#these boys need a good lawyer to made themselves free of universe hands

[ksuhi13]

in Merlin, arthur was literally born through magic, that is, his birth was so beyond the natural and was such a great stroke of luck that in the end the universe decided to restore balance and made him one of the most unlucky people. seriously, every other character on the show tried to kill this boy, not to mention the betrayals, constant knockouts and all the stupid ridiculous situations. he would have cosplayed as a kebab in the first episode, so the wild universe sighed, “okay, i’ll make him the only and future king, but so that he doesn’t screw up, let this powerful man, magic itself or whatever take care of his ass. yes, i’m literally i mean, you have to button up his shirt and at the same time decide something with this crowd of mercenaries under the window. no, he can’t do it himself, his karma is expired, beaten and showered with fruit. sorry, bro, you’ll have to do it yourself.

[barricadebops]

And He Falls With a Smile

Summary: In 1823 Feuilly arrives in Paris. In 1824 a man in a daring red waistcoat invites him to a student organization where despite his orphan status, Feuilly gains a family in the throes of rebellion and revolution. Read on AO3 here.

1823

In many ways, Paris is quite unlike the south. The city bustles with more people than Feuilly had ever seen in Aigues-Mortes. He will likely have to take a while to become accustomed to the constant crowds in the streets, the way everyone seems a stranger to each other.

However, to his due consideration, Paris is also in many ways quite akin to the south.  

The language of French rolls easy off his tongue like the rhythms of Provençal and Polish, and casts no doubt on his employability when it comes to dealing with coworkers at the fan-making atelier. The streets are still lined with the poor who cry out for help, for just one sou while the haughty bourgeois stroll past leisurely, and there are still women thrown on the ground—prostitutes from destitution, children begging for alms instead of attending school, and there is so much misery that surrounds him when he steps foot in the city, and the orphan boy thinks that there has not been much significant change here, that he will work here until he dies never having known a true family.

Feuilly’s only family has been the concepts of France, Poland, Greece, Hungary, Romania, Italy—simply put, the rest of the world, the people of the rest of the world.

So, Feuilly resolves that he shall adopt the people of Paris too.

________________________________________________________________

1824

He meets a man by the name of Bahorel, down by the schools of law.

Three francs does not buy a man much. It hardly puts bread on the table. It certainly does not provide for better clothes than what Feuilly dons everyday. And only in his scarcely selfish dreams, do three francs provide him with a place at the universities of Paris, where every bit of knowledge is put within his reach with thought only of reading and reading and reading until his brain tires and he nods off to sleep, blissful in the knowledge that he will not have to rush awake the next morning to catch work.

But three francs does not lend him that reality. Three francs only lets him gaze wistfully outside the buildings and think of a life where he could read better, where he could write better, where he wouldn’t have to waste away toiling at the fan-making atelier—where others would not have to toil away—others who are younger, who are needy, who should be going to school. People from France, from Poland, from Greece and Hungary and Romania and Italy. People from around the world who deserve better than to have their inherent right to an opportunity, an education, a leap at life—taken away from them.

L'École de droit de Paris is teeming with young men, all affluently dressed, all hailing from wealthy families—men who care not for why lawyers are so prudent, why law needs to be so heavily examined. It is filled with men who walk without casting a glance at Lady Themis, their patron, who stands disappointed—though she may be blindfolded—knowing that her supposed guardians do nothing to bring about justice, to bring about her divine right. It is filled with bourgeois young men with haughty airs, fake smiles, and cold graces.

L'École de droit de Paris teems with such young men when classes are let out. For now, Feuilly can enjoy its tranquility, its academic aura without the glances thrown his way. Peasant worker.

So no one can really seek to blame him for the irritation that rises within him when he feels a man crash into his side, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the hard cobblestones of the campus.

"Are you quite alright?"

Feuilly has the strong urge to snap at the hooligan present above him now that he was not alright at all, not since he disturbed some of the only moments he is allowed to breathe free with his rough tumbling.

