and academic identities. It’ll be interesting to see how/if I’m able to strike a balance.

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quinninthecity · 6 years

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Campus Run-In | Fuinn

WHO: Quinn Fabray and Finn Hudson WHAT: Quinn and Finn meet at the NYU campus when they literally run into each other. Conversation and a possible date ensue. WHEN: Friday May 11, 2018 WARNINGS: None

To say Quinn was distracted was an understatement. If she wasn’t thinking about the Spring Showcase her studio was putting on, she was thinking about the last few performances she needed to get through before the end of the semester. She was following the familiar path to her final class for the day and dropped her eyes momentarily to adjust her purse and a moment was just long enough for her to lose focus before she collided with someone else who also seemed to be in a hurry. Annoyance was the first emotion that took over and it showed in the bite of her words. “You really should watch where you’re going.” When her eyes finally caught up to her mouth, she was surprised to see the badge on his collar stating he was a professor and immediately realized her mistake. “Sorry, Professor, it’s just been a long week.” His face was one she’d seen around campus before and she always thought it was a handsome one. She held her hand out, hoping he’d accept her attempt at an apology. “I’m Quinn Fabray, Masters student at TISCH, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”

Since the moment Finn had finished his Master’s program, he’d all but lived on NYU’s campus in his capacity as an adjunct professor. If he wasn’t teaching he was sitting in on other seminars related to teaching practices, or tabling for some campus event or another or simply sitting in on classes taught by professors in the history department whom he deeply admired. If he wasn’t teaching most of his days on campus were spent running around from one meeting to another, or in pursuit of one project or another and he was on his way to collect copies for an event the department was holding when he collided (rather solidly) with someone else. A surge of worry erupted in his chest and hung there, clutching tightly at the space between his ribs while his eyes shifted restlessly over the face of the woman in front of him. Most of him was purely concerned that he might have hurt her in some way, and the rest of him was entirely captivated almost to the point of being unable to move or form a coherent thought. He glanced down at his badge and smiled, suddenly bashful, “No, please— you can call me Finn. I don’t have, like, tenure or anything,” He took her hand eagerly, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “It’s a pleasure. Can I call you Quinn or do I have to stick to Miss Fabray?”

Quinn couldn’t help the smile that crept up on her face at Finn’s reply. Just a few words and Quinn already concluded that he was unlike any other college professor she’d met and she liked that. “Finn it is.” Her eyes momentarily dropped down the the hand that enclosed hers, noting how it wrapped around hers completely. She bit at her bottom lip as her eyes trailed back up to meet his in a fierce gaze before her lips turned at the corners to offer him another smile. “Quinn sounds so much better than Miss Fabray, I think we can stick with that.” A few more moments passed before she realized that her hand rested in his a little longer than appropriate but she pulled away without bringing too much attention to the sudden separation. “And regardless of how long my week was, I really shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” Quinn was never apologetic, but she was resourceful and understood the perks that could come with being in the good graces of a college professor, regardless of if they had tenure or not, and his handsome features certainly didn’t hurt any. “If you’re up for it, Finn, you should really let me take you out for drinks some time. It’s the least I could do for bumping into you.”

College had given Finn a certain degree of confidence in himself when it came to interacting with new people: he wasn’t prone to stammering or awkward silences or any of the things that had plagued him as a teenager. Instead he was warm, and outgoing and eager to meet anyone who seemed interested in meeting him. His confidence was there, as far as he could tell, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d made eye contact with someone and wondered how it was even humanly possible for someone to look like they’d been painted into the world rather than born into it. Quinn was almost painfully gorgeous and Finn felt, quite abruptly, that his tongue didn’t belong to him and he’d have no chance of actually speaking to her any longer if he couldn’t get it together before they parted. His adam’s apple bobbed when her eyes met his and a streak of desire flared through him to compliment her; to cobble together even a fraction of the words he knew into something that would let her know just how incredible an impression she was making on him already. “Lucky me, then. I’d feel like you were my student or something if I had to call you Miss Fabray,” A flush slipped steadily into his cheeks, and he fought to ignore the way his skin seemed to spark to life when Quinn’s fingers brushed against his palm and pulled away. He tilted his head at the invitation, a crooked smile curling at his lips while he spared a glance at his watch, “I’m actually done here for the day… unless you’re heading somewhere else? I can’t think of a better way to spend my afternoon than with you.”

“I’m curious, Finn. How does me not feeling like your student make you lucky?” she replied, her words accompanied with a teasing smirk. Talking to people was easy for Quinn and flirting even easier, even if she hardly had the opportunity to do so these days. But she was captivated enough by Finn’s presence and even more so by the flush on his cheeks to smile a little more than usual and capture his eyes with hers. If she didn’t think he was handsome before, his crooked smile was enough to convince her and for a moment she considered blowing off her last class and spending the afternoon with him. Perhaps in another time when she was young and careless, but she had too much experience and too much at stake, even for the first stranger in years who was able to pull a genuine smile from her. “As tempting as that is, I’m actually on my way to class right now and I have an important showcase this weekend I should prepare for. Perhaps sometime next week?” Quinn retrieved a pen from her purse and held Finn’s hand in hers once more, this time so that the back of his hand rested him her palm as she wrote her number in his palm. It was a little old fashioned but Quinn preferred it that way. “You should call me sometime this weekend so we can set that up.”

