#literature student that owns so many books but does not finish many

[sxlphie]

Going to watch pride and prejudice (2005) for the first time tonight. Here we go

[euphoric-dramione]

manacled

tw: spoilers for manacled

this one will be long, so brace yourselves

I first read Manacled in 2020, and it must've been the third Dramione fanfic I ever read, so I was truly very impressed with how well written it was. It remained the best and my favorite fanfic up until I started rereading it recently, and I'm writing this rant because I just finished rereading Manacled for a third time and I have some thoughts.

Firstly, it's important to state that back in 2020 I was still a high-school student, I loved reading books, especially classic literature, but I had little understanding of why some pieces of literature become classics and others don't. I just liked reading, and just like many other people, I thought that fanfiction was bad because all I've ever known at that point was Wattpad. Manacled changed my opinion. It was the best thing I had ever read, but I was only nineteen.

Now I am twenty-three, I have a degree in English literature, and although it might mean nothing to some people, it proves to me that I can read and understand texts as well as view them critically - my degree gave me tools to approach things I read and see using critical thinking skills. I don't want to critique Manacled because I think that all fanfiction is a wonderful gift that writers give readers for free, asking nothing in return, and that is such a lovely concept, so please keep that in mind when you read and review fanfiction. My critique stems more from what Manacled tells about the way we read classic literature, books in general, and how we deal when we face dubious morality. There is a thin line between books and literature - sometimes that line doesn't even exist. All literature is books, but not all books are literature. Just like all books are texts, but not all texts are books. What is Manacled then?

I'm choosing to speak about Manacled because I think it does a very interesting thing. It is an intertext of two books - Harry Potter and The Handmaid's Tale. Both of them are books, only one of them is literature, however in Manacled they are treated the same.

The Handmaid's Tale is a gruesome novel about a dystopian world where fertile women are slaves to men, their ability to bare children used as a weapon to exploit them. As the author herself, Margaret Atwood, stated, everything depicted in this novel had in some place or some time actually happened to women.

Rape in The Handmaid's Tale is a way for men to demonstrate how much power they have over women, and how they use that power to humiliate and control every aspect of women's lives, especially their reproductive health. Manacled picks up the very carcass of the story of The Handmaid's Tale and inserts it into a dark AU Harry Potter universe where the second wizarding war with Voldemort still continues some years later. Whereas The Handmaid's Tale is a thought-provoking feminist masterpiece about women's struggles and the never-ending violence perpetuated within walls of patriarchy, Manacled focuses solely on one woman and one man. The woman being Hermione Granger who is forced to bear Draco Malfoy's child in order to get her memories back, so Voldemort could rule forever. Later on, we figure out that Hermione and Draco were actually in love, but war set them apart, and it's him Hermione tried to protect by erasing her own memory. Here lies the distinction. Not only does Manacled say nothing about feminism and how women's bodies become war battlefields for, most often, men. Not speaking up on something in the intertext is absolutely nothing wrong. But Manacled does something else, something that I now see so clearly upon rereading, and something which I can neither forgive nor forget. It romanticizes rape. You might say I'm being too callous saying that it romanticizes rape when it is simply depicting in, and I will explain why I chose the word romanticizes.

Although Manacled doesn't allow us to attribute good or bad traits to characters, it is still very clear that Hermione is the heroine in this story and Draco - the hero with antihero characteristics. How do we deal with the fact that our hero hurt our heroine? We look for excuses. Draco Malfoy rapes Hermione, and we're looking for excuses as to why he did it. Some excuses are these: he did it because he loved her, because if he hadn't raped her, Voldemort would've found out that they were hiding something, and then would've killed them both; he did it, but it hurt him even more than it hurt her (it is true that both the victim and the perpetrator might be equally traumatized by an event one caused and another had to suffer through, but it never excuses the perpetrator); and finally - he did it because he had no other choice. Side tangent, but if my loved one ever has to choose between murdering me or raping me, I hope they kill me. Murder me a million times before you rape me once, that will be a greater mercy. And I believe had Draco actually loved Hermione as much as he claimed, he would've murdered her before he laid a finger on her. Let's also have in mind that he rapes her not once, not twice, but over THIRTY times.

While The Handmaid's Tale tirelessly shows that rape is the worst thing that one person can do to another, Manacled, with all its horrifying depiction, claims the complete opposite. Draco Malfoy rapes Hermione Granger, and although he doesn't take pleasure in it, he still does it. We find excuses for it because he is a hero of the story in our eyes, the same way that we find excuses for our favorite famous men when we find out they committed atrocious acts especially against women. When we read Manacled, we are encouraged to believe that rape is sometimes unavoidable, which is the greatest lie of all, it is blasphemous. Because it's Draco Malfoy committing the rape, it seems that sometimes a person has no other choice but to rape another which is a complete antithesis to what Margaret Atwood, and many other modern feminist thinkers claim. Of course, we don't need feminst thinkers to tell us rape is bad, but we might need to think a little deeper to understand that it is never something one has to do.

Rape is always avoidable, never necessary. It is perhaps the only crime that is committed not for some particular reason, but solely because one person wants to hurt another. Murder, theft, these are the crimes that a criminal might commit because they're poor, because they're are being blackmailed, because it's self-defense, etc. However, rape is such a horrifying crime specifically because you can always choose not to do it, and specifically because it is so hard to recover from - rape victims suffer more extreme and longer-lasting cases of PTSD than victims of any other crime because rape is so horrible and death might be considered dignified compared to rape, not better, but more merciful than rape. Draco Malfoy might be a lot of things in Manacled, but one of them is a rapist, and there is simply no going on around it. If you can forgive him, I hope it's because of all the other fanfics you've read where he was good and kind, and not because here he had no other choice but to rape, because that is simply not true. He had a choice, many choices, to be exact. The choice is always there. The most important thing is what we choose.

This is in no way an attack on Manacled, it is not a review nor is it hatespeech - I thoroughly enjoyed this fanfic back when I read it the first time, and I do think it is incredibly well-written, and I am not comparing it to any other published works because that would be unfair. I believe the things I've talked about have more to do with what regular people who are not writers write and how regular readers who do not read classics all the time accept and discuss that work later on. Anyone could've written something romanticizing rape, and many people do it all the time, some even get published and make money off it, but not all people can write as well as the author of Manacled, and even less would be ready to give us their work to read for free. I purposely do not mention the pseudonym of the author because I am also not attacking them personally, simply pointing out what I've noticed. Thank you for reading all the way to the end.

[sulphuricgrin]

TESfest 2024

Day 1: breath  //  FORBIDDEN

Lilliandra finds what is forbidden

An excerpt from a near future chapter from my fanfic (wrote it dead tired, sorry. barely managed to finish this for day 1)

Characters: Lilliandra (Altmer OC)

Word count: 1098

@tes-summer-fest

Her research is interrupted by a cup of coffee being slowly and carefully waved in front of her face. Eyes trailing up the arm that held it, she’s greeted by Cinnara’s lovely face. Without a doubt a welcome sight after pouring over more than a dozen scrolls and books the last couple hours. 

“Didn’t you recently complain about my coffee consumption?” Lilliandra teases Cinnara, before appreciatively taking the cup. The drink had already cooled, given the red-headed Altmer had to walk a distance just to find her hidden inside the stacks in the academy. Not that she cared - it would help her work through the night, regardless of temperature. 

“I know you’re not coming to bed anytime soon, so I might as well help you.” Despite the mild exasperation in her voice, Cinnara looked down at her fondly. “Need anything else? Maybe a helping hand through these?” she offers as she picks up one of the books and reads aloud the title, “ ‘A Guide to Dwemer Mega-Structures’ ?” She pauses. “You know what, I’ll leave you to it, love. I’m hardly equipped to help you here.”

Lilliandra attempts to bite down a smile, but fails. She had no illusions of getting help from her girlfriend, simply because what she was researching would be dull to most. “Thank you for the offer, but I would rather not deprive you of your beauty sleep.”

She gasps and places a hand to her chest. She would have thought her actually offended if not for the smile that threatens to break Cinnara’s whole act. “Fine, fine. Do try to retire for the night before the morning, please. We have an early class in the morning.” 

“I will,” she lies, though she does wish her promise was real, as Cinnara leans down and gives her a kiss goodbye. 

When she leaves, Lilliandra is left alone once again in the Illumination Academy Stacks, which was floors and floors underground, with cold stone halls and walls filled with books. She had been finding herself stuck in the Stacks for the past few weeks now, starting her literature review on anything written on Thaumavocalism and Dwemer Tonal Architecture, or anything related to magic and sound. She knew when she prepared her research proposal that this would be difficult. She also knew that the Stacks were naturally limited in information, and that she would have to consider joining the College of Sapiarchs if she really wanted to continue with her interest, her lust for knowledge. And that didn’t include her own first-hand research she would have to do for years. 

Fighting a yawn and losing, she decides to get up and move. She quickly downs the remains of her cold coffee, not willing to leave anything that could ruin the papers on her desk. Taking two books and one scroll to return to their shelves, she starts the trek in the Stacks many halls and deadends. Two years in the academy made her incredibly familiar with the library, possibly more than the majority of the senior students. Not that she thought it made her superior to them for that - she didn’t have much else to do when she didn’t want to sleep, couldn’t sleep, or found herself sleepwalking and gave up to return to bed. 

She’s gotten better at handling it all, finally. Maybe. Not managing it, how could one do that? From the nightmares, to sleepless nights, to sleepwalking, to the waking nightmares. (She desperately doesn’t want to call them delusions.) She’s learned to live with the occasional sightings of the ethereal faceless phantoms. She had no other choice. Luminous and large and familiar as they were, her mind and body couldn’t always stay calm with their inexplicable and revolting aura, making her retreat on occasion, fleeing wherever she saw them loom over unaware students and teachers.  

But tonight she walks among them, as they walk the Stacks towering her, barely fitting even with the tall ceilings. Tonight she is calm, weaving through their slowly moving, watercolour spectral bodies, refusing to touch them as always. They lazily flow through the bookshelves and walls and seem to care little about her presence, much to her relief. 

So Lilliandra hums to herself as she looks for the books shelves, thinking about where else she could consider continuing her literature review. The Thalmor made things difficult at times, purging local, academical, and even personal libraries of certain books periodically, marking them forbidden. It was maddening. She dreads them going into House Nivulirel’s extensive book collection and burning books that didn’t align with heavily conservative Thalmor views. 

Reshelving the first book, she sighs at the thought before rubbing her face. Moving two shelves over, she returns the next book. The scroll would need to be returned one floor below. She continues through the halls, dodging the phantoms, down the stairs, before stopping. 

She knew she was tired, that it was late into the night - that maybe she’s not in the right mind ever - but seeing black and gold eyes swell, pop, and reappear was certainly new to her. They bleed along the bottom of a bookshelf. One she knows she’s passed many a time. And the area around it was free of any spectre. She tilts her head to the side in interest, watching the black mass bubble and pop. She glances around the floor and looks over the shelf. None of the books catch her interest, all titles dull to her -  except one that looks so black, it’s hard to tell it’s a book at all and not simply a void of space. 

Whether it’s her exhaustion, recklessness, or excessive curiosity, she touches the black book and is pleased to feel magic before a portal opens before her, through the shelf, and showing a lectern with a massive book on it. A dull voice of reason begs her to desist, but she defies it, embracing the terrible madness as she steps through. 