But he stops short. Something about the man's smile—though he must admit, it seems rather rude to smile in a situation like this—halts the words on his tongue.

The man, or well rather a boy since he looks like he cannot be much older than him—is smiling brashly, unabashed in his humour. Though he wears the red coat of a man bound to be wealthy, there is a certain quality in the way he holds out his hand to Feuilly, without disgust, without turning his nose up at him, without thinking that he is a great saint for doing so, that makes Feuilly think that he cannot possibly be of the bourgeois, and without thinking, Feuilly takes the proffered hand and rises his feet. As he regains his footing, the man nearly sends him back down by delivering a mighty clap on his back.

"My sincerest apologies, my good fellow. Here you were, wasting away your time like a respectable gentleman should be doing, when I so rudely crashed into you. But I do believe this is a fortunate coincidence! To meet another sensible individual—it is not everyday you have the great opportunity to meet another idler—they seem rather scarce in this dull profession. I do know of just one other, but unfortunately Bossuet is forced to remain in Blondeau's class—what amusement! Imagine Blondeau really considering that being kicked out of his class is a punishment! I fret for poor Bossuet who shall come out having truly come into possession of knowledge on property law. Just imagine!"

Much as Feuilly may have tried if he really did want to, he could not imagine, considering he was not actually a student of law, not to mention that he had absolutely no clue who this Bossuet was.

"But—" the man continues on, and Feuilly vaguely realizes that at this point he should make haste to mention that he is not actually a student of l' ècole and that he really should be heading back to the atelier, but the man barrels on, "say, I have not seen you in any class before. You certainly must be younger than I, for there can be no other way to explain it."

Feuilly flushes. How could this man seriously still go on believing that he was a student here when he saw the way he dressed and held himself?

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and clarified, "You're mistaken, Monsieur. I am not a student of the school."

The man's eyebrows furrow for a moment before his smile returns with massive force. "And I thought you could not possibly get better!" Feuilly's gaze darts up curiously. "How fortunate indeed!"

At this, Feuilly's mind staggers a little, and he bristles at the way the man's words rub on him. Did he think it was fortunate that a poor man like him could not afford an education, a right all deserve? Did he think it was fortunate that children lacked the opportunity to acquire knowledge because of the situations they were born into?

This man had to be of the haughty bourgeois, there was no doubt about it. His bold, rather daring waistcoat definitely spoke a testament to the statement.

There was work to be done at the atelier, there were fans to be made, money to be earned, another day to be lived. Feuilly needed to head back and throw this man out of the recesses of his mind, for he did not have any space freed up there either.

And yet—

And yet, Feuilly finds that this man is so incredibly wrong to have said what it is he said, and, well, someone must correct him one way or another—

"Forgive me, Monsieur," he says stiffly, "but I see absolutely no reason as to why this is a good thing. Do you really laugh at the thought of an orphan being unable to find the money to pursue an education?"

For the first time in their spontaneous conversation, the man's face is thrown off guard.

"Pardonnez-moi ?" His brows wrinkle before he bursts out with a hearty laugh. "Oh no! My dear fellow you have it all wrong!" The man grins and for a split moment Feuilly is sure he is the slightest bit mad. "I—of all people! I could never make fun of the peasants—my own parents are peasants, mon ami, it is why they have common sense."

There is something in this man's bold words that has even Feuilly amused enough to crack a smile. Perhaps he had simply misjudged him; though he would likely never understand Feuilly on the full on accounts of actually still having parents that evidently did love their son, the man hailed from a peasant background, so of all things, he was definitely not stuffy like the rest of his new-class, though the daring red coat did write him into Feuilly's books as just the slightest bit reckless—such was the effect of the colour red clothed on such a brash man.

He lets out a resigned sigh; at this point he absolutely has to get back to the factory if he wants to clock in on time. But the man is still grinning at him, and Feuilly cannot help but feel the urge to stay.

"Your words undoubtedly ring true, and it speaks a testament to the kind of life you have been made to lead." All at once, his face turned serious. "We need more men like you at our meetings—come join us, I beg of you."