Finn laughed, a brief, bashful rumble in his chest as he crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Quinn openly, intense and bright. “Well, if you were my student… I definitely wouldn’t want to recognize that you’re incredibly beautiful, and I’m incredibly aware of it. Besides, I don’t go out with my students.” He quirked an eyebrow, his tone slipping into teasing easily. There was something incredibly easy about talking to Quinn and Finn realized all at once that it was a feeling he wouldn’t mind embracing a bit more than he usually did. If it meant that he saw more of Quinn, well, he couldn’t exactly complain. He offered her a lazy, unaffected shrug, holding a hand up in a gesture he hoped indicated he wasn’t at all put out that they’d have to schedule their outing for another time. “In that case, next week sounds perfect and I hope you have a wonderful class.” His expression conveyed nothing but warmth even as his brow furrowed when she took his hand again. He blinked rapidly to quell the surprise rushing through him before he offered Quinn yet another vibrant grin, “I will absolutely be doing that,” He paused, shifting on his feet for a moment before he leaned down and pressed the briefest of kisses to Quinn’s cheek. “Enjoy your class, Quinn.”

Quinn wasn’t a stranger to comments from men on her looks and it was always in a way that left a bad taste in her mouth. There was something in the way that Finn offered his compliments that was different, however, and instead of an uneasy feeling in her chest she was met with the unfamiliar feeling butterflies. “I see. You make a fair point and while it doesn’t really matter, I’d like to think you’d make an exception for me even if I was your student.” Quinn’s smile only grew as their conversation continued and while she wasn’t used to being turned down, she was still a bit relieved at his confirmation to contact her later. It was another feeling that was unfamiliar to her and she decided not to think on it too much, at least for the time being. “I look forward to hearing from you, Finn.” Quinn was momentarily stunned when she felt his lips barely grazed her cheek and it took everything in her to continue down the path without looking back. For the first time in a long time, Quinn had something new to look forward to.

#finn #para: finn #para: campus run in

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brugioshi · 6 years

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you asked for drarry prompts: moving in together but Harry has a panic attack because there's a storage cupboard under the stairs

That’s What Love Is, Idiot AO3

Harry and Draco’s relationship transformed first with a bang, then gradually over time. Grievances all seemed petty to Harry after the battle. Still, old habits die hard— particularly as it pertains to emotions. During their eighth year, Harry forced himself to perform small favors for Draco— a compliment here, assistance carrying books there. Each time, Draco’s eyes betrayed overwhelming amounts of gratitude and bewilderment. This made it easier to see the pure-blood boy in a sympathetic light. Draco’s animosity towards Harry had long stemmed from a sense of comeuppance, rather than genuine dislike. It was easy to reciprocate his small kindnesses. Eventually they had a rapport of sorts. They weren’t close friends, but they were no longer enemies.

After their commencement ceremony, Draco found Harry alone in a corridor. He’d been reflecting on his time at Hogwarts— the only home he’d ever known— and picturing his future after leaving it. Draco hugged Harry, made the briefest flicker of eye contact, and left without a word. That was the last Harry saw of him for almost a year.

The next shift in their relationship was through Hermione. Unsatisfied to merely train as a Healer, she also attended Harvard School of Medicine.

“It’s imperative that Healers be holistic,” she often said, as if she wasn’t the first and only person to hold such a mantra. “Knowing how to treat muggle ailments will no doubt come in handy when I’m healing wizards again.” Harry couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Sometimes he suspected Hermione merely loved being in school. Still, she seemed wiser than she was as a girl— not just smarter, but intelligent in a way that transcended “books and cleverness.” Or, maybe she was motivated by the price of rent in Boston. It kept Ron’s desire for children under control.

Harry’s work as an Auror kept him in London most of the time, but he visited often. When he did, he found himself surrounded by old friends. Arthur Weasley insisted on visiting constantly, of course.

“And you say muggles run tests to see what’s wrong with them?” Arthur asked during one such visit. His eyes lit up whenever Hermione talked about muggle medicine.

“Certainly,” she replied.

“Like an examination of sorts? Do they use a scamtron?”

“No, no,” she said, careful not to laugh. “Usually a nurse will extract a bit of blood with a syringe, and send it to a lab to be examined.” Arthur learned in, absorbing every word. “The other kind of examined,” she added carefully.

“And are vampires a problem? Do they sneak in to the labs much?”

This time Hermione did laugh.

“Not that I know of. There aren’t many vampires in Cambridge.”

Ron stayed in their nearby flat, tending to the one child they did have. Molly flanked him whenever the family visited, cooing over little Minerva and critiquing Ron’s parenting.

“You need to read to her more, Ron, it’ll help her become verbal faster. Her name does mean ‘wisdom,’ you know, you don’t want her being a laughingstock…”

“My name means ‘wise counselor,’” Ron protested.

“That’s what mum said,” George piped up from the couch, “she’s at risk of being a laughingstock.”

Harry laughed good-naturedly, cuddled into an armchair between the two groups. He intermittently listened to this conversation, and the one between Hermione and Arthur. He loved these trips. He’d been worried about leaving Hogwarts, especially after his best friends moved to America. He thought he’d be alone. Instead he had something of a family. Not enough for Molly, of course, who often asked when he’d find a wife.

“Or a husband, dear, it’s all the same,” she’d say, hand patting his shoulder. “I just want you to have someone special around.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Harry assured her. Secretly, he was tempted to let her to find out by accident— harmless revenge for her prying. But even if he’d had the heart to do such a thing, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get married. The Dursleys were incapable of love; his parents for killed for it. What if he was bad at being a parent? What if something happened to him, and the child grew up alone? Would he ever find someone who wanted to spend their life with him— someone he felt secure with?