It takes little time for her to realise what book lies before her. She could never forget her mother’s teachings on daedric influence and artefacts. The dark leather bound tome sits on the lectern, branded on its face a tentacled mass that’s easily identifiable. With barely a pause, she opens it, thrilled at the thought of finding knowledge few have a chance at. Reading the title of the book, she flinches as her sight is consumed by inky tentacles. 

THE KING IN YELLOW

[siriannatan]

{I have no idea what to call this one but it's WeatherHusbands}

This post by @made-nondescript and @umbrify got my lizard brain working so... here's a short snippet thingy...

AO3

fWhip was having a terrible morning. He had to suffer through Jimmy and all of his mister perfect, I wake up for fun and do sports energy even earlier than usual due to how their current lab project simply had to be done. And now had to wait an additional hour for his next class. He already had to wait a whole hour for it when the lab was at its usual time... So he went to Pix's antique store to not crowd the already overcrowded with tired students coffee shop next door. And now kind of sat there and complained about Jimmy to Pix as the shop's owner went over his important shop books. And slowly sipping his coffee.

"I just don't understand how he can have so much energy this early, he's not human I tell you," fWhip huffed and took another sip of coffee. If anything could help him through today that was it. Why must he share so many classes with Jimmy's terribly perfect self? At least there was that modern lit elective he took just because a friend asked him. 

He was about to complain more but the door opened and Pix didn't even look up from his book. "Hello Scott," he said with a sigh.

"Don't you hallo Scott me," came a very familiar huff. fWhip knew Scott well. They had that modern lit together and Scott was... a bit of a special case. "Hello fWhip," Scott grinned spotting him and instantly turned back to Pix.

"Can I help you?" Pix asked, finally looking up from his books.

"No." Scott said placing his colourful, covered about a third of the way in pins bag on the counter. And pulled out... A white thermos with pretty red flowers all over it and a matching tub with a plastic cover. "I know you'll drink nothing but coffee if I let you so I brought you some tea and cookies I made while studying last night," Scott grinned.

fWhip was a bit confused. Not why Scott was in an antique shop. He was the star of the history department. Their own mister perfect with all perfect scores. Scott was not only that, Scott was also a weirdo who took modern lit even though he apparently hated modern literature. And a home economics elective just for the hell of it. And he had a pretty full schedule without those... Oh, and he apparently took some art thing as his third elective. What normal person took three electives with nothing to do with your main subjects? Who took three electives in the first place if you could get away with just one? And he fed Pix on top of that? How did that even happen?

"Okay, I'm off to my Grimlands History class, I'll come by around lunch, don;t worry I have plenty of these and I'll pick them up after classes... Bye," Scott grinned, placing a kiss on Pix's cheek. "See you at modern lit, fWhip," he waved and marched off. His colourful combat shoes made a funny noise on the tile floor as he marched off, bag over one shoulder, long coat flowing behind him. All he was missing, fWhip thought, were flower petals but Pix would probably not tolerate that in his store.

"I have no idea why he keeps coming here," Pix sighed shaking his head. He did pour some of the tea from the thermos into a cup he usually used for coffee and opened the cookie box. fWhip vaguely recognised the two as something Scott once showed up to the lit class with, calling it an art project. 

"Well, he is a history major," fWhip shrugged, sadly noticing his coffee was gone. "And the best one too," he added having noticed the shock on Pix's face.

"I thought he's an art major or something..."

"He does take an art elective, I think he painted these," fWhip could not help but chuckle as he pointed to containers Scott dropped on Pix. "A complete overachiever who always has homemade snacks on him," he summarised as Pix slowly ate the first cookie. Complete disbelief was still on his face.

"He never talks about history," Pix hummed, finished the first cookie and took another. 

"All you have here is probably too new for him, he always complains about modern literature saying ancient elven texts are much better," fWhip hummed, his initial Jimmy annoyance getting maybe a bit lower at the thought of Scott bringing Pix homemade cookies in hand-painted containers. It was at least a distraction, wasn't it?

[thranduilseyebrows]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last ten people however many you want who reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals & followers!! <3

Omg hiiiiiiii

1. Chips

Literally any kind of potato chip. I love chips. Lays, kettle cooked, baked, I love them all. Hot cheetos are my weakness. Sprinkle on some lime juice and mmmmmm so good.

2. Reading

Reading isn't just for classic literature or long ass novels you feel like you can't finish. You can read biographies, graphic novels, children's books that give you nostalgia. You can read the making and behind the scenes of movies and musicals (Hamilton: The Revolution is my favorite). You can read a book about the history of your favorite car. You can read a biography about your favorite serial killer. You can read fanfiction. I'm an elementary librarian and I NEVER tell my students "no that doesn't count as reading" because yes it does. It does count.

3. Traveling

I love to travel! I know every single girl and their mother probably puts that in their bio but seriously I just came back from a trip to Japan and it was SO FUN! I've also been to Germany, the Netherlands, Poland, Austria, Hungary, Slovenia, Italy, Singapore, South Korea, Thailand, and Vietnam. (Australia and New Zealand are on my list next but we'll see how things go)

4. True Crime Shows

I loooove the ones like Forensic Files, FBI Files, The New Detectives...if it's about a killer I want to watch it. My mom got so good at understanding these shows despite not understanding a lick of English. She'll watch and understand every single thing happening in the show and my dad will be there like "wtf, who's he?" and she'll just go "he just murdered his wife! Aren't you paying attention??" Lmao

5. My siblings

Seriously I'm the only girl with 3 brothers. People tend to be very surprised when they hear that all 4 of us get along very well and have our own inside jokes. It's so fun being around them. We look ridiculous when we all hang out despite us all being in our 20s and 30s. LOL the age gap between the eldest and youngest is 13 years!

[snapshotsofmylifethroughbooks]

The first Jhumpa Lahiri book I owned and read.

The last Jhumpa Lahiri book I read; 2022.

I read Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth for the first time back in Class 9. It is a brilliantly written collection of short stories set in America which deals with Bengali families in the diaspora. Lahiri, especially in her earlier works, wrote about middle-class, academic Bengalis who struggle with assimilating to the American culture while struggling to relate anymore to their homeland. Finding a common cultural thread between us, Lahiri became a literary inspiration for me quickly. She was Bengali, educated in my dream school (Barnard College), living an academic/writerly life and writing books about Bengali characters for a living; she was everything I wanted to be during those early years.

For 5 years of my university life, I was stuck in a competitive STEM program which was chosen for me by my parents because of its lucrative job prospects. They desperately wanted me to "make it"; I wanted so desperately to please them. As a result, I had completely blocked the writer/poet in me in order to survive school. I stopped reading-the only thing that ever brought me pure, unadulterated joy-to switch off that part of myself, so I could focus more in school and succeed in my field. I got myself into a 3-year long reader's block.

In 2021, I graduated with an Environmental Science degree, like my parents wanted. And I passed with flying colours too. My capstone research project won first prize in an Undergraduate Research Showcase. I had done everything I needed to make my parents proud. And yet, I felt empty and directionless; I didn't know what I wanted to do with my degree. None of the related job prospects enticed me. Coincidentally, around this time, one of the worst possible things that can happen to an international student, happened to me. My application for a post-graduation work permit was denied. This meant that not only was I legally prohibited from working, but I might have had to leave Canada soon.

Until then, I was used to getting what I wanted from my academic life. I was a hard worker and I enjoyed the results of my hard work. But this set back was out of my control. And it made me realize, how little the work permit mattered to me; I didn't want to earn a living as an environmental scientist anyway. I realized that if life is going to throw us major curveballs, we might as well pursue what we really want.

In February 2022, I picked up a work of fiction after 3 whole years. It was Whereabouts by Jhumpa Lahiri. I chose Jhumpa Lahiri because I wanted to gain back access to the Raisa who had once lived and breathed literature. Whose entire life revolved around her favourite authors and poets, and their work. And Whereabouts did exactly that. So much so that when I finished the book-even though I had no work permit (I had re-applied for one and was awaiting their decision) and no way of knowing whether I’d be legally allowed to stay in Canada anymore-I applied for an After Degree in English. I wanted to go back to who I was before I became a vessel for my parents' expectations of me. I wanted to come back home to myself. Since returning to school to pursue my English degree, it does-in many ways-feel like coming back home.

[pridepages]

All or Nothing: Loveless

I just finished Loveless by Alice Oseman. I have some thoughts.

Here there be spoilers!

Alice Oseman is a gift to LGBTQIA+ literature. She has mastered the art of Jane Austen: writing a book that apparently has very little plot, but is actually a depiction of some of the most important facets of every day life. Her most famous contribution to the canon, Heartstopper, is light, bright, and sparkling in tone. With Loveless, Oseman adds a more nuanced piece of work to her world.

The novel centers around Georgia Warr, a rising first year student at university who is desperate to star in her own romantic love story. She’s imbibed all the intoxicating tropes of allonormative fiction: she knows every meet cute, every slow burn, every AU under the sun. She’s studied up, and she’s ready to go. The problem is that when she tries to take it from fantasy to reality, she finds that she has zero sexual or romantic chemistry with anyone. Worse still, she’s repelled by everyone she tries with. Over the course of many failed experiments, and through an introduction to a lovely friend, Georgia must come to terms with her reality: she cannot find that fabled romantic love story with one person. She’s aromantic asexual.

Asexuality, let alone aromanticism, is a rare study in contemporary fiction. By placing Georgia’s self-discovery at the heart of the novel, Alice Oseman has provided a novelty to a community that rarely finds itself directly addressed. This is a new kind of coming out, and coming to terms, story: what does life look like when your relationships fit no kind of translatable norm? 

The answer provided to us is that Georgia is able to find beautiful, true love stories with her friends. As her new roommate, pansexual Rooney Bach declares to her: “I feel at home around you in a way I have never felt in my fucking life. And maybe most people would look at us and think we're just friends, or whatever, but I know that it's just...so much more than that. You fucking saved me, I swear to God.” 

Because whether we are aromantic or alloromantic, love comes in life in so many different forms. Just because society has prioritized one expression does not mean the others are less worthy.

Just as Georgia must come to grips with how she can give and receive love, so must the others in her life. Some people have been disquieted by the fact that the title of the novel is Loveless, fearing that it represents yet another jab at people on the aroace spectrum. I would argue that the title is, quietly, more nuanced than that: the majority of the rest of the characters may be alloromantic, but that doesn’t mean that they rest easy with the knowledge they are lovable.

Georgia’s friend Pip is an out-and-proud lesbian. But multiple times in the novel, Pip declares that she’s destined to be forever alone. Having been treated as a ‘gay experiment’ in the past, Pip believes she isn’t worthy of anything else. Georgia’s second friend Jason, apparently a straight man, has endured bullying in his life. Because that bullying centered around his being undesirable and unlovable, Jason rushed into romance and dating with the wrong people because he believed that it was his only shot and he didn’t deserve to hold out to be treated well. Newly discovered pansexual Rooney has embraced free sexuality and flirtation, but for her they don’t equate to love. She believes she deserves to be punished for having fallen in love with the wrong person, causing her to have made years’ worth of bad choices and sacrificed healthier friendships.

I think what this book is all about is really that we all struggle with what it means to love. Love comes in so many forms, and those forms shouldn’t be discounted just because they don’t fit preconceived notions. Love in all its forms is so rare in this world. When it comes our way, we need to keep eyes, arms, and heart open. Don’t miss it.