Meetings? What sort of meetings could this man have been talking about?

Unless…

Feuilly was not illiterate. He had caught whisperings of secret Jacobin societies, groups that hid themselves away from the gaze of the King as they would secretly plot rebellion. A man of the people, the true common man, Feuilly too had been eager to join these groups—but where was the time? He hardly had any time to go back to the pathetic little apartment he had managed to scrounge up money for, how could he find himself time to attend Republican meetings?

At the atelier, the clock was surely ticking away, bringing Feuilly closer every minute to being late heading back to work. "I'm sorry," he turns away and makes to head off. "I find myself unable to join, unfortunately, at the moment."

There is an elbow at the crook of his arm easing him around. "I urge you to reconsider, Monsieur. There is always room for new recruits, and I assure you that your input will always be valued." He opened his mouth to argue when the man put up a hand to stop him. "Your time needn't be an issue—we are all but students, we will uphold your responsibilities if need be. But your word—your word will be no doubt incredibly valuable. Please think of it."

Feuilly hesitates; in the sky, the sun burned bright in indication of a rapidly approaching afternoon. "And what do you call yourselves?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "Les Amis de l 'ABC," he replies rather cheekily.

Les Amis de l'ABC? Somewhere, the name strikes at Feuilly's core. The Friends of the ABC. Surely an educational group—that was something he could support—and something he could personally understand, too.

"And what is it exactly that your group does, Monsieur?"

"Well, in name, we are dedicated to the education of children." (L'ABC). The man's smile turns a little sharp as he lowers his voice. "In reality, we… Well, I suppose you would have to come see yourself, would you not? Though I suppose if you ponder our name long enough, you should figure out anyways.”

ABC…

ABC…

Abaisse.

Les Amis de l’ABC — Les Amis de l'abaisse.

The Friends of the ABC—the Friends of the abased.

A rather clever name, if he had to be quite honest. So it was as Feuilly suspected.

“And who exactly makes up your group?” he asks, attempting to keep up his inquisitive tone even as he moves to clasp the man’s hand.

The man laughs. “Well, if—when we succeed, I imagine we shall become a group that will belong to some measure of history, though that’s not why do what we do.”

“Succeed?”

“Yes! I have no doubts that we shall do exactly that. The question is, Monsieur, will you be there with us when we do so?”

There is no reason to say yes; in fact, there is every reason to say no. The minutes are still ticking by and the factory foreman is not a forgiving man, especially not towards orphans who need the job more than he needs the orphan, and there was never any time to join such organizations, and so many of them are run by bourgeois boys who did not know what they spoke of, never truly knew what it was their goals should be, why would they accept Feuilly among their ranks—

And yet, there is just something about this man, something about the aura he exudes, something brash and reckless but accepting, even if his words do not always come off that way, that makes him hesitate from immediately flatly refusing and turning to get on with his day, something about the unspoken promise held in his words, something about the name—the Friends of the Abased.

He heaves a breath and looks up at the sky; it’s approach towards afternoon and the way campus seems to hold its breath, ready to release when the professors adjourn their classes signals his inevitable tardiness at work.

He glances at the sparkle glinting in the man’s eyes—there is an entire future, a lifetime held within the promise of the society that the man informs him of that Feuilly is yet unaware of.

“Well where is it that you meet?”

With a mighty thump on his back, the man slings an arm around his shoulders, using his arm to point his finger towards the horizon in the direction of the north-east. “Follow the streets until they take you towards the Café Musain at Place Saint-Michel, near six tonight. Ask a patron to lead you towards the backroom—a male, however, for we do not allow women to enter—with the exception of dear Louison, that is—surely you can understand the delicate nature of women, my own mistress would tremble at the talk of rebellion and she is one to laugh at about anything I should think to say—and surely you shall see me there. And if I should be late—for it is not unheard of that I should be out late talking to others of the same cause—tell them you were asked to join by Bahorel.”