Some months into Hermione’s training, she noted that she’d connected with Draco. He was living in Salem, where he curated ingredients for the local wizard marketplace. His aptitude quickly led to an additional job: adjunct professor of potions at Ilvermorny. Seamus Finnigan was the Flying Instructor there. He quite delighted in the Irish heritage present in Massachusetts. The two had formed an unlikely friendship. More unlikely, however, was the working relationship that formed between Draco and Hermione.

She relayed all this to Harry via owl. Her revelation came as a shock to Harry. Several conflicting thoughts ran through his mind: Why would she ever work with Malfoy? Wait, I don’t hate him anymore. But it’s not like she ever spent time with him— I thought she still hated him. How is Ron taking this? How can she be so casual? His fevered thoughts culminated in the memory of Draco hugging his after graduation. He scrawled off a note:

Hermione,

Do you mind if I apparate over this weekend? Would love to visit you and Ron.

Intercontinental owl post was a bitch to deal with. It was nearly Saturday by the time he received her affirmative reply.

***

Harry was bursting with questions when he arrived, but he waited until he could get Hermione alone.

“Are you all right there, Harry?” Ron asked. He scooped up Minerva, who snuggled into her father’s neck. “Let me make you dinner. You look restless— have you been getting enough air?”

Harry stood to hug Ron. His paternal instincts were adorable— moving, even. He was like a scrawny, tall Molly already. After the embrace, Harry looked through tears of joy at his friend. Ron looked back, entirely befuddled.

“Okay,” said Ron. “You’re kind of acting like Hermione when she was pregnant. If you’re feeling like her, too, I’d better get started on dinner.”

Hermione looked up from her anatomy textbook, one eyebrow raised, smirking at her husband.

“It’s a bit early for dinner. Go walk Minnie around the park, if you don’t mind; I’ll make Harry some tea.”

Satisfied, he strapped Minerva into her stroller and pulled out his wand.

“Solis praesidio.” He looked over at Harry, smiling proudly. “It’s like sunblock, but it lasts all day. Amazing, right?” He face glowed with far more passion than he’d ever shown for a subject at school. After several tangents on the art raising children— “lately Ethel O’Marra’s books are in style, but I just think Emily Yuri has the better perspective, couldn’t live without the spells of the month in Magical Dads either”— Ron departed.

“He’s really found his calling, has’t he?” Harry asked.

Hermione set down steaming mugs of black tea between them.

“I always knew he’d be an amazing dad. One of the things I love about him.”

“Granted, I didn’t have a vested interest in it, but that never occurred to me.”

Hermione gave a warm, wise smile.

“Not to brag—” She smiled at the irony. She didn’t mind bragging; it was underrated. “Or yes, to brag: I have a knack for reading people.”

Finally; an in for Harry. For some reason, her vague aside about Draco had been on in his mind all week.

“Speaking of that—”

“Draco. Yes.”

“I wasn’t going to—“

“Oh? What were you going to say?”

Harry sat dumb, brainstorming excuses.

“So,” Hermione continued, “Draco. As I said, he’s a buyer for some of the shops around here. Of course, he’s a veritable expert on potions— a natural consultant on the subject.”

“Malfoy as a freelancer… it doesn’t seem to fit him, somehow.” Because Malfoys don’t work, he thought. “And he’s a professor, too?”

“Adjunct. He’s planning on resettling in London at some point.”

“Why be here at all, then?” I’d also pictured him living in Malfoy Manor. Wait, why do I have so many opinions on Malfoy?

“I think he just wants to get away from his family. His past, to an extent. His title, certainly. America’s not as interested in lineage. You don’t find muggles saying they’re one-thousandth in line for the throne, and you don’t find wizards marching about with impunity.”

“A curator for wizard shops— I suppose he travels a lot.”

“Some. Often he’ll find something important in the muggle shops around here.”

“How?”

“Well, Salem has a bit of a history, you know, if you bothered to listen to Binns—”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, a lot of muggles were killed for being witches. They blamed everything on witchcraft. Mainly, it was women who were a bit different that paid the price. Hundreds of years later, people interested in wizardry gravitate here. It seems dark, I suppose. Maybe it’s defiance of evil.” Harry could relate to that, at least. “So, one can find useful ingredients in their stores, if one really knows what they’re used for. Generally, it’s muggles who own and frequent the shops, tourists and the like, muggle witches. Real wizards go to Sarah Wildes Square.”

“Muggle witches?”

“It’s an oxymoron, I know, but it fits. People without wizarding blood who perform spells. I don’t know much about them.”

“I just can’t picture Draco Malfoy in a muggle establishment.” The part of Harry who still resented him suppressed a grin at the image of Malfoy tucked between tourists, looking deeply awkward.

“Oh, he’s completely changed. Dated a muggle witch who owned one of the shops, even. Didn’t work out. He dates a lot.”

Harry had no idea why the top of his ears turned hot.

“Well, I can picture him being a bit of a playboy.”

“Don’t be rude. He just didn’t feel comfortable with a muggle. Had to reverse any enchantments in his flat when she visited.”

“Or he’s just biding his time, holding out for a pure-blood,” he jeered. “Be a bit hard to find anyone with as long a pedigree as the Malfoys.”