To my asexual, aromantic, or even allo family who dread feeling forever alone: I implore you to stop and ask yourself where you find love in this world. I have had days where I didn’t want to live anymore, but I asked myself who would take care of my dog if I wasn’t here? So, I decided it was worth sticking around a little longer. Calmer reflection reminded me of parents who try their best. Of friends who chose me even when I didn’t believe in myself. Of mentors who pushed me forward. Of kids in my classroom who gave me unexpected hugs and told me I was their favorite teacher.

Sometimes, love feels like an all or nothing affair. Either we’re the heroes of some grand romance or we’re the also-rans. But the reality is so much different. Love can be all around us. If we don’t stop and look around once in a while, we might miss it.

[usergreenpixel]

JACOBIN FICTION CONVENTION MEETING 4: IN THE REIGN OF TERROR: THE ADVENTURES OF A WESTMINSTER BOY(1888)

1. The Introduction

Well hello there again, dearest readers! I’m back at it again and this time I brought you something more obscure.

Honestly, I would’ve never found out about this book had I not seen the category for books set in the French Revolution era on Wikipedia after a deliberate google search.

“In the Reign of Terror” is an adventure novel aimed at young boys that was published in 1888 by one G. A. Henty, an English novelist who has other adventure novels to his name too, but today we’ll only take a look at this one.

It’s available on Project Gutenberg in the ebook format and is in public domain so it’s free to download, which is how I obtained the book.

2. The Summary

The book takes place in the French Revolution era, specifically from 1790 to about 1792. It tells the story of Harry Sandwith, a boy whose physician father sends him from London to Burgundy to live with Marquis de St. Caux and his family.

As the brother of the Marquis had been cured by Harry’s father during his stay in London, the entire arrangement was his idea. The Marquis himself also believes that by having an English companion, his sons can learn a lot about English customs while Harry learns the language and the traditions of France.

But as the Revolution is drawing nearer than ever, clouds gather above the heads of Harry’s host family and Harry himself...

This is the basic premise of the story, but how did the finished product turn out? Let’s find that out for ourselves, Citizens!

3. The Story

Now, at first the story itself seems a bit implausible on the level of the premise. The Marquis believes that his sons should learn a thing or two about masculinity and sports from Harry, as English boys are supposedly more manly than their “feminine” French peers.

I find it hard to believe that a French nobleman would think this way but I was still willing to suspend my disbelief somewhat because Anglophiles do exist and despite the rivalry between France and the UK, the two countries did borrow bits and pieces of culture from each other.

Here’s the part that gave me pause and kind of ruined the experience for me. The entire book reeks of a sense of English superiority. Harry, the main character, is English and is portrayed as the bravest, strongest and most masculine member of the cast, while his French companions, Ernest and Jules, the sons of the Marquis, are basically treated like feminine “sissies”.

(Spoiler alert!)

For example, in the beginning of Harry’s adventures, the daughters of the Marquis are attacked by a rabid dog and who saves them? Harry, of course. This is one of the instances where the author demonstrates how strong English boys are and this is the moment after which Harry is finally seen as an equal by the noble siblings.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for patriotism and taking pride in your country. I’m Russian and proud of it. However, too much pride and you get this obnoxious sense of superiority. If you need a prime example of how that usually plays out, look at the Axis during WW2.

What Henty chooses to portray is specifically a sense of superiority. Characters like Harry’s father take pride in the fact that England has less strict class divisions, that apparently English commoners have already obtained more liberties while the French peasants are merely a mob of bloodthirsty savages, etc.

Don’t know about you, Citizens, but I really don’t like such narratives shoved in my face and considering how often this nationalism shows up, I had a lot of trouble getting through the story.

I’m all for healthy patriotism that acknowledges the good and the bad in one’s country but this is just too much nationalism for me and I believe that the book would’ve been more enjoyable without this narrative showing up every couple of pages or so like jumpscares in a bad horror movie.

4. The Characters

I know this was the 19th century so the audiences were probably not pampered with complex stories and characters as much yet, but honestly I didn’t find Harry a truly likable and relatable protagonist.

(Spoiler alert!)

He starts out as a pretty average school student but while in France he proves to be heroic - killing a rabid dog, slaying a man eating wolf (not completely by himself) and generally always proving himself to be the manly hero that Ernest and Jules can never be. Basically it was easy to predict that he will emerge from any trouble victorious so I didn’t have many reasons to be worried about him.

The sons and the daughters of the Marquis all end up liking him. Too much may I add.

In short, I personally got a bit of Harry Stu vibe. 😉

He does have one glaring flaw that unfortunately doesn’t do him any favors in my eyes. The English superiority complex that the author expresses in the story shines in Harry brighter than the Sun. He doesn’t express much empathy either.

(Spoiler alert!)

When Harry saves a man from getting attacked by an assassin and sees that the man is scared out of his mind, the first thing Harry feels towards him is disdain for apparently being a “pussy”. Um, hello, Harry?! How would you react if you got attacked out of the blue! Not everyone is as “strong and manly” as you are!

Then Harry also regrets saving the man when it turns out to be Robespierre. Our protagonist, dear Citizens!

Speaking of Robespierre, here (and this goes for most French characters) he is portrayed as a weak feeble “sissy”, thirsty for blood but neat and frugal in outfit and lifestyle, someone who won’t hesitate to have half of France slaughtered. Of course. 🙄

The female characters are bland helpless ingénues. Also typical of the literature of the time period.

By the way, Robespierre is the only revolutionary who is actually featured in the story. Marat and Danton are mentioned but it’s all negative in their department too, especially when it comes to Marat.

The Parisian crowd is little more than a bloodthirsty mob of savage uneducated peasants ready to slaughter all nobles just because they’re well, nobles.

Honestly, nothing new here.

5. The Setting

Honestly, I feel like there weren’t that many descriptions and those that were present simply weren’t vivid enough to immerse myself into the story. Too many descriptions are bad too, of course, but here the opposite happens - too little descriptions so sometimes the surroundings feel like vacuum and there’s not enough world building to imagine yourself in that era, beside the characters.

It’s all just bland caricatured setting one would expect from an amateur puppet show at daycare.

Remember, dear Citizens. Even if you write about your own era and country, world building is extremely important so please don’t underestimate the power of good and vivid descriptions, just use them in moderation.

Anyway, onto the final point.

6. The Conclusion

Despite all the drawbacks, I didn’t quite hate the book. I simply think it could’ve been written a lot better, without shoving the supposed superiority of England in our faces, without bland characters, without the unlikeable protagonist, without cardboard settings and definitely without machismo and layers upon layers of Thermidorian propaganda.

I wouldn’t recommend this story unless you really want to kill time and have nothing else to do.

With that in mind, allow me to conclude the fourth meeting of our Convention. Stay tuned for the announcement of the topic of the next meeting and have a good day, Citizens.

Love,

- Citizen Green Pixel

[misscorn]

Day 5: Roleswap/Formal

This @takaritsuweek prompt inspired me to do something I've been putting off for years: a rewrite of my fic Stalker-Senpai. So, please enjoy the first chapter :D its pretty much the same except third person now lol, we'll see how much I change in the future!

***

It was such a stupid reason to fall in love with someone. 

Onodera Ritsu had been struggling to reach a high up book on a shelf, wobbling slightly on his tiptoes for a few brief moments before Saga Masamune decided to intervene, mostly just because something about watching the underclassman struggle was both sad and annoying. The older teen grabbed the book for Ritsu, handing it over with a blank expression.

Ritsu returned the simple, polite gesture with such a wide and sincere smile that Masamune's heart reached incredible speeds that he didn't know were possible. Why is he looking at me like that? Masamune wondered, shifting from one foot to the other, feeling warm from Ritsu's gaze.

Masamune swallowed hard as Ritsu took the book out of his hands and said an enthusiastic thank you, one that was way too cheerful considering all Masamune had done was reach up and grab something. The older boy couldn't help but to notice Ritsu's cheeks were a little red from what he assumed was embarrassment and Masamune suddenly wished to see that adorable expression every day. 

God, what am I thinking? Adorable? He's a guy, Masamune hoped none of his thoughts were showing on his face. Apparently they weren't since Ritsu gave a quick and polite nod before scampering off. Masamune found his eyes following the underclassman and his feet almost followed as well. Almost. But Masamune somehow managed to hold on to a string of self control. 

All he did was smile and say thank you, why am I acting like such an idiot? I don't even know his name, Masamune silently scolded himself. It was too late, though. Masamune was already on his way to become a hopeless, lovelorn fool.

It didn't take long for Masamune to notice that Ritsu was in the library as often as he was after their minuscule interaction. It was like Ritsu had suddenly appeared and was now here everyday. Not that Masamune was complaining; he found the underclassman's constant presence very comforting. 

He reads a new book almost every day. Either he has a short attention span or a lot of time on his hands, Masamune noted. It was quite difficult to keep up with Ritsu's appetite for literature, though Masamune did his best. I want to read all the books that he reads, Masamune thought as he grabbed a novel Ritsu had recently finished. The older teen was hoping that he could use this as a way to get to know Ritsu better. Masamune was particularly ecstatic to learn from his book-stalking that his Kouhai's name was Onodera Ritsu. 

The two of them always sat at different tables, but Masamune made sure to keep Ritsu in his sights. Masamune loved seeing the brunette's reactions to what he was reading. At times Masamune would hear a small chuckle leave Ritsu or see Ritsu purse his lips in thought or even see Ritsu rub at his eyes insistently to hide the fact that he was tearing up. I want to know what he's reading, Masamune would think desperately before he was able to get his hands on the book, I want to know what makes him smile and laugh, I want to be the one who makes him smile and laugh. Masamune felt positively pathetic with this train of thought, but he couldn't help himself. 

Yes, it was official: Saga Masamune was in love at fifteen years old. He didn't understand how it happened so fast nor did he fully understand why, but he had enough self awareness to realize he was totally whipped for an underclassman who he hadn't even said a single word to. 

That was precisely Masamune's problem; talking with people wasn't exactly his forte and he feared that he would somehow scare Ritsu off if he approached him. Not to mention, this feeling of want, this inexplicable desire to hold someone through the night and into the day, this need of seeing someone's face just to feel at ease, all of it was new to Masamune. It was scary to be so enraptured in someone. It was terrifying to know that someone else had so much power over him, power that Ritsu didn't even know he had. If Masamune confessed his feelings, he'd be freely handing that power over and Masamune didn't know if he was even capable of being vulnerable and trusting like that. 

It didn't help that watching Ritsu from afar suddenly wasn't entertaining enough for the cruel deity laughing at Masamune's hopelessness. What other possible explanation was there for their paths crossing once again? He had peacefully watched Ritsu and stalked his library cards for three years, but now those days were seemingly over.

Masamune was reaching toward a book when a smaller, more delicate hand came into contact with his. Masamune looked over, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of Ritsu. Ritsu was quick to rip his hand away and met Masamune's eyes with an anxious gaze. Ritsu opened his mouth, looking like he was about to apologize for nothing.

"You can take the book, Onodera." Masamune said quickly before he could speak, not enjoying the sight of Ritsu appearing so guilty and worried. He wanted to alleviate the anxieties clear on Ritsu's face, but he seemed to only make it worse.

"How do you know my name?" Came the quiet, nervous response. The book was quickly forgotten by them both. Masamune felt like he was short-circuiting as he wracked his brain for any possible excuse or lie, but his mouth started moving without his permission.

"I love you."

What?

What?

What the hell did I just say?!

There was a pause between the two of them, the air around Masamune feeling as if it were crushing his bones.