Feuilly swallows. Seemed rather a large commitment he was signing onto before even truly attending one of these meetings.

“I shall ensure my best efforts to attend one of your meetings then, Monsieur Bahorel,” he says at last.

“And we shall ensure our best efforts to work towards that future in which orphans are allowed to pursue the education they seek.” The man—Bahorel—tips his hat. “Now you must pardon me, Monsieur—”

“Feuilly,” he interrupts. Bahorel inclines his head in sign of having listened.

“—Feuilly,” he says, “but the afternoon approaches and classes will soon be adjourned for the rest of the day, and I must deploy myself to the mighty task of finding Bossuet and listening to his new complaint no doubt against Blondeau, and then head off with him to find young Enjolras and de Courfeyrac too, for though the former may be able to sway a crowd with his words, especially with his second-in-command by his side, those two cannot hope to find their way through the university streets and—”

“Thank you, Monsieur Bahorel, I shall hope to see you then, tonight," he interrupts, only the slightest bit ashamed for having done so; he really does need to be on his way.

If Bahorel takes offense to his interruption, he makes no sign of it; rather, he clasps his hand, and says, “Thank you, Monsieur Feuilly. Your presence will be greatly appreciated. No doubt everyone will be pleased. I look forward to seeing you sit amongst us.

Feuilly tips the ragged hat he has on his head in response.

This is how it begins.

________________________________________________________________

1825

It is ten at night, a most indecent time for respectable men to still be outside, and yet Feuilly can see no sign of Enjolras tiring while he listens with bright eyes to what Feuilly has to say on the subject of the partitioning of Poland.

It was indeed a topic of great rage and indignation for Feuilly, that date of 1772. How was it that a monarchy, a tyranny, had the right to strip a people of their identity? Of their nationality? He exclaimed as much to Enjolras, who watched on with awe.

"But how can they have the right? To tell a people that they no longer have the ability to climb atop their tables and exclaim 'I am Polish! Here I stand free in my country of Poland! ?" Running a hand through his fiery hair, he fumed just as he thought about it. "The audacity!"

At the table, Enjolras scoots closer, looks up at him with wide eyes. “Indeed. Tell me more of it.”

He glances at him, and, briefly, he allows himself to ponder the person sitting in front of him. Feuilly hesitates to call him a boy, though, at nineteen years, that is exactly what he is.

It is simply that, despite his excessively youthful face, there was something in Enjolras' eyes that gave him the feeling that the boy had already lived for hundreds of years, made him feel as if he were seated in front a man who had already, in some previous existence, traversed the many revolutions of the past.

And yet—

And yet, despite that, not having gone unnoticed by any of those few members who attended the meetings, it is Feuilly who Enjolras evidently idolizes—reveres, even.

And it is a fact that Feuilly cannot fully comprehend; of all the people Enjolras is surrounded by, all the people he has to idolize—Combeferre or Joly or even Bahorel—he sees first and foremost Feuilly, a poor orphan who struggles to read when Enjolras himself could make his way through the thickest of volumes with ease.

Feuilly does not think less of himself for his background, but how often can a man go on surrounded by people who excelled in a variety of skills than he could only ever hope to gain without feeling the occasional pang of self doubt?

He allows himself a smile. “But I thought you had already read about this, Enjolras? Combeferre tells me the matter is one that incenses you quite the bit—rightfully, might I add.”

He thinks of how strange it is—at the atelier, no one gave second thought to anything Feuilly had to say, so he never really thought to say anything anymore to his coworkers or his foreman who he knew would either ignore him or dismiss him straight away.

But Enjolras listens. He listens to the words of a poor orphan boy, and despite his upbringing by his parents that likely taught him not to pay heed to the words of a man like Feuilly, he instead leans forward, always leans forward at every meeting whenever Feuilly raises his voice to contribute, and he listens breathlessly and nods and says But of course, and Yes you’re right, and But if you could please tell us more, we need more of what you have to say.

Enjolras nods vigorously. “Yes, of course, the stripping of the autonomy of any nation is an injustice—it is simply that hearing you speak of it is all the more informing.”