“You’re awfully full of criticism today. You seemed to really take to him in eighth year. Anyway, he had a bit of a thing going with a professor. He came from a long line of medicine men, and they didn’t work out either.”

Harry felt a peculiar sense of comfort at this. Hermione studied Harry carefully, taking a long sip of her tea.

“Getting here must have been awfully last-minute for you. Intercontinental owl and all. You know they have cormorants do part of the trip? Come again next weekend. You two should reconnect.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry said, sitting up stiffly, “but I’ll visit you and Ron. Have you told him about working with Malfoy?”

“Harry! He’s my husband! Of course I told him.”

At this point, two redheads burst into the flat.

“She’s asleep,” Ron shared. He gingerly carried Minnie into the nursery. When he emerged, he sat with them, conjuring up his own mug of tea. “What is it you told me?”

“Working with Malfoy.”

“Right,” Ron said. “We bumped into him on Wildes. I wanted to snub him, personally, but I remembered how nice you were to him after the war. Hermione’s been sharing chemical compounds of muggle medicines with him. He whips up similar potions, tries to mimic their effects. Maybe Healers could use them.”

“I don’t really get what the point is,” Harry admitted. “Wizards can literally ’stopper death.’ What’s the point?”

“Well,” Hermione said, “have you ever heard of a wizard being treated for mental illness?”

***

Work was particularly exhausting that week. There was a rash of raids— all dumb kids who romanticized Voldemort’s reign. It disgusted Harry. He wished they knew what being a Death Eater really meant.

Between the adrenaline of the raids, the late hours completing paperwork, and his frustration at those who dabbled in the dark arts, Harry felt almost sick. Impatient for a change of scenery, he decided to leave London a bit earlier than expected. He doubted this would trouble his friends terribly— and anyway, he couldn’t exactly ask for their permission. After work wrapped up on Friday, he scrubbed the week off of him and apparated.

He was greeted by a crackling fire, the warmth of which was instantly soothing. There was a domestic peace in Ron and Hermione’s apartment— a sense of love he couldn’t replicate in his own solitary flat. He slowly took in his surroundings, all illuminated in shades of orange: Hermione, still in her scrubs, sat deep in thought over a table littered with diagrams. Toys were strewn about the floor between her and an old, worn leather chair. In it, a man with unmistakable platinum hair flipped through a portfolio.

“Draco.”

He turned upon hearing his name, and looked quite surprised by the source.

“Harry.”

“Well, sit down,” Hermione piped up. “We’re examining flaws in a new antidepressant. Draco feels they might be remedied by replacing certain elements with mandrake seeds. Perhaps it’ll interest you—”

But the reverie remained intact. Harry stood fixated, staring into the eyes of the equally motionless man before him. Draco’s face was hypnotic. His eyes were as expressive as always. His mood would forever be transparent to any who cared to look at them closely enough. His cheekbones stood high and pronounced. All of his features, in fact, seemed to derive their attractiveness from their very severity. As if to illustrate this, his pale skin stood contrasted against black robes. Even the way he sat was elegant— so much so that Harry suspected his posture was affected, but did not mind one bit.

A shrill beeping broke out. Hermione removed a pager from her scrubs pocket.

“I have to go,” she said. There must be an interesting case at the hospital. I’ll probably be back late.”

Harry followed her onto the stairwell.

“What am I supposed to do with Malfoy?” he hissed.

“Perhaps you should have anticipated an awkward arrival,” she replied, “as you’re here early.”

“I’m sorry, truthfully, but how could I have warned you?”

“I’m a student at a muggle university, Harry, I have the internet.”

“Are muggles still using that?!” said the 1980 baby incredulously. “And what was the business about cormorants, then…?”

Ron opened a door at the bottom of the steps, head down and garment bag in tow.

“I’ve just dropped Minnie at the neighbor’s. I have your dress here. Did he come? This wasn’t the easiest reservation to get—” Ron squinted up the dark stairwell. “Oh hey there, Harry.”

“You planned this,” Harry accused in a hushed tone. “But why? And also, how?”

“Divination’s not so useless after all,” Hermione said. “Lock the door on your way out.”

She ran down the steps. Harry wondered if she’d answered his last question, or both.

He took a deep breath and stepped back inside. Malfoy was packing his things, his robes swirling around him.

“Suppose we’re done for the night, then.” Draco looked awfully sheepish— a holdover from their last year at Hogwarts. “Are you staying here? Should we leave a note for Ron, saying where Hermione is?”

So he was oblivious, too— of course he was. Hug of gratitude or not, he didn’t likely wish to be trapped with his former enemy.

Well, thought Harry, that’s too bad for him. I will not spend tomorrow being lectured about divination from Hermione of all people.

“I’m starving,” Harry said truthfully, “and I don’t know Wildes Square too well. I also get the feeling I’m not precisely welcome here until tomorrow. I’m not honestly sure what the night holds for me.”

“We never do,” Malfoy remarked, slinging a bag over his shoulder. Come with me. I have an extra room.”

***

He never went so long without seeing Malfoy again. At first, they would only meet during Harry’s occasional trips to Cambridge. There, he would watch Draco’s face in the firelight, stern with thought as he consulted with Hermione. They’d meet up for a meal or two, joke about their respective colleagues. One weekend when Minnie was teething, Harry showed up at Draco’s, practically begging for a reprieve from the crying. They holed up together, watching movies and talking about nothing. When night fell, it seemed stupid to move from Draco’s bed to the guest bedroom. So, he didn’t. They didn’t do anything, per se; just cuddled a bit as they fell asleep.