"...eh? Eh?!" Ritsu's face flushed a beautiful shade of red, but Masamune didn't have the time to admire it because he was desperately trying to think of a way to prevent Ritsu from sprinting away.

"What I meant to say was-well-would you want to go out with me sometime?" Masamune asked, watching Ritsu's surprised, flustered expression closely. The brunette shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as he opened and closed his mouth, grasping at straws for a response.

"Y-Y-You know I-I'm a guy r-right?" Ritsu finally settled on after a few seconds of awkward silence.

Masamune almost wanted to laugh. Out of all the things Ritsu could've said, that was what he decided on? Masamune's lips quirked up ever so slightly in amusement as he started to find it a little easier to breathe.

"Yeah, I'm aware." Masamune replied dryly. "Does it bother you that I'm a guy?" That had been one of the reasons Masamune had been so hesitant to approach. It was possible that Ritsu wasn't even into guys and now maybe the two of them didn't even have a chance of being friends.

"I-no! Not really? I don't-" Ritsu inched closer and closer to retreating, which simply wouldn't do.

"It's alright, Just take a breath, okay? You don't have to say yes." Masamune quickly assured him, though I really, really want him to say yes, Masamune hoped it didn't show. 

"I-I don't even k-know your name..." Ritsu started, seeming to try to find some sort of excuse, perhaps wanting to spare Masamune's feelings instead of outright rejecting him. However, Masamune's heart was stubborn and dead set on Ritsu. He wouldn't be dissuaded easily and not knowing his name was an easy fix. 

"It's Saga. Saga Masamune."

Ritsu nodded slowly, visibly swallowing as he wrung his hands, seeming to be carefully considering his next few words.

"O-O-Okay...I-I'll go out with you...Saga Senpai..."

-

When an upperclassman grabbed a book for Ritsu and handed it over he was grateful for a few seconds, but forgot about the interaction quickly. It had been nothing particularly special after all. If there was anything he did remember from the brief conversation-if one could even call it that-it was that he felt terribly embarrassed for being too short to reach a book. And then a certain name started to pop up everywhere...

Ritsu scanned the shelves for a new read, not looking for anything in particular, just something unfamiliar and fresh. He started to reach for one when a larger hand met his and he instinctively recoiled away from the touch as if it had burned him. He looked over to see an older student that was often slinking around the library, somehow always seeming to have a certain aura of sadness around him.

"You can take the book, Onodera." He told Ritsu quickly, his expression blank and unreadable.

"How do you know my name?" Ritsu asked hesitantly, though he already knew the answer. This is my stalker. Saga Masamune, Ritsu felt nervous now that he was face to face with him. Ritsu had been ignoring the behavior for the longest time, three years in fact, but now his stalker was right in front of him.

Ritsu often liked to reread books that he particularly connected with and it didn't take long for him to realize a certain name kept appearing and reappearing underneath his own.

Saga Masamune.

Ritsu didn't know anything about this 'Saga' person. He was far too shy to ever venture out to try to talk to many people, especially an upperclassman. He was still young and fresh enough to high school to think that upperclassmen were untouchable Gods. Though, after noticing the name he also noticed that a certain upperclassman was constantly in the library: the one that had helped Ritsu grab a book. Ritsu decided he was as good as a suspect as anyone to be his stalker. It wasn't like many other students spent hours upon hours in the school's library. To confirm his suspicion, Ritsu once quietly walked up to his table when he had fallen asleep sitting up and took the opportunity to look in the back of his book. There was his name: Saga Masamune. The upperclassman shifted and Ritsu took that as his que to quickly put the book back down and retreat.

Ritsu tried to ignore it, not understanding Masamune's motives or actions and wondering if perhaps he was looking a little too much into it. That was, until the two had bumped into each other again. 

"I love you." Masamune said.

Ritsu's heart punched the inside of his rib cage before beating erratically in all directions. A confession had been about the last thing he was expecting. 

"...eh? Eh?!" Is all Ritsu could choke out in response with his legs feeling weak yet also prepared to sprint a mile if necessary.

"What I meant to say was-well-would you want to go out with me sometime?" Masamune asked, but Ritsu's confusion didn't cease. 

"Y-Y-You know I-I'm a guy r-right?" That question sounded much dumber out loud than it did in my head, Ritsu thought as he refrained from facepalming. Masamune smirked a bit at his question and Ritsu tried not to frown, feeling like he was being made fun of and this confession had perhaps been a joke of some sort to mess with him.

"Yeah, I'm aware. Does it bother you that I'm a guy?"

Ritsu struggled to swallow as he started to shake his head. "I-no! Not really? I don't-" He wanted to hide behind the bookshelves at this point and forget this entire conversation.

"It's alright, Just take a breath, okay? You don't have to say yes."

"I-I don't even k-know your name..." Ritsu lied, wanting to somehow escape this situation.

"It's Saga. Saga Masamune." He replied smoothly. The upperclassman obviously didn't see their lack of knowledge of one another as an issue and suddenly Ritsu was out of excuses. 

I should say I don't like guys, or that not interested, or that I have a girlfriend, Ritsu thought, but instead he just gulped nervously and nodded slowly.

"O-O-Okay...I-I'll go out with you...Saga Senpai..."

Why did I say that, why did I agree to this, what am I going to do now, oh God, I bet this really is just a joke and he's going to start laughing at me now, if my parents find out about this I'm completely done for-, Ritsu's panicked thoughts continued to race, but stopped once a gentle hand reached up to ruffle his hair. 

And that was how the wonderful, complicated mess of their relationship started. 

[richincolor]

Interview: Michelle Quach

We have a special guest today. Michelle Quach was kind enough to answer a few questions for us about her debut, Not Here to Be Liked. It's being released today so you can grab it right away.

Summary: Eliza Quan is the perfect candidate for editor in chief of her school paper. That is, until ex-jock Len DiMartile decides on a whim to run against her. Suddenly her vast qualifications mean squat because inexperienced Len—who is tall, handsome, and male—just seems more like a leader.

When Eliza’s frustration spills out in a viral essay, she finds herself inspiring a feminist movement she never meant to start, caught between those who believe she’s a gender equality champion and others who think she’s simply crying misogyny.

Amid this growing tension, the school asks Eliza and Len to work side by side to demonstrate civility. But as they get to know one another, Eliza feels increasingly trapped by a horrifying realization—she just might be falling for the face of the patriarchy himself.

Crystal: First off, I read Not Here to Be Liked all in one gulp. You had my attention from the first page and I absolutely needed to know what was going to happen next. The plot was intriguing and the romance had me smiling so many times. On a side note--I also seriously considered simplifying my wardrobe.

From the title, it's fairly obvious that likeability is not Eliza's priority. How do you think likeability plays out along gender lines?

Michelle: Aw, thank you so much—I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed the book!

I think it’s possible for people of all genders to be unlikeable, but it plays an outsize role in the way a girl’s worth is determined. Being liked isn’t always a requirement for a man’s success, but it is almost always for a woman’s. On top of that, the standards for female likeability are quite fickle. Your appearance factors in disproportionately, as does your ability to make others feel comfortable. Sometimes you can even become unlikeable just for being too popular (think of basically every young female celebrity ever). And the worst part is, these expectations can continue to shape your behavior even after you’re aware of how absurd they are.

Crystal: Are there unlikable female characters in other novels that have caught your attention in the past?

Michelle: Probably my favorite of all time is Harriet from Harriet the Spy. She’s self-absorbed, judgmental, and nosy—but she also learns, which mean there’s hope for all of us. More recently, I also found Ivy from White Ivy by Susie Yang to be terrifically unlikable. I won’t say whether she learns anything, though.

Crystal: What kind of relationship do you have with the term and concept of feminism?

Michelle: I definitely consider myself a feminist, though my relationship with the concept has evolved a lot over the years. In fact, I’d say it’s still evolving! What makes sense to me right now is the idea that feminism needs to be as inclusive as possible, which means it should dismantle not only sexism but also all other forms of structural inequality, including racism and economic inequality. That said, I do also support all kinds of progress, even if it’s incremental.

Crystal: What was the most fun aspect of writing Eliza and Len's story?

Michelle: Their banter! I love writing dialogue in general, but it’s so fun to throw two well-matched characters together and just let them go at it.

Crystal: Were any of the characters more challenging to write than the others?

Michelle: I would say Winona, because her experience as a Black teen in a majority Asian and White community is most outside my own, and I wanted to do my best to make sure her story felt authentic.

Crystal: Can you tell us a little bit about your journey to publication?

Michelle: I started writing Not Here to Be Liked about four years ago, after almost a decade of not writing anything at all. Before that point, I’d basically given up on my dream of even finishing a draft, let alone getting published. But I gave it another shot as part of a 100 days challenge…and this time I made it to the end! Everything happened really fast after that: I got my agent through PitMad, we went on submission a month later, and then the book sold at auction within a few weeks.

Crystal: If you're able to share, what's up next with your writing?

Michelle: I’m currently working on Book 2, another YA contemporary romance, and trying to read and watch as much as possible to get inspiration for Book 3!

Crystal: We wish you the best with the book release and look forward to reading more of you work in the future. Thanks so much!

Michelle Quach is a Chinese-Vietnamese-American who also spent a lot of time working for student newspapers--including The Crimson at Harvard College, where she earned a BA in history and literature. Currently a graphic designer at a brand strategy firm in Los Angeles, Not Here to be Liked is her first novel.

[hasereshdoneanythingwrong]

Librarian AU (Part 1)

Faye sat at her desk, its ornate, hand carved top covered in various cards, books, and miscellaneous papers. She fiddled with her glasses as she read her book. It was nice and quiet, this solitary library of hers. With Google being such a predominant means of acquiring information, her humble campus library had gone almost by the wayside.

Faye rubbed the bridge of her nose as she took off her glasses for a moment, She’d have to get back to cleaning soon. It’s preposterous that the head librarian must be the only one to clean an entire university library, but it couldn’t be helped. Funds were being diverted from her to other facets of the school, leaving the humble librarian to fend for herself. Every once and a while, though, she made sure to put time aside to remind herself why she started this job in the first place; her love of reading.

What a marvelous way to live, surrounded by knowledge and culture! A mountain of books that she could read one every day and never finish them all! Faye sighed at the thought. It wasn’t all roses, unfortunately. Her responsibilities often taking priority over her own enjoyment of her work. Tracking down overdue books was the worst part. Almost everybody who borrowed books from the library seemed to never return what they loaned, meaning she had to be the bad guy more often than she’d liked. Often times leading to fines or people getting disciplined from the dean.

A clock chimed, 4PM. It was almost time for today’s classes to finish up. If there were ever a time for people to come by, it would be after their final class of the day. Faye slowly cleared her desk away, filing the cataloging cards back into their respective drawers and the papers into their files. Finally she marked her spot in her most recent novel and tucked it away below the desk. She’d have to get back to that later. After all, she’d just gotten to the good part of her newest romance novel, and wouldn’t want to lose her spot.

An hour passed as the sun began its descent, shining an orange light through the lofty library windows. No one had come, just like they hadn’t for a couple days now.

Faye: What happened to wanting to learn, to read and gain knowledge? Isn’t that why people come to this school in the first place?

A disgruntled sigh from the young librarian was interrupted by the sound of one of the large oak doors leading into the library being opened. The door closed and Faye laid her eyes upon a young student, by the looks of her uniform. The girl, walked closer, and Faye was able to get a better look at her.