Feuilly quirks an eyebrow at him. “And why would that be?”

“Because you are all the more knowledgeable of this, of course.”

He huffs a laugh. “It was not as if I was there when they put down the first partition. I am hardly an eye-witness, nor would I say more knowledgeable than you.”

In front of him, Enjolras reaches a hand to grasp at Feuilly’s. “But you are! For as well as I understand it, I could never truly know what kind of an effect such a monstrous event could have on the common man. But you, Feuilly, you know so well, for you have endured far worse than I have, you are a much better man than I am, surely you must know you have my eternal respect—”

As he blushes, Feuilly briefly thinks of scolding Enjolras for proclaiming Feuilly better than himself only on the grounds that he was born in a different circumstance.

He squeezes Enjolras’ hand back. “Do not declare yourself a lesser man than me, Enjolras. Over this past year you have demonstrated the fact that those of the upper class can still have compassion and the skill to identify injustice, and you have made me feel all the more welcome amongst your ranks.”

Enjolras smiles. “Les Amis de l’ABC would not be what we are without your inclusion, my friend. It is for people like you that we fight, it would hardly be a cause if we did not have your voice present with us. The gratitude should be coming from me to you for trusting us, for joining us. You make us who we are Feuilly.”

And Feuilly is just the slightest bit blown away by Enjolras’ words, for while he knew Enjolras held a special sort of respect for him, he had never imagined that his reverence shaped up like this.

“Will you tell me more about Poland?”

He glances down at Enjolras, who stares up with hopeful eyes, and he smiles.

“But of course.”

________________________________________________________________

1826

It is not unheard of that Jehan Prouvaire should be sitting quietly in his corner after meetings, staring dreamily at his paper as if he could see entire meadows and forests scrawled on it rather than the lushious words he pens to create his poetry.

“The stars are not out and yet you gaze at your paper as if you can already see the constellations they form,” he says as he lowers himself into the chair next to Prouvaire, having been beckoned over.

Prouvaire blushes and smiles softly. “Every constellation has a story tied to it, and poetry seeks to do much the same. Poetry is how our ancestors spoke of their tales around the fire.”

“Is that what you will be writing about today? The stars?”

Prouvaire hums and shakes his head. “No. I think I should like to write in Polish today.”

Jerking slightly, Feuilly looks at him, confused. “Write in Polish?”

He nods. “Yes. I think of it often, you know, and I feel it’s an injustice, the way the Polish identity has been stolen from the people, almost as if their right to thought has been taken. I figured, would it not be prudent, then, of me to write a poem in Polish, and reaffirm their status?”

Nodding vigorously, Feuilly agrees, “Yes, of course. Your words hold the utmost merit, and I’m glad to see you acknowledge this through your words. I can think of no better way for you to express your thoughts about this than through your sacred form of writing.”

He props his chin on his hand and leans forward. “Yes, but I seem to encounter a problem in that I do not know how to speak Polish. My friend, I only have one favour to ask of you: will you help me construct this poem?”

Feuilly blinks. Of all the honours he could have been bestowed with… For Prouvaire, reading and writing poetry was one of the very fundamental things that kept people humble. To connect to nature, to hear of stories past—it is what both allows humans to soar amongst the beauty present in the world, yet keep them humbled and grounded to work on what needed to be improved. For Prouvaire, poetry is his form of worship, his devotion to the miracles of the world before him, present in front of him, and the one yet to come.

“You would choose to ask… me, to help you?” he asks, bewildered at the thought of him sharing something so close to his heart, to his spirit.

There is a sort of sparkle in Prouvaire’s eyes, a look he reserves for when he gazes at wildflowers and oats growing in meadows, or for when he hears the nightingale sing—a look so impossibly soft that he can use it only when he finds himself looking upon a being he believes deserves to be showered upon with love and written about with the utmost tenderness—and it is present in his eyes when he gently places his hand atop Feuilly’s and says with the utmost solemnity, “My friend, I could think of no one else who I would trust more for such a matter.”