Draco began to visit London a night or two each week. He’d listen patiently as Harry ranted about work. Draco never broke eye contact. He looked at Harry with empathy when he complained of stress, agreement when he said it was all worth it, and pride when he brought dark wizards to justice. Harry didn’t want to get his hopes up, but sometimes Draco seemed to look at him with affection, attraction, even love. If nothing else, at least he had someone to fall asleep next to.

Then one snowy day, as they laughed madly at inside jokes outside Harry’s flat, Draco put his gloved hands over Harry’s cheeks and pulled him in for a kiss. When his head stopped reeling, he decided he never wanted to be without Draco. Draco, for his part, agreed.

A few weeks into their relationship, it became clear why Draco had trouble remaining close to people. Some nights he’d lie awake for hours, sweating through bedsheets, struggling to breathe. Sometimes he pushed Harry away, staying at his own place in America for days without visiting. Other times he flew into a panic when Harry left, as if he’d never see him again. Fortunately, Draco didn’t hesitate to talk when he was calm. The details spilled out of him. He’d been waiting ages, he said, for someone to listen without judgment or an ulterior motive.

He detailed everything: how he sometimes felt as though he were back in Malfoy Manor, with Voldemort lurking around. How his heart raced so badly he sometimes thought he might die. How a simple word or object could make him feel as though he were back in the War.

There were some things Draco couldn’t quite elucidate. Harry noticed them anyway. Draco seemed to bathe a lot— often several times a day. One night, Harry drifted off to sleep, lulled by the spray of the shower. When he awoke three hours later, it was still running.

“Draco? Are you okay?”

He opened the door to the bathroom, to find it was pitch black inside. Draco knelt on the shower floor, head against the wall, barely awake. Under the ice-cold spray, he scrubbed one forearm again and again. Harry grabbed the biggest, warmest towel he could find, walked Draco to bed, and held him under the covers until his shivers turned to sleep.

Draco healed over time. He kept busy with Hermione, who doubled as a counselor of sorts (“Utter conflict of interest, of course, we simply must train wizard therapists when we get the chance.”) While much of his improvement was due to meetings with Hermione, journaling, and other methods he’d undertaken on his own, he never hesitated to remind Harry that he was his saviour in more ways than one.

Five years later, things had fallen into place for the class of 1999. Hermione finished medical school, and completed a residency in psychiatry. She and Ron moved back to England, where Hermione’s theories attracted a great deal of interest.

“I worry that Minnie will never lose her American accent,” Ron griped, “but I love her anyway.”

Seamus continued teaching at Ilvermorny, eventually striking up a romance with Marcus Flint.

Luna ran an independent newspaper from her home in the countryside. Neville gained renown as an herbology scholar. They had children early and often, each equal parts whimsical and brave.

Draco had just finished his arrangements to open an apothecary on Diagon Alley, where Hermione’s findings were sure to make the business a success. Draco flipped through his business plan, lying in bed next to Harry.

“I guess you’ll be needing a place to stay,” Harry said, “now that you’re returning to London.”

“Sure, I’m just about to close on a house.” Draco shared this so casually it made Harry’s mouth drop.

“That’s nonsense! You should stay with me,” Harry said.

“Bit last-minute of you, but I can’t complain. If it hadn’t been for that trait of yours, plus the ingenuity of a certain mutual friend, I suppose we wouldn’t be together. But yes, of course you’ll be living with me.”

Harry grinned, and swept Malfoy onto him, papers flying everywhere.

“Excuse you,” said Malfoy playfully, “I was reading that.”

“Shut up. You bought us a house? That’s adorable.”

“It has a few extra rooms. You know, if you decide to have little mussy-haired Potters running around.”

“I can’t think of anything better. Since you’re such an avid planner, I suppose you’ve thought of names for them?”

Malfoy turned serious for a moment, stroking Harry’s hair.

“I think I’d like to honor my mentor,” he shared. “Name my son Severus.”

“I like that idea,” Harry said. “It’s a wonderful way to honor a mentor. Of course, that means we’ll be naming him Albus.”

“I’m sure we’ll come up with a compromise.” Draco leaned in to meet Harry’s lips, pressing his chest onto his. “Building a life together. It’s so beautiful— doing all the things my parents never did for me.”

Harry remembered the trepidations he’d felt years before. He tried to stuff his concerns down, enjoy this time of transition. However, it didn’t feel the same.

***

“You should see the house,” Draco said the next morning, “now that I know you’re definitely in.”“I’m really not particular,” Harry said. He had a strong premonition they’d have this very conversation several times, once they got around to planning a wedding. “It’s a house,” Draco said. “Kind of a momentous purchase. You should at least see it— make sure you like it.”“All right, but I’m sure it’s perfect. I’ll only go because I’m excited to move in.” Even if I’m also seriously overanalyzing the risks, he added silently.

The house was surprisingly cozy. Harry had thought Malfoy would gravitate towards a sprawling estate, all perfectly finished mahogany and velvet drapes. Sure, it was elegant, but it was also somewhere Harry could feel comfortable.

There was just one thing. In the front hall, below the staircase, there was a cupboard.

He’d been unable to take his eyes off it while Draco conversed with the real estate agent. It seemed to pose a threat of some kind— as if looking away would somehow be disastrous. He felt his robes were moving with the force of his heartbeat. He hoped no one noticed. Stepping out of the house, he was able to breathe easily again.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked. “You’re sure the house is okay?”