Her blonde hair was tied in long pigtails, held in place by a red and back ribbons, her eyes a deep, dark red, her skin pale, with pale limbs holding her up. The girl walked closer to the desk, stopping just before it as Faye straightened her back.

???: Excuse me Miss--

Faye: Faye, I’m the head librarian.

???: You are? But you’re so young! Faye chuckled a little at that. She’d gotten that quite a lot since she started. Most people regard librarians as decrepit old ladies, not necessarily a twenty-something.

Faye: Well thank you, I suppose, Miss-

Ereshkigal: Ereshkigal. I’m a second year here at Chaldea University.

Faye: Ereshkigal, like the goddess from the Epic of Gilgamesh? Ereshkigal blushed a little. Not many people understood her namesake.

Ereshkigal: Yes, my mother was an avid reader. I grew up hearing old stories like that.

Faye smiled to herself. It was a wonderful thing, hearing that other people loved literature like she did. A rarity nowadays.

Faye: Well she had excellent taste, the Epic was a favorite of mine in highschool, right next to the Iliad and the Odyssey. All that aside, I suppose that small talk isn’t the reason you’re here. How can I help you, Miss Ereshkigal?

Ereshkigal: Please, call me Eresh. My full name’s just a mouthful. I’m actually writing a paper on the Symbolism of Death in the Epic of Gilgamesh, and was hoping you could help me find it.

Faye nodded. It was an odd choice, to be sure, but a good one nonetheless. The librarian gestured to follow her as she took the young girl towards the historical fiction section. It was far back in the intricate library, with many winding turns blocking the way that one could easily get lost in. As they walked, the floors became noticably more aged. These paths weren’t often tread except by Faye herself. She almost considered this a safe haven of hers, though would never say that to anyone.

As they approached the shelf that contained the Epic of Gilgamesh, Faye reached up onto the third shelf, grabbing the old leather-bound book and blowing the dust off of it. Wiping off the rest, Faye handed the book to Eresh, the girl eagerly awaiting the story. As Faye handed the book over, their hands connected briefly, the two of them making eye contact at the gesture, Eresh’s eyes going wide as she quickly took the book.

Eresh: I, um, thank you.

Faye: Of course, I’m, uh, happy to help. I’ll help you check it out up front.

Eresh nodded as they began their trip back. Once the two arrive back at the front desk, Faye took her normal seat, readying the checkout software. Faye looked up at Eresh. There was something about her and- no, Faye was a staff member, It would be wrong to ask a student out for coffee. No, she’d stay in her role and do her job. Even if her job did limit her in capacities such as this.....

Faye: Alright then, you’re all set. Just return it in two weeks or come back to extend the loan date.

Eresh: Thank you so much, Miss Faye!

Faye: Just Faye will do. It’d be weird if you addressed me so formally when we’re so close in age.

Eresh: Then please, call me Eresh.

Faye: Eresh it is then.

With that, Eresh gave Faye a smile that could melt an iceberg and left. Faye sighed, she should’ve dropped the renewal date by a week, just so she could see that girl again. No, that would be wrong. No, just like she said, she’d keep to her role, even if it does mean missing a chance like that..

mentions: @hasabbydoneanythingwrong @hasishtardoneanythingwrong @hasquetzdoneanythingwrong @haspaulbunyandoneanythingwrong

This idea was planted in my head by Val, so here you go. The first part of my experiment in a slow-burn.... I’m not good at slow.

[thesleepysphinx]

Tokoyami x (fem)Reader - Agoraphobic pt. 1: I love when it rains

Masterlist ⁘ Next

But I love when it rains 'cause I'm agoraphobic

- Corpse Husband

Tokoyami turned the page of his book, letting himself sink further into the couch of the dorm commons. He had been one of the first to rise this Sunday morning and relished in the comfort of making his tea in a silent kitchen. He sipped his tea every other page, content in a slow pace. Every once in a while, he glanced towards the elevator to see if any others were approaching, and when he found no one, he would look to the windows to see if it was time to greet the sunlight. Just as the promise of sunlight was approaching, a drop of rain fell. Then another. Until rain overtook the sun for the day.

Tokoyami smiled fondly at the rain, finding comfort in it and in the fact that it meant it was unlikely he would be asked to leave the dorms that day. He was indeed content to stay alone, at home, with his book and his tea. But the alone part did not last for long, as he heard the doors to the elevator open. Out you walked, still in your pajamas, stretching your arms up over your head as you yawned. Tokoyami watched for a moment, waiting for someone else to follow behind you, but no one ever did. So now, he was alone with one other person. He looked away back to his book, tracing his finger along it to find where he left off.

You noticed Tokoyami once you finished your stretch and yawn. You knew Tokoyami well enough to know he prefers a more silent than chatty company. So, as you passed by the couch he was sitting on, you offered a simple, “Good morning, Tokoyami.” You continued your walk towards the kitchen, not sticking around to pressure him for a response.

“Good morning, (y/n).” He turned the page of his book. He paused to see if you wanted to say anything else, but found you had nothing to say. Tokoyami was appreciative of your silence, but he was never opposed to conversation with you, a luxury he did not have with very many people. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke again. “There should still be some hot water in case you wanted tea.” He didn’t look away from his book as he spoke, almost anxious to look at you. Something deep within him just wanted him to hide.

“Oh, thanks!” you said with a voice too chipper for the early morning. You started to hum as you prepared your preferred tea, a tone much more fitting for the time of day. Tokoyami couldn’t pin-point the exact song, but it had a somber tone, one that he might find himself entranced by. He kept his eyes on his book, but found that every time he read a page, he’d have to reread it again. He was constantly getting lost in the beat of your hum.

Eventually, the hum stopped, and he continued his reading. But in his peripherals, there you were, standing at the window he had been looking out of all morning. You held your tea in both hands as you looked up at the cloudy sky, sipping it here and there. Tokoyami soon noticed that his eyes had moved from his book to you. Why did he find himself looking at you when he was so anxious to just a moment ago?

The moment Tokoyami moved his eyes back to his book, you started to mumble out a song. He couldn’t make out any of the lyrics but recognized that the beat was much faster than the one you were humming earlier. Tokoyami felt like it should have been a total mood shift, but for some reason the mumbling still felt somber. His curiosity was piquing, but his anxiety was fighting to hold him back. But as you kept singing, the mumbles turned into actual words, and Tokoyami made out the words “I love when it rains ‘cause I’m agoraphobic.”

Tokoyami raised his head to face towards you, finally giving in to his curiosity as you began to hum the beat you were before. “What song is that?”

His question made you jump, almost dropping your cup of tea. You caught it, though just barely, and turned to face him. “It’s called 'Agoraphobic', by Corpse Husband. The rain just reminded me of it.” You looked back through the window with a smile, appreciating the rain just as much as Tokoyami did. As you moved your head back towards Tokoyami’s direction, you pulled your phone out of your pajama pocket, navigating over to YouTube. “Here, let me show you!” Again, your voice was very chipper, and Tokoyami’s feathers ruffled a bit as you made your way to sit next to him and show him the music video.

Tokoyami tried to calmly move his bookmark into his book, closing it so he could give his whole attention to the music video. You seemed so excited about it that he would feel bad if he didn’t. As you started the music video, the beat you hummed before played in instrumentals. You hummed along to the video, and Tokoyami had to push down the urge to divert his attention to you rather than the music video. Without everyone else around, he felt somehow drawn to you, and he just couldn’t explain it.

As Tokoyami continued to listen, a deep voice began to sing very quickly, at the rate you had been mumbling before. He could hardly register the lyrics as they came, but he was able to read them as they popped up on the video. He spared a couple of glances in your direction, finding your lips mouthing the lyrics, but you never sang them out loud.

As the song came to a close, repeating the lyric “I’m not okay,” Tokoyami felt a sense of catharsis. He found himself relating heavily to the song, though he had one question.

“If I may, what does ‘agoraphobic’ mean?”

You stopped your mouthing of the lyrics to answer. “It’s a fear of crowds or leaving the house.” Your eyes went soft as you continued. “The artist has to deal with it a lot, that’s why the song has so much feeling to it.” You sipped your tea once again. “It’s just been stuck in my head lately. Sorry if I bothered you.” Your face turned somber as you pocketed your phone and leaned back on the couch, drinking your tea with both hands.

Tokoyami’s feathers ruffled once again at the sudden change in your mood. Why does she look so… sad all of a sudden?

“Not a bother at all.” He sipped his own tea. “In fact, I enjoyed the song. The book was not holding my attention.”

You let out a hum that sounded more like a sigh. You considered for a moment if you should continue the conversation. Does he want to keep talking? I don’t want to make him uncomfortable or anything… But is it rude if I don’t respond? After one more sip of your tea, you came to a decision. “What’s the book?”

It wasn’t until after you asked that Tokoyami realized he had wanted you to. He passed the book to you as he explained, “Pride and Prejudice. It’s an older classic. I’ve been told it’s one of the best novels ever written. Though, I cannot speak to the validity of that claim.” He stuffed his hands in his sweater pockets as you propped the book up against bent legs and analyzed the cover and some pages. You found that he was somewhere around half-way through according to his bookmark.

“I’ve read it, actually. Elizabeth Bennett is a whole mood.” You giggled as you remembered the character. “But it’s hard to get through classic literature.”

Tokoyami nodded in his agreement. “The diction is most definitely a struggle. But I’ve always appreciated the challenge of classic literature.”

The two of you continued your discussion of literature, anxieties fading as time went on. You found yourself enthralled in Tokoyami’s company, and he in yours. Your half drank tea had ended up on the coffee table next to his, both of them going cold. You had kept the book on your lap, forgetting its existence. The tapping of the rain drops outside complemented the conversation, shutting the two of you out from everything else. That was, until the elevator doors opened again, this time to much louder company. Nearly half of the class poured out of the elevator, chatting loudly with each other as they made their way towards the commons. Among them was your best friend, Toru.

It was a wonder that you were able to be such a calm person with a best friend like Toru, the biggest ball of energy. Unlike you, Toru was already dressed for the day in a yellow sweater that fell off her invisible shoulder and a pair of leggings. She jogged her way over to you excitedly chattering too fast for you to know exactly what she was saying.

Tokoyami started to feel like he was intruding. He rose from his seat, grabbing his cup of tea. “Excuse me.” Without waiting for an answer, he moved to the kitchen to wash his cup.

You watched him as he left, sad to have lost him so quickly.

“Hey, (y/n)!” Toru called to you, “When did you become friends with Tokoyami?”

You watched him walk around the crowd of students back towards the elevator. “Today, I guess.”

Toru took his place sitting next to you on the couch. “He’s so quiet and mysterious! What did you even talk about?”

You kept your eyes glued to the elevator, hoping that maybe he’d come back down soon. “Music and literature.” Usually, you’d say more, but your mind was completely occupied.

“That’s, like, completely unspecific.”

You finally gathered the control to look towards Toru’s invisible face. “I showed him the song 'Agoraphobic' and he showed me he was reading Pride and-.” You suddenly looked down to your lap, remembering the book that had made its way there early in the conversation. “Damn, he left so fast that I didn’t even get the chance to give him back his book.” You grabbed the book and rose from your seat. “I’m gonna go give it back, I’ll be back down in a bit. Movie marathon later?”

Toru’s shirt sleeves raised in the air to show her arms were raised in excitement. “You bet! Ojiro said he’d watch too!”