Feuilly is rendered speechless. Both with the love he feels for his friend, and by the astonishment at the trust his friend shows in him.

Feuilly hopes the world will see Prouvaire's soft verses and name him with the likes of Keats, whom he idolizes.

Jehan hopes that one day the world will read his poem—the one he writes now, that tells the story of a common fan-maker who spoke Polish and still strived to see the possibilities of the entire world despite the world never having strived to see the possibility in him—and understands the adoration that he and the rest of his friends had for a man who was made up of a thousand different nations and came from a thousand different stories and had with him a thousand different plans for the future.

________________________________________________________________

1827

The sky is dark and Feuilly’s perception of time has been skewed by the long, insufferable hours spent at the atelier crafting fans while harbouring a most dreadful headache.

He does not see that the clock has struck much past seven, much past eight, now half an hour after nine, and that his foreman kept him detained much longer than he realizes, taking advantage of the evident illness that has Feuilly dazed and unaware. With much effort, he pushes the door to the café open and stumbles towards the backroom where he expects his friends will be.

Upon reaching the backroom, he leans a hand against the frame and struggles to comprehend the image of an empty room, one where the meeting has clearly adjourned.

Well, mostly empty.

“Feuilly?” At his side, Combeferre reaches a hand to place on his shoulder, a steadying presence among the rushing winds that seem to have found their way into the café. “Are you quite alright?”

He coughs—once—twice—three times into his fist. “Well I do find myself in a bit of confusion,” he admits as Combeferre gently takes him by the crook of his elbow and seats him at a table. “Has the meeting for today been cancelled? I would not have imagined that everyone would be busy all at the same time.”

Combeferre tilts his head and looks at him peculiarly. “The meeting?” He frowns. “My friend, are you well? The meeting ended about an hour and a half ago.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, he coughs twice more as he shakes his head and says, “No, that cannot be. Surely it cannot be so late. I had only just seen the clock, look, there, it says…” he trails off as his eyes fall upon the small hand halfway towards its path to the painted ten, then glances back at Combeferre sheepishly. Clearing his throat, a rather painful task to do considering just how raw it feels, he manages to scrape out the words, “It appears I have missed the meeting. I apologize, I did not realize just how late it had become.”

Combeferre smiles sympathetically. “Evidently. Your presence was greatly missed at the meeting, Enjolras looked rather down about it, but nonetheless we understood, though we thought it was simply because you were working.

Burying his head in his hands, he croaks, “I was supposed to be working regular time. I don't know how I didn't realize the foreman had me working late without informing me of it.” At this, Combeferre’s eyes darken a shade.

“You cannot let this go unprotested, Feuilly,” he says, the slightest bit angry, though Feuilly knows it is not anger directed towards him. “Your foreman has no right to do so; we will go back tomorrow and demand he pay you what you deserve for working the extra hours you did.”

Raising his head, Feuilly looks up, a little surprised at Combeferre. “It will not work, Combeferre, for all that I would like it to. The foreman has plenty of people available to replace me should I start to fuss. Though it is wrong, you must know that he has the power to keep me longer without paying.”

Combeferre runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “However much power he holds, he cannot go against the principle of the matter and expect no retaliation. It is settled; we will go and speak to your foreman.” When Feuilly opens his mouth to speak, Combeferre holds his hand up and halts the words on his tongue. Silently, he reaches forward and gingerly places the back of his hand on Feuilly’s forehead, tutting at the heat that comes away. “Tell me how you feel,” he commands.

Feuilly frowns. “It is really not that much of a concern, my friend—”

“Feuilly,” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose before looking up at him again, “in about a years time I shall begin my internship at l’Hôpital Necker; as of right now, I have enough medical knowledge—well, really, anyone has enough medical knowledge—to diagnose you with the fact that you have caught a cold—no doubt from the rainy season we have all found ourselves trapped in—and while it is nothing serious, it can become something of a concern if you do not rest and allow me to take care of you.”