“Yes,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “It’s perfect.”

During one his Salem trips, Harry had gone to a muggle museum about the witch trials. One room was filled with statues, each of which lit up with accompanying audio. One of the few men executed was depicted. He had been crushed to death, rocks piled high atop of his chest. Beneath layers of boulders, the man let out a tortured groan: “More… weight…”

Harry felt he had a rock on his chest whenever Draco shared news about their soon-to-be home. He didn’t dare say anything about it. He was supposed to be the one who protected Draco— not the other way around. What if his newfound vulnerability ruined Harry for Draco? Or worse, what if Draco regressed as a result of Harry’s own traumatized state? He was angry at himself, at the Dursleys, at life— it wasn’t fair. What had he done to deserve these feelings? He should be able to live in a world with cupboards under stairs without falling apart.

Within months, the house was ready. This time, Harry wouldn’t look at the cupboard. It was, it occurred to him, not unlike Draco and his Dark Mark. Except these days, he didn’t ignore it as much. Sometimes Harry found Draco actually peering directly at it. The first time, he’d felt sure this was a problem.

“Hey,” Harry had said, stepping towards him and gingerly cupping his shoulder. “It’s okay.” To his surprise, Draco had looked back at him and smiled.

“I know,” he said. “Hermione taught me about this thing— immersion therapy. When you’re in a decent emotional state, you immerse yourself in the memories that bother you. It gets easier to deal with over time.”

Maybe that was all Harry needed. Unpacking that first day at home, he intermittently stared at it or avoided the sight. He didn’t feel as bad as he had prior. Maybe it was working.

But that night when Draco touched his neck, Harry pushed him away with more force than he’d meant to.

“Whoa, okay. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what’s up with me.”

“Just tired, maybe? You know, you can tell me anything.”

“I know,” Harry lied.

It went on like this for some time. The fact that things were slow at work somehow made Harry’s anxiety worse. The less actual problems he had, the more the past seemed to creep into his consciousness.

They held a housewarming party. Molly arrived early to help set up.

“It’s such a lovely home, dear, but it feels awfully empty without children…”

“Oh my god,” Ron whispered over his tea. “Ignore her. We have three now and she still asks when she’ll get another baby to coddle…”

Neville brought them a houseplant heavy with red and violet blooms.

“It’s pretty, of course, but it also has medicinal properties. Congratulations on your apothecary. Let me know if you need help with supply.”

“Thank you, Neville,” replied Draco, as if anyone could have predicted such a civil conversation between them in their younger years. “I definitely will.”

Neville beamed proudly. For all his maturity, he still seemed to marvel at acceptance. Luna, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about it.

“You worked at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, right?” she asked Hermione.

“Yes, I did my residency there.”

“I’ve been there. The campus is pretty, but it’s roving with vampires.”

Seamus and Marcus made an appearance as well.

“I would have liked for us to cause a scandal,” Seamus said. “House rivalry and all. Of course, you blokes had to go and ruin that for us,” he added with a wink.

When they’d gone, Harry turned to whisper to Draco.

“I honestly thought Marcus and Wood would be a thing.”

“They were,” Draco whispered back.

A couple walked into the kitchen, at first a blur of dark robes and platinum hair. This time, however, the sight was not a happy one for Harry.

Harry shot Draco a venomous look before greeting their guests.

“Lucius! Narcissa! It’s… a pleasure.”

Lucius looked less happy than Harry was.

“Well, congratulations on this… lovely home,” the elder man said, placing a glass-encased Hand of Glory on the center island.

Draco, having long ago learned of Harry’s Knockturn Alley misadventure, shot Harry a hopeful smile. It went unreturned.

“We’re just so proud of you boys,” Narcissa said, laying her own hand on Harry’s chest. Sense memory cheered him up somewhat.

“Thank you,�� said Harry gratefully.

The couple left mercifully early. Harry immediately pulled Draco into an empty room.

“Why were your parents here?”

“Are you serious? I’m a small business owner. You think I bought this thing on my own?”

Harry bristled at his own stupidity, but continued to direct his anger elsewhere.

“You couldn’t have told me?”

“It really never occurred to me that you wouldn’t assume for yourself. Besides, I don’t want to talk about them more than I have to.” He looked disappointedly at Harry and sighed. “Honestly, I get it, and I’ll tell you if I invite them to something in the future. But really, how could you think that was harder for you than it was for me?” He left the room. Harry stood in the dark for awhile, guilt and self-loathing now mingling with his anger and panic.

He bluffed his way through the rest of the evening, thanking guests for coming and putting on a brave face. When only he and Draco remained, they proceeded wordlessly towards the staircase to retire. Then, Harry turned to the cupboard— and proceeded to slump unto the floor.

Draco knelt beside him, calmly assessing the situation. Harry’s eyes were fixed on something far in the distance— something Draco couldn’t see.

“Can I touch you?” Draco had learned this habit from their first night at the house.

Harry tried to speak, but failed for lack of breath. Through no small effort, he managed to nod. Draco locked his arms beneath Harry’s, walked him up the stairs, and lay him down on their bed. After disappearing for a moment, he reemerged with a small vial of pink liquid. Upon being uncorked, a tuft of smoke curled up. It smelled of lilacs and chamomile.

“It’s kind of like Muggle Valium,” Draco said, “with a hint of a beta blocker. Basically, it will slow your heart down, and make your anxiety a bit more manageable.”

Harry took the vial and drank it. To a small degree, his panic subsided.