“Kay, I’ll be down in a bit!” You waved back to your friend as you made your way up the stairs, deciding not to wait for the elevator. Besides, this would get your blood pumping. But as you reached the second floor much faster than expected, you felt an anxiety rise within you. What if he just wants to be left alone?

Masterlist ⁘ Next

Hi, yes, I am writing a whole new fic when I haven't updated my last one in eons, but I felt much more motivation with this one. I love me my bird boi. I do intend for this to be a slow burn (maybe a friends to lovers? 👀) so I'm excited for this :) Please harass me if I take forever to update. Seriously. Harass me about it.

Also, all the love to Corpse Husband <3 check out his music if you haven't :)

[delicioussshame]

Okay, so my plans for this one is to publish it by itself on AO3 once it’s done, which, I hope (strangled laughter) shouldn’t be in a year, so do what you want with that info. In the meantime, have the first part of a silly modern AU.

For fuck’s sake, there is no way that’s Luo Binghe.

Shen Yuan had a very clear idea of what Luo Binghe would look like. A white lotus like him had to be a small, shy, bespectacled young man. He’d probably sit by the wall, only daring to glance up occasionally to look for Shen Yuan anxiously.

The man who is refusing a woman’s overture for the third time cannot be him. It must be a coincidence that he’s wearing something that looks like what Luo Binghe said he would have on.

That must be it. Reassured, Shen Yuan starts looking for the little sheep he’d taken under his wing. Could he be the guy engrossed by his phone sitting at his right? Meh, maybe, but-

“Shizun!”

Shen Yuan is instantly mortified. The nickname was cute when they were talking cultivation novels online, but here, in real life? That’s why Shen Yuan insisted on them sharing their real names: to save himself the embarrassment of being the kind of nerd who calls themselves by a fake, geeky name in public!

Then again, since he looks like that, Luo Binghe could be larping surrounded by a crowd while wearing a shirt with a naked waifu on it and still he’d get hit on, Shen Yuan bets. A face this stunning must act as a shield, making him impervious to embarrassment.

Shen Yuan is not impervious to embarrassment. He dashes to the table where, apparently, his disciple is waiting for him. “Luo Binghe.”

He almost flinches under the strength of the beaming smile he’s faced with. “Yes! Shizun! It’s good to finally meet you in person!”

It would be better if you were not calling me Shizun. “The feeling is mutual.” Kind of.

Luo Binghe pushes a paper bag in his direction. “Please accept these as a token of gratitude for your guidance. I know it’s not much, but I hope you can enjoy it anyway.”

Shen Yuan opens the bag with no small amount of trepidation, to discover half a bakery’s stock of desserts, sweets, cakes and other patisseries.

How did he know of Shen Yuan’s weaknesses?

Shen Yuan quickly closes the bag. It would be gauche to eat outside food in a café. “This really wasn’t necessary, though it all looks delicious. Where did you buy them? Did you find a good shop already?”

Luo Binghe shakes his head. “No. I made them, so if they’re subpart, I’m the only one to blame.”

Come on! This guy cooks? At this level? Shen Yuan can feed himself, but a glance was all it took to know how outclassed he was. How is he the shizun here? “I’m sure they’re delicious.” They smell like it, anyway. “So you’re already settled down enough to bake? Moving wasn’t too much of a hardship then?”

“No, everything went well. I’m ready for the term to start.”

He’d better be, since he was accepted at Tsinghua University. How did poor Luo Binghe, who grew up in a small village in the middle of nowhere, swing that, Shen Yuan doesn’t know, but he must be smart as hell. Shen Yuan himself is no slouch, having graduated from Peking University, but it took the “help and encouragement” of his parents and his parents’ many contacts.

Not that they’re here to talk college education, unless Luo Binghe is planning to have much more fun than Shen Yuan did during his own college years. “Still, I suppose that didn’t give you much time for reading.”

“I did read! I had nothing but time on the train, so I finished Shizun’s latest recommendation. As he said, the heroine was the best part. I really liked when…”

This. This is why they’re here: for Shen Yuan to coach Luo Binghe in the ways of decent online literature, stirring him away from complete trash and protecting his innocence from the worst of the worst. He’d known from the first comment Luo Binghe had posted that he was too pure for this world, and that it was his duty as the last bastion of criticism to keep him that way.

He likes to think he did pretty well. Luo Binghe took to his teachings easily. Before he knew it, Shen Yuan had an online friend always eager to get his recommendations and to discuss them with him.

Shen Yuan had thought that maybe Luo Binghe didn’t have that many friends, or that he was socially awkward, but that is very obviously not the case. He can hear the girls oh so coincidentally sitting nearby giggling and congratulating themselves that Luo Binghe hadn’t been waiting for his girlfriend, but only a friend, which meant they still had a chance!

Ha! As if! The only way Luo Binghe didn’t have a girlfriend was if he left her behind to come study here in Beijing. Shen Yuan is sure that won’t last. He’ll probably find someone as soon as school begins.

In the meantime, he might as well take it easy. Reading more books, discovering the cities, getting to know his neighbours; he should take some time to do all this before he is swarmed by his studies.

Still, this is nice. Shen Yuan isn’t the most sociable person ever, vastly preferring to remain indoor by himself to making small talk, but this is a good combination of both! He can talk books with someone who listens to him while drinking his bubble tea and nibbling on snacks. He could get used to this.

“Could I have your phone number?”

Shen Yuan shakes himself back to the conversation. “Sure, but why?” They’ve always written one another before.

“Now that I live nearby, wouldn’t this be easier?”

Shen Yuan swears by the written word, but if Luo Binghe wants to call him from time to time, he can probably deal. “Fine.”

His pupil looks too happy to have gotten a simple phone number. Maybe he really doesn’t have many friends? Aww, don’t worry, you’ll do great here, away from the hicks that couldn’t appreciate you.

“Now that I’m here, there are a few places I’d like to visit. The city had museums, theatres, libraries, everything! Would Shizun mind being my guide?”

Luo Binghe did not need to punctuate that request with puppy eyes. It was overkill. “Are you sure you want to go with me? Shouldn’t you go with friends your age, or your girlfriend?”

“Shizun isn’t old! He’s only eight years older than me! It’s perfectly acceptable!”

Now Shen Yuan feels bad. Luo Binghe might look like… what he looks like, but at eighteen, he’s barely an adult! He should be enjoying his youth instead of wasting his time with a jaded old man like Shen Yuan.

Anyway, he probably just doesn’t know enough people yet. “If you’re fine with me, then I’ll tag along.”

Shen Yuan is once again nearly blinded by the brightness of Luo Binghe’s smile. “I’ll prepare lunch! Does Shizun have favorites?”

“I’m sure anything Luo Binghe prepares will be delicious.” He has no idea, but the stuff he gave him looks like it, at least. At worst, Shen Yuan can definitely afford to pay for a nice restaurant for them both, just like he’ll be paying here.

“Shizun shouldn’t bother. I’m the one who invited him, I should be taking the check.”

There is no way rich, adult Shen Yuan is letting Luo Binghe, a college student on scholarship who just moved to one of the most expensive cities of China, pay for him. Ever. That’s not happening. “First, you did not invite me, I volunteered myself. Second, I’m older. Third, I have a job (kinda, but Luo Binghe doesn’t have to know that) and you don’t. I will be paying for all our expanses, and that’s not negotiable. It’s that or I’m leaving.” He could never live with himself if Luo Binghe had to skip a meal to afford going out with him. The mere idea leaves him queasy.

Luo Binghe frowns, displeased.

A chorus of sighs can be heard from the tables surrounding them.

Shen Yuan estimates there are at least fifteen women of all ages staring at Luo Binghe like he’s a choice morsel now.

They should leave before this degenerates.

Shen Yuan pulls at Luo Binghe. “Let’s go.”

(He valiantly ignores the hissed “Don’t touch him!” coming from a genuinely terrifying fifteen-year-old.)

Luo Binghe seems reluctant to part once they’re out. “We’re meeting Sunday at ten. Shizun can’t forget! I’ll be waiting for him!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” His social calendar isn’t busy enough to forget his one deliberate engagement.

_________________

Sadly, his social calendar isn’t empty. His dear parents made sure of it. Shen Yuan doesn’t quite rue the day he agreed to their conditions for funding his lifestyle, but sometimes he really wonders if the sinecure he calls his job, providing him blessed solitude and copious amount of free time, is worth suffering through the parties.

Lucky for him that the feeling is shared between all participants now.

Shen Yuan keeps his face perfectly placid as he reads a passable novel on his phone. The hero is trash, and the heroine, just as bad, but there’s a decent world being built, and he’s honestly interested in the fauna the writer created. It’s not good enough to be recommended to Luo Binghe, but few things are. Only the best for his little sheep.

No one interrupts him. They don’t dare anymore. Long gone are the times where Shen Yuan let himself be bullied. Now, he has focused his hatred of a certain character into an imitation so lifelike he’s now famous for his emotionless expression and his ability to lash out with enough venom that the wounds he leaves behind aren’t healed by their next meeting.

One does what one needs to do to survive the jungle that is the circles of Beijing high society.

His parents would weep if they could see him. “You’ll never find a wife like that,” they’d lament.

Shen Yuan doesn’t care. His two brothers are already married. He’s an uncle. His little sister is more popular than any of her siblings ever were. His parents will have all the heirs they could ever want. They don’t need him to reproduce.

There’s a commotion somewhere at his right.

Shen Yuan doesn’t bother lifting his eyes from his phone until the noise is close enough to be a nuisance. Letting none of his irritation show on his face, he looks for the cause of the disturbance in a nonchalant way that would fool no one.

His heart almost stops when he finds Luo Binghe, Sha Hualing and Xiao Gongzhu hanging off his arms like they belonged there.

What is he doing here!? This isn’t a place where his white lotus should be standing! He should still be unboxing in his apartment, not wearing this frankly obscene suit and flirting with heiresses as wealthy as they were mean!

Oh. This must be it. Shen Yuan did think Luo Binghe would get a girlfriend in no time after all. He must be here as someone’s date, and Luo Binghe being Luo Binghe, he has stolen everyone’s attention from the moment he set foot in the room.

Okay. He has terrible tastes, but whatever. No one is perfect.

Fuck, if he sees Shen Yuan and dashes over while screaming “Shizun”, he’ll ruin his new relationship! Not only will he be revealed as nowhere near as cool as he appears, but being associated with Shen Yuan isn’t a good thing. He’s made sure his disdain for this crew was well-known.

Shen Yuan tries to message Luo Binghe to warn him to stay clear, but, as expected, he doesn’t check his phone.

Fuck his parents. Shen Yuan, very ostentatiously, pretends to get an important but unpleasant message, and starts walking with a speed and certainty that cannot be interrupted.

“-Shen Yuan. Don’t bother. He’s an asshole.”

Shen Yuan doesn’t falter, but only because he’s a pro at this. So what if they’re trash-talking him to Luo Binghe? He knows better.

“I’ll have to make my own mind. Wait here?”

Luo Binghe, what the fuck? Can’t you see how obviously I’m leaving? Don’t come over!

“Hello. My name is Luo Binghe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Shen Yuan has to answer him now. He can’t just ignore him. That would be unforgivably rude. His mother would find out, and she would never let him live it down. “Shen Yuan. I’m in a hurry, so if you would…” He’s not sure why Luo Binghe is playing along, but if he’s game to pretend they don’t know each other, that’s perfect. Shen Yuan will do the same.

The smile Luo Binghe favors him with is nothing like the one he first shown Shen Yuan, all brightness and childlike joy. This smile is, dare he say it, seductive. He smiles like he’s certain the person he’s gracing with this smile is appreciating every moment of it, as they should. “Please spare me just a moment of your time. I promise I’ll make it quick.”

It turns out Shen Yuan doesn’t know Luo Binghe at all, if he can smile like that and make it look as easy as breathing.

Shen Yuan is not enjoying this. If he had known Luo Binghe would be there tonight, they could have planned something instead of, of whatever this is. His best option right now is to leave, meet up with Luo Binghe later, explain to him his current situation, and arrange things in such a way that his disciple’s rise into power won’t be hindered by his acquaintance to Shen Yuan.

For now, that means being the jerk he pretends to be, so that Luo Binghe can be comforted instead of confronted by those women flocking to him. Shen Yuan will apologise later. “Go run back to whichever of these,” he gestures to the women, “is keeping you fed and well dressed enough to pretend to fit here. I don’t have time to waste on boy toys.” Without giving him a second look, he exits the room as fast as he can without running, inwardly mortified at what he just said.

But not fast enough to miss the mocking laughter and the elated exchanges. “He thinks Tianlang-Jun’s son is a sugar baby!”

What the fuck.

[jamespotterthefirst]

Little Miracle

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 1,900 Warning: A few curse words. 

Author’s Note: This is part of the canon scene where Ethan and MC watch over Dolores’s baby, from Ethan’s POV. I was inspired by the line from the book that says they “talked long into the night.”

Catch up here.

The sterile room of the NICU feels stifling that night, the fluorescent lights shining on them both almost blinding. Ethan had been in that room many times before, but never like this. Never with a strain on his mind and heart so painful, he thinks he might burst from it. Now, sitting in the love seat, counting each of the baby's breaths, he feels as though he is in a foreign place—a vastly terrible one where his dearest friend does not exist anymore. 

The knot in his throat returns. 

Dammit. 

It threatens to constrict his breathing in the most debilitating way and he hates it. Urgently, he suppresses the flood of emotion at once, turning instead to glance at Lilac next to him. 

The young doctor is not looking at him. In the silence that stretches between them, she stares at the linoleum floor, her tear-streaked face is pale, her eyes bleary and red. The weight of their previous conversation hangs over them and he is surprised to discover it is not an unpleasant one. Instead, her quiet presence at his side feels oddly… comforting. More so than the many glasses of scotch he was planning on drowning in had he not stayed. 

Sensing his eyes on her, she glances up and offers him a tired smile which Ethan returns without hesitation. The moment lingers and before either of them can say anything, a soft cooing distracts them as the baby stretches.

An inexplicable warmth pierces through Ethan as he very gently offers Dolores' baby his hand. Small fingers close around his, weakly, yet powerful enough to steal his breath away. 

“She named him after you,” she informs him tenderly, as though the words she is offering him are made of the most delicate crystal. 

A small wave of shock courses through him as he looks at the name. 

Ethan Hudson. 

His throat tightens painfully yet again and all he can do is swallow. 

“I...see she did.”

A small silence.

Her soothing, kind voice saves him from his thoughts when she comments, “You must have known Dolores a long time.”

Ethan busies himself with carefully removing his hand from the baby's grasp. Despite the painful ache in his throat, he finds the words. “Over ten years. When I first emailed her I only meant to check in. But she was recently divorced, feeling alone, so she insisted on coffee.” In spite of himself, he smiles at the memory of the lively yet persistent young woman who had been so determined to befriend him. “And then it turned into more emails and meeting once every couple months for Sunday roast.”

“She sounds like a good friend.”

She was, he thinks before his mind catches up with him. When it does, the past tense stabs him like a knife to the side. 

“I didn’t make friends easily when I started here,” he begins, pausing only briefly to keep his voice from breaking. “So I was always grateful to her for that.”

The words finish ringing out in the quiet room and he swallows, suddenly exhausted from fighting back the excruciating pain of Dolores's death. As he falls silent, prickling eyes moving to the baby she fought so fiercely to protect, Ethan allows himself to mourn. The torrent of sorrow hits him is like the opening of a floodgate. 

He is certain he will drown in his grief until a soft, warm hand slides over his, looking small and delicate against his own. 

Ethan remains very still. 

“I’m so sorry this happened,” she murmurs, the sincerity her voice offers something akin to a caress. 

Ethan's eyes remain locked on their joined hands. Something about the sight and the feel of her soft skin against his tears away at his pride until all he wants to do is hold on to her desperately. Instead, he looks up to meet her eyes, unprepared for the quiet compassion in their depths. It hits him so abruptly that he is unable to look away, feeling something foreign stir in the depths of his chest, as consequential as the first blooms of Spring. 

“Me too.” 

As the seconds tick by and he becomes very aware that her hand remains on his, his pulse picks up, clamoring at his ears. With much effort, he forces himself to pull away. 

“I think we need coffee.”

“I can get some,” she says, already rising to her feet, unaware of the scorching trail her touch left behind on his skin. 

Ethan shakes his head. “No, I’ll go.” 

He leaves the room in quick strides, grateful for the brief moment of solitude. Being alone, however, proves to be a small torment since he is unable to suppress thoughts of earnest, kindhearted eyes breaking down every barrier he had stubbornly built that evening. Steaming mugs of coffee in hand, he returns to the NICU with an eager haste he refuses to acknowledge, missing the tendrils of her soft companionship. 

When he enters the room, Ethan finds her lovingly murmuring to the baby. “That’s it little tadpole. In and out.”

Lilac notices his arrival, offering him a sheepish smile at being caught. Cheeks blazing, she accepts the coffee gratefully. “This doesn’t taste like the cafeteria coffee,” she observes approvingly. 

“This is from my private coffee machine. As soon as I got an office, I vowed never to drink that caffeinated dishwater again.” He watches her take this information in with knowing amusement. “Nobody knows I have it so…”

Quite seriously, she vows, “I won’t tell a soul.”

Ethan chuckles, shaking his head, the first true flash of amusement that evening. 

They fall into a comfortable silence after that until the attending overseeing the case during the night shift strolls in to check on the baby. Satisfied with her findings, she quickly jots down the information on his chart. 

“Our little miracle,” she comments quietly, both to the baby and to them, before leaving the room. 

Ethan snuffs the urge to scoff at the word miracle. Lilac, of course, catches this and arches a brow at him. 

“You don't believe in those,” she says, not as a question but as an undeniable observation. 

Ethan hesitates to answer until he glances at her. There is no trace of judgment or derision on her lovely face, just fatigue from already spending several hours keeping watch. 

“There is no scientific basis to account for them,” he allows. “Frankly, I'm a little surprised you believe in them despite choosing to spend your career with facts and empirical evidence.” He is careful to keep all sarcasm out of his tone though he doubts he is successful. Years of being a sardonic little shit are hard to break. 

Lilac doesn't seem to mind, however, because she gives him an indulging sort of smile. “It is because I have studied science and facts that I am hesitant to dismiss their existence,” she explains. “Even with everything we know, there are some things science or reason cannot explain.”

“There are too many variables at play in a single minute, Rookie,” he counters. “When something occurs that we cannot explain away, it means a plethora of those variables aligned to create a perfect outcome.”

Lilac takes a careful sip of coffee, watching him over the rim of her mug. Not for the first time, he can see her mind working, formulating an argument. And like many times before, he longs to know the mystery of her thoughts.

“And getting that outcome despite all the innumerable possibilities,” she begins thoughtfully. “Isn't that a little miraculous?”

“No.”

Lilac laughs at the resolute way in which he shoots her down, though the sound is far from mocking. 

“Are you then crediting what science cannot explain to coincidence and luck, Dr. Ramsey?” 

He briefly pauses at that, thoughts stumbling. The haughty way in which she lifts the mug to her lips, concealing a smug smile, tells him she had intended to stump him. Instead of feeling annoyed, as he should, he feels a thrill of approval and something else entirely. 

“Not at all,” he returns when he recovers. “I am merely pointing out that there is still much we don't know as a species. When something inexplicable takes place, the real cause is most likely attributed to something we haven't learned yet.”

Despite looking utterly exhausted, her eyes glint, as though she had expected that very answer. 

 “'If he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact.'”

Ethan blinks. 

“Are you seriously quoting Dostoevsky at me, Rookie?” 

This time, she dissolves into self deprecating laughter. “Sorry,” she says, scrunching her nose in the most endearing of ways. “I studied him as an elective when I was in my undergrad program so it's hard to break out of the habit of being a pretentious ass.”

“A pre-med student with a penchant for world literature,” he observes, allowing himself to relax into the air of amusement her laughter catalyzes. 

“I was downright insufferable.”

“So not much has changed.”

Lilac throws him what is meant to be an unamused glare, but she ruins it by losing the battle against a smile. Ethan grins, unable to help it. 

“What else do you walk around quoting at people who disagree with you?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“Nothing as severe as Russian literature,” she quips. “I save that for the most stubborn of the people I argue with.” 

Ethan rolls his eyes though he too fails to stifle a smile. He begrudgingly accepts that he enjoys bantering with her, though he would never admit it out loud. 

“Be lucky I didn't quote Harry Potter at you,” Lilac continues sagely. “I am notorious for that, too.”

“There's nothing in the Potter books about miracles,” he points out. 

Lilac shoots him a surprised look. “You've read them?” 

“Yes, I read the few that were out when I was in high school. They had midnight release events at bookstores when a new one was published.”

She stares at him in stunned silence. 

“You went to that? That is so…” 

“Don't say–” 

“Cute.” 

The word sends a jolt through him, made worse by the sound of her tired but giddy laughter. Ethan allows her to enjoy the mirth, even if it's at his expense. If he was being honest, he thoroughly enjoyed it too, feeling his anguish ease with each passing moment. 

“Did you dress up?” she asks, eyes alight with excitement. 

“We are not speaking of this anymore.”

“You did, didn't you?” she manages to say through a wave of fresh laughter. “Who did you dress up as? Harry? Dumbledore? Snape?” 

Ethan makes a disgusted sound. “Don't insult me.”

Her laughter is uncontrollable by now and he can't help but join. “Good answer,” she commends. 

Bodies close on the love seat, they both relax further into their seats, contentment lingering in their fading smiles. Ethan allows himself one good look at her as she becomes momentarily distracted by her phone. The harsh lightning of the NICU washes her out, especially in her sleep-deprived, exhausted state, but somehow she still looks unfairly beautiful. Yet, there is something entirely different about her, though he is far too tired to decipher what. 

Lilac glances up to catch him staring. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

Her previous words echo in his mind.

 “There are some things science or reason cannot explain.”

Ethan thinks of Dolores and the unwavering friendship she offered him despite being surly and unapproachable. He thinks of the unconditional love she held for a being she had not even met yet, so profound she gave her life for him. He thinks of Lilac, offering him compassion and companionship despite his every effort to push her away. 

Lilac glances glances his way, beaming at him radiantly. As he returns the smile, his heart feeling ten times lighter than it did an hour ago, he admits to himself that she was right. 

______

Author’s Note: I don’t know what that was but if you made it here, thank you! 