“It’s certainly fast,” he remarked.

“One of the many ways magic improves upon muggle medicine. What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The Dursleys.”

Draco nodded; he had a fair degree of understanding, but not enough to make the connection.

“Before I went to Hogwarts— before they felt they were being watched— they made me live in a cupboard under the stairs.” He rambled on for awhile, paused, and added: “I don’t want to be a bother to you.”

To his horror, Draco laughed.

“It isn’t funny.”

“The situation isn’t, I’m sorry, but that is.” Draco ran a hand through Harry’s still-damp hair. “Why would you be a bother to me? I want to help you.”

“But I’m supposed to help you.”

Draco laughed again, and gently pulled Harry’s head to face his.

“That’s what love is, idiot. Being strong when the other person is weak.”

Harry took Draco into his arms. He felt he would never fall asleep— his heart still raced, albeit less so than before— but when he did become calm, he was exhausted. When he awoke, bright afternoon sunlight streamed unto the empty bed.

He found Draco downstairs, wand in hand, looking satisfied with himself. In front of him, the staircase stood sans cupboard.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked. “Shouldn’t I learn to live with it?”

“There are some things we can’t avoid,” Draco said. “Scars, for example. We both know a little about that. Memories. Life in general. Cupboards under stairs? Personally, I find them tacky.”

Harry laughed harder than he had in months. He embraced Draco, who met him with a deep kiss.

“Draco— you’re amazing,” he said.

“I know. And if you try to be Strong Mr. Saint Potter again, I swear to god I may hex you.”

Harry nuzzled into Draco’s neck.

“I do believe you’ll make good on that threat. I wish I could be as vulnerable as you, and honestly, I’ll try to be more open about the things that scare me. But they’re just that: fears. Promise you won’t take them as me not wanting a future with you, okay?”

Draco nipped at Harry’s earlobe.

“How could I make such a foolish mistake? I’m amazing.”

#answered #rachel oc #drarry #drarry fic

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lizzexx · 7 years

Text

Coming Back

I know a few of you have seen my surprise post of one of Evy’s episode covers. I honestly didn’t know how to post that I am coming back online. I didn’t know what the response would be, if it would be negative or angry, which I would fully deserve given how I left you all. So I wanted to test the waters and the response I got just from that was overwhelming and gave me the courage to swallow my shame at how I went so silent and write to you all about why it happened.

This is going to be a long note, be prepared:

A lot’s happened since the last time I posted and I’m sorry it’s been so long. I really cannot apologize enough for pretty much dropping off the face of the earth :( I am deeply sorry if I scared anyone or worried you all. A lot of little things had sort of mashed together all at once and it got too overwhelming to keep updating and posting. I was having a lot of trouble finding balance in my life outside of fanfiction and I needed time to really reevaluate and reassess some choices and things I was doing to get to a better place.

It’s no excuse for not at least giving you fair warning, I know. I honestly felt I had to stay away from tumblr and the internet in general for a long time because I knew that if I went on and saw even one person’s concern or hopes that I’d come back soon, I’d end up coming back and trying to post before I was ready. I knew that I’d force myself to keep going and it would just burn me out faster and make it that much harder to get back in after. I was afraid I’d start to feel like I was only doing fanfiction for other people and not because it was a story I loved and wanted to get out there, that it was a passion I had. I didn’t want that to fizzle out or get crushed under a possible resentment. Because I love fanfiction and I love my readers and I would never want that to happen. I always feel like I’m disappointing people if I can’t continue the way I was, even if I realistically and logically know that things happen and come up beyond our control and most would rather me be healthy and well and posting sporadically instead of pushing myself to update every single day. I knew that I’d push myself to get right back on the way I was going even though I was aware it wasn’t working and was starting to really affect my real life :(

I’m not 100% ready to get back to posting fanfiction, to be honest, right now things are almost twice as stressful as when I stopped coming on tumblr/fanfiction.net.

When I went silent, my job was just entering summer and I was not at all prepared for how busy and exhausting that would be, on top of that also being me working towards my Master’s.

It didn’t get better or calmer. Managers, instead of returning us to normal, sane hours, began to put almost everyone on longer shifts and more days a week than we signed up for to compensate for a few of my coworkers leaving.

By the time more people were hired, it was the holiday season and I was praying for a swift death (not literally, but working retail during those months is a nightmare that sucks your soul out of you).

I got to a point where I really thought things were calming down. The holidays passed, I’d gotten my Masters, I was looking for a calmer, more structured job...and our Manager quit.

I got promoted, which was nice. I get benefits now, I make $.75 more an hour which is something. But that meant full time hours. Where I work, we have a manager and then three leads, sort of like assistant managers.

Our manager quit, so it fell to me and two others to basically manage everything ourselves. Then one of the other leads transferred to another store. Now it is just me and one other person responsible for EVERYTHING. On top of that, neither of us were formally trained, because our manager quit before we were promoted to leads. We basically have no idea what we’re doing and we’ve been without a manager for 5 months now (when other stores got one within a week of their manager leaving).

I got a second job. I’m now a professor! (Proffy would be so proud!) I only teach two classes as an adjunct, but it means a lot more stress and less time than I had just being a lead, which I still am.

My brother got married and a lot of the stress I felt was in the engagement period, because they were just miserable together, nearly called it off 3 different times, and just made the entire family tired and sick to our stomachs for months on end. He didn’t even make it 5 months before filing for a divorce. HE was a MAJOR cause of a lot of my stress the last year. He and his “wife” causing drama around each turn and it’s exhausting after a while.

My brother, when he’s miserable, is mean and loud and just upsetting to be around and, because I’m the quiet one, I’m the one he would usually lash out against. I’m in therapy now because of how he acts towards me and our family, in therapy for dealing with social anxiety which got worse over the last year, and with trying to work on things that cause me fear and are out of my control, as well as trying to work on self-esteem issues and sorting through how my family, in how they act/talk/treat me, has likely messed me up a little more than I thought. It was a very overwhelming year.

And, of course, right around the time my brother and his now-ex-wife “separated,” it was summer again at my work and even more stressful and busy and exhausting :(

I’m not posting this to excuse going silent on all of you. It was not a good thing to do and I should have posted at least a note about it.

I honestly didn’t think it would last this long. I kept thinking “It’s ok, I’ll feel better and more driven tomorrow” and before I knew it, a week had gone by, then a month, and now here we are :( I really am so sorry it’s taken me this long.

Another big part of it was that, to me, I write and edit and post fanfiction when I’m not feeling happy. I do it to make myself happy, to have that one thing that makes me smile and gives me something to look forward to.

At the beginning of my job, once my social anxiety simmered down and I got to know my coworkers and engage with them more, I loved being there. I was happy. I liked going to work and that became my thing that I looked forward to. My need to be on fanfiction constantly started to go down a little. I still had a lot of my stories prewritten, but the drive to actually edit as much as I want to and to really keep going started to dwindle.

The stress is back. Without a manager and so much of that sort of duty falling onto just me and one person, I am beyond stressed. I’m not very happy at work right now. It seems like every week another person is leaving, which makes us understaffed and more stressed. Anyone we hire new can’t be fully or effectively trained without a manager and with only 2 leads who struggle to make sure the actual seasoned employees aren’t messing up now that there’s no one there to enforce consequences. Now I’m looking to fanfiction again to help get my mind off things and really make it that thing that calms me down and distracts me. It’s probably not a good thing that I have to feel stressed and upset and anxious and a mess of other negative emotions to really feel that kick to write, but that just seems to be how it works with me :/

Again, I’m not posting this as an excuse, there is no excuse for going silent like that. I just wanted to catch everyone up on what’s been going on with me and why it took me a while to get back to it all.

GOING FORWARD

It may still be a while, whether that’s a few weeks or even a month or two, before you’ll see the actual stories being updated again.

As I mentioned before, I’m teaching two classes on top of another full-time job and one of those classes is an intensive 7-week course that starts in about a week. So, at the very least, don’t expect fanfiction to resume till that point is over. I have a feeling that class will kill me before then lol.

It’s going to take me a little while to get into a pattern and routine, to work out how much time grading papers will take and how to balance it with my fulltime job. It’s going to take me some time to refresh my stories and make sure I’m not getting one plot or character confused with another. And it will take time for me to understand how much I can handle doing in a certain day or week and couple that with writing and editing again.

I’m going to start small.

First I’m going to focus on tumblr and sorting through my inbox. I want to try and answer at least a few messages a day until my inbox is empty again. So that may take...quite a while now that I look at the box lol.

Then I’m going to really look at my stories, how much I have left of the ones currently in progress, how much time it would take to complete which ones, and try to work out some sort of updating schedule and let you all know what’s coming.

I’ll be more present on tumblr now, but it may still be a while before the stories on fanfiction.net are updated.

The more unhappy I am, the more ideas I have for stories (seriously, just this morning I had an idea for a Flash story, and I haven’t really followed it much) and I’m really trying to not get too ahead of myself.

I didn’t want to come back before I was sure I could deliver. So I’m not going to make promises I’m not sure I can keep.

I know that I WILL be updating stories again, but I can’t promise a specific date. I know that I WILL be on tumblr more and answering questions (oldest to newest), that I can promise.

It may be slow going, but I’ll get there. I just have to work on managing my time and building myself up again. I don’t want to use all my spare time writing fanfiction, end up editing stories at 3 in the morning, and getting 3 hours of sleep before two jobs. I did that in the past, it’s not good for me. I need to find a way to pull a Tim Gunn and make it all work ;)

I wanted to take a second to thank you all for being so patient and understanding. I know I went silent and it was not cool at all, and I’ve only just glimpsed my inbox and seen the overwhelming number of asks throughout the year, even up to a few days ago, asking if I was ok and hoping things were ok on my end. You have no idea what that means to me. To have been gone so long and still have people checking in over a year later, guys, I almost started to cry.

When I started writing, I never thought that anyone would like it. I would have been content if just one person thought a story was ok. To look at it now and see that my work has had such an impact as to elicit concern like that after over a year of silence? I have never been more touched and humbled.

I love all of you so much and I really am so sorry for not being around more. I’m working my way back up and, little by little, I know I’ll get back to posting the stories again.

You’ve stuck with me this long, just hold out a little longer and I’ll do my best to deliver some good twists, new perspectives, and (hopefully) awesome OCs :’)

To end on another positive note...another reason I’ve been offline is...

I’m working on converting one of my OCs (a Doctor Who one) and their story into an original novel/series and it’s taken a lot of my concentration the last few months. So, who knows, maybe we’ll see something of that one day too.

Thank you all again for being so patient with me and so concerned. I’m back on tumblr for now and I’m hoping to get back on fanfiction soon too :’)

#lizzexx #fanfiction #update

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