I think I will skip the baseball game scene and go on to the fMRI scene. I might have that be slightly AU and have Ethan ask MC the questions. Let me know what you think <3 

______

Tags:  @openheart12 | @ethandaddyramsey | @noboundariesplease | @silverlitskies | @infinitiestones | @flyawayboo | @paulfwesley | @hatescapsicum | @myusualnerdyself | @thatysn | @choicesyouplayandmore | @chasingrobbie | @trappedinfandoms | @togetherwearerapture | @nooruleman | @caseyvalentineramsey | @axwalker | @parkerattano | @i-bloody-love-drake-walker | @kaavyaethanramsey | @edith-eggs1 | @choices-lurker | @jens-diamondchoices | @tefigranger | @ethanrcmsey | @coffeebeandragon | @senator-adrian-raines-wifey | @aestheticartwriting | @binny1985 | @mvalentine | @sanchita012 | @drethanramslay | @ramseysno1rookie | @takeharryandgo | @aworldoffandoms | @desmaranj | @ josieplayschoices | @magicalshepherdtreeprofessor| @oofchoices | @ethxnrxmsey | @octobereighth | @colossalpainintheass | @kopenheart12 | @lilyvalentine | @honeyandsunfl0wers | @virtualrain202 | @enmchoices | @tyrilstouch | @rookie-ramsey​

@dulceghernandez |  @lion-ess24 | @emotionalswift2 | @the-soot-sprite |

[intubatedangel]

Cold Snap: Chapter 1

I’m back, again, hopefully a bit more consistently. This time returning to the world of Anna Swift with a story that’s been an idea for almost 2 years but couldn’t quite come together.  No resus in this part, just setting up the scene, but I hope you enjoy.

----------

Shona dragged her large suitcase up the ramp and onto the lower deck of the old water taxi. It had become almost like an old friend to her over the last few years, the point of seperation between home and college. She turned and waved to her parents, who stood back on the quay, watching thier daughter leave for the last semester of her college life. In truth she wasn't going all that far. Only a dozen or so miles as the crow flies, and within the limits of the same greater city area. But while the city had grown and expanded to absorb her old home town as a mere suburb, the city's transport links had not kept pace. While the rail network ran along each side of the river, it didn't cross at this end of the city. There were plans for new bridges, but they never materialised. And so, instead of taking a 3 hour trip on the city metro, Shona would take the trusty water taxi that had been crossing the river back and forth for as long as her mother remembered, and be at her dorm within 40 minutes.

A good idea really, she thought, pulling on the suitcase behind her, trying to get it rolling again. She cursed internally at her professors for giving them so much work over the spring break, the suitcase weighed down with what felt like half a library. A gust of cold wind blasted her face, and she thought of another curse, this one at the northern climate. To many, spring break was about running around on beaches nearly naked having parties and getting tanned. To say it would not be advisable here was an understatement. This far north, winter was still clinging on, to the point where snow lay on the ground just a few weeks ago.

Shona pulled her scarf up a little further as she dragged the suitcase toward the door at the rear of the cabin, where luggage could be stowed out of the way. She pushed it open then spun to grip the suitcase handle with both hands and haul it over the small threshold, staggering back a little as the wheels finally rocked over. A gust of wind sucked the door closed with a loud bang and shone flinched, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Like public transport in most cities, no one so much as glanced at her.

She ducked into the luggage area, and her heart sank. All the lower shelves were full. She walked over, wondering just how she was going to stow the case. She vaguely heard the door behind her, then the sound of rolling wheels that approached and stopped beside her.

"Erm, would you like a hand?" A male voice said. Shone turned to him. He was young, maybe a similar age to herself, with black hair in that intentionally messy style. He raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "Not infering anything about the strength of your gender...You just looked... and I need to..." He glanced at his own case, similar sized to hers.

Shona shook her head "Sorry, yes that would be great." She smiled. "We can each lift half." She commented, prompting a grin from the young man. Together they lifted her bag. Well, Shona steadied it at least.

"Student?" The young man asked, with a slight pant from the effort. Shona nodded, and opened her mouth to reply. "Wait, let me try and guess. Your on this taxi, so you must be studying at Central. That amount of books, over spring break no less, narrows it down. Medical students are already back, my roomate's doing Chem and says all the natural sciences work is based on their own labs now. And, I haven't seen you in any of my classes or on my floor of the library, so by process of elimination I'm going to say... History."

"Impressive." Shona told him with a grin. "You must be studying literature." She grinned at his shocked face. "My roommate is in that course. She can almost quote the entire works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at this point, and she told me that almost everyone goes through a Sherlock phase in that course."

He chuckles. "Well played. I must know the name of the lady who bested me." He said, with a mock bow.

Shona couldn't help but chuckle too, though it was drowned out by the horn of the water taxi, as it gave it's last call. Shona felt the familiar rumble as the engine got into gear and began to ramp up in power. "Shona. Shona Smith-Carlson. Yes it's double barrelled. Ardent Feminist of a mother refused to give up her maiden name."

"Well theres nothing wrong with that. Though by the look on your face you aren't too happy it."

"It's not that," Shona shrugs. "She just never shuts up about it. Still loves dad though." She trails off, the silence starting to become awkward. "What about you?" She re-directs. "I'm guessing your name isn't actually Sherlock."

He smiles. "Jack Davidson. Not literally, My dad's actually called Mark."

"You must have practiced that line." Shona said, trying not to laugh at the perfect delivery.

"Maybe once or twice, but it's a good ice breaker, don't you think?"  He replied with another dazzling smile.

It was a nice smile. The boat jerked slightly as it left the quay and started its journey across the river. Shona rocked a little, Jacks arm moved, lifting a little, not quite reaching out, but ready to steady her if she had stumbled, and Shona suddenly realised he was flirting. Why did this always happen? She fought to not roll her eyes. Her girlfriend was going to rib her again. She would have to let him down gently. She took off her scarf, wrapping it and putting it into one pocket, and then unzipped her coat. She caught his eyes flick down as all men’s do, then slightly to one side, catching sight of the rainbow badge.

He blew out a breath, then nodded with a wry grin. "That's a good move. I am out played once again. Though I suppose we aren't quite playing the same game are we."

Shona shrugged. "Sorry." She mumbled.

Jack waved his hand. "Don't be. Not like you can change who you are. How about we get my bag stowed and then we grab a coffee on the upper deck?" Shona looked at him, puzzled. "Your roommate. From what you were saying she's a year ahead of me. A bit of early information is always good."

Shona considered it for a moment. He wasn't being pushy or angry like one of those guys. And she was planning on getting a coffee. So she shrugged. "Why not, company is always nice."

Together they lifted Jack's case, a little lighter than her own, and placed it in the rack. But as he was checking it was secure, Shona felt a rumble. A different rumble, one that she had never felt before on over two dozen journeys. If she'd been outside, she would have seen a plume of black smoke rise out the tall exhaust stack. If she'd been in the cabin that qualified as the bridge of the boat, she'd have heard voices filled with panic as alarms squarked.

Shona and Jack started up the stairs in front of the luggage compartment, when there was another rumble, and a strange noise filled the passenger cabin as the whole ship vibrated. Shona stopped halfway up the stairs, looking behind her. Jack turned to her, three steps higher up.

"What is it?" He asked

Shona shook her head "The boat. Somethings wr..."

 Her voice was totally drowned out by the noise of the engine exploding.

**********

Officer Matt Jones sat on the small river patrol boat, bobbing slightly against it's mooring. He glanced at his watch. Just another 7 hours and 50 minutes of his 8 hour shift. He sighed, feeling that boiling anger as he rembered getting busted down to river patrol. Not even standard beat cop, river patrol. In March, in this city, where even the foolish wouldn't think of getting in the river. Only the desperate. But this section of the river didn't even have any bridges, ruling that out too.

"So..." The old timer, Winston, who was now his partner muttered. "Who did you piss off to land yourself here?"

Jones breathed out slowly, sending the anger with it. "You know Dean Campbell?"

"The head of HR Dean Campbell?" Jones nodded, Winston whistled. "What did you do?"

"I may have pointed out that he was... inadequate for the position. In somewhat more forceful terms. To his face..."

Winston spat into the river. "That would do it. Not that you are wrong of course, that little weasel has done nothing but damage to the department, but, not exactly the wisest decision.

Jones nodded. "What about you?"

"I asked to be here." Winston replied, prompting a look from Jones. "Coming up on retirement. The last thing I wanted was to be that stereotype. Always liked fishing, figured I'd get some boat time and avoid anything likely to finish me off before my service is done."

"That's fair enough I guess." Jones told him, sipping at the coffee, watching the old water taxi make it's way across the river. He noticed the black smoke, but thought nothing of it. "Does anything interesting happen here?"

"Wouldn't have picked this spot if it did." Winston replied. "Occasionally that floating wreck needs a hand when it breaks, but that's about it." He says turning to look. "Speking of which, that exhaust don't look too healthy." He said a moment before the radio squarked, lighting up an indicator on the emergency channel.

"This is the Beetle, may-day, may-day, our engine is...." The radio cut off as a gout of thick black smoke burst from the exhaust tube, and the distant boat seemed to lurch. A split second later the sound wave of the explosion reached them.

"Get us moving!" Jones shouted to Winston, as he grabbed at his own radio. "This is officer Jones, Badge number 4582. We have a major incident in progress on the river between....between..."

"Between North Inglebank and Trippers point!" Winston shouted.

"Between North Inglebank and Trippers point. Explosion on a water taxi, we are en-route, unknown casualties, unknown situation, requesting additional backup for evacuation and medical assistance!"

"Acknowledged Officer Jones. Relaying now."

Winston had gotten the speed boat unmoored, tossing a high-vis life jacket to Jones, before he gunned the motor and they began to cut through the waves, heading for the vessel that was now smoking from more than just the exhaust.

(Edit: Fixed some errors and details. A little out of practice.)

[47crayons]

how teaching "classical" literature enforces toxic mindsets for writers

a lengthy rant, by me

everything here is my own opinion and a reflection of my own experiences.

i'm finishing up an american lit course as i write this, and there's been an incredibly heavy influence on how the backgrounds of authors shape the works they produce. to name a few:

cisneros's the house on mango street (growing up mexican-american in chicago)

miller's the crucible (connections between the salem witch trials and 1950's mccarthyism)

but as we took a look into some of these great writers' backgrounds, a few things don't sit right with me.

salinger produced great works; his short stories are some of my favorite, and i personally enjoy his writing style!

he locked himself in his "writing bunker" and didn't let anyone inside. photographs show him wearing what resembles a jail suit. he was emotionally abusive to his wife and children because he prioritized his writing to extreme extents.

now, i'm not saying that people shouldn't read his books or that they shouldn't be taught. his backstory and struggles with mental health make what he writes arguably more important. but it needs to be portrayed in a different light.

catcher in the rye did gain top-notch reviews and national attention, but this is not the only way to be successful. people can be great writers without being abusive or physically and mentally disciplined to an extreme extent.

f. scott fiztgerald is known for emphasizing routine. he himself had several hours a day devoted to writing (which is something i wish i had the time for)! the problem comes when his habits are glorified as the sole reason he's a good writer.

you don't need to write every day (if you do, more power to you!), but breaks are also important—and not enough people get this, especially students. there is no one way to be a good writer.

i'm not here just to criticize, so instead of romanticizing salinger's and fitzgerald's "devotion" to writing, how can we do better?

take shostakovich, soviet composer of the 1900s. he lived through war, paranoid that the government was going to come kill him, and music was his expression of that experience. many of his pieces portray his insanity and paranoia.

the modern music community does a good job with this, because no sane composer wants to write like shostakovich if it means they have to have the same life experiences. people understand the context of war. but the same needs to be done with writers.

after all, why is inner war so much different?