Feuilly looks away. “While I do not doubt your knowledge, Combeferre, you needn’t bother yourself with—”

“What is more so a bother, Feuilly,” Combeferre interrupts him once more, and does not even look the slightest bit embarrassed for doing so, “is when one of my friends fall ill, and instead of taking the time they need to get better, they only continue to work until it is worse and their recovery becomes all the more difficult.” He watches as Combeferre rises from his seat, holding out his hand when he says, “So, for my own convenience, if you believe—unjustly, may I add—that your own convenience is not worth it, please come back with me to my apartment so that we can have you back on your feet in mere matter of days rather than weeks.”

As Feuilly allows himself to be hauled up, his arm slung around Combeferre’s shoulders, for he does not believe he has the strength in him to stand a single second more on his own—he marvels at what it is he must have done that warrants fate to provide him with friends who care for him like a mother or father would their own child, though Feuilly is not well acquainted with the feeling.

________________________________________________________________

1828

Even before he feels Courfeyrac’s hand clap down on his shoulder, Feuilly can feel Courfeyrac approaching—because that is simply the kind of person he is; his aura is boisterous and bubbly, a loud that made you grin rather than cringe away.

“My friend!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “My friend, my friend, my very good friend!”

Feuilly smiles as he knows what is inevitably going to come up. “As much as you may ask, Courfeyrac, I simply do not have the time to stand out in the middle of the street only so you can ‘save’ me in front of that Genevieve girl you have recently taken a fancy to.”

Courfeyrac looks taken aback for a moment before he begins to laugh. “No, no, I was not speaking of that. Besides, I have most recently been made to come to sense that I do not need anyone to play the part of a man in distress who needs to be saved—as long as I somehow end her near Bossuet, I shall allow him to carry on with the way he already lives, and soon enough I shall have saved him from his own stupidity in front of her!”

At another table, Bossuet indignantly pipes up, “Hey!” In response, Joly waves his cane dismissively.

“Calm yourself, Aigle de Meaux, his facts are not incorrect.”

As Bossuet and Joly begin to bicker in that lighthearted way friends so often do, Courfeyrac turns his gaze towards him, and Feuilly finds himself blinking, trying to figure out what exactly it is Courfeyrac will be asking him as a favour, for he knows the beginning of their conversation is exactly what Courfeyrac will do every time he seeks to extract a favour from someone.

And whatever it is, Feuilly already knows he will be saying yes, for not only does he love his friend enough to do anything for him, he is sure that had it been Feuilly asking for the favour, Courfeyrac would have already been up from his seat heading off to help.

“Out with it, Courfeyrac,” he encourages with a smile. “What is it that you evidently need me to do?”

Courfeyrac grins. “You know me so well, my dear friend. Well, the matter is,” he lets out a long-suffering sigh, “my parents have been writing incessantly to me in hopes that I will, at their side, attend the ball of one of their long-time friends.” Courfeyrac grimaces. “I shall depart for Avignon in a week’s time.”

Feuilly blinks, confused. He could hardly grasp at what this entire affair had to do with him.

“But Courfeyrac, you have always struck me as a man who delighted in dressing in a nice coat and going dancing.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Courfeyrac huffs impatiently. “I like to go dancing with my friends. I would rather not have to suffer by my parents’ side at some ball surrounded by a crowd of people who cheer at the sight of the 1814 Charter.”

At his mention of the Charter, Feuilly allows himself a little laugh, his mind straying to a recent memory of Courfeyrac throwing a copy of the very same thing in the fire during a heated debate with Combeferre.

Calming himself, he manages enough breath to ask, “That is all good and fine, but what do I have to do with all this?”

With a beam, Courfeyrac shuffles closer to throw an arm around his shoulders. “So,” he begins, “all I ask from you is a small favour.” At Feuilly’s silence, he continues, “I want you to attend with me.”

At this, Feuilly nearly spits out the coffee he had taken in his mouth.

Once he finishes choking, he adopts a look of astonishment and asks, “Me?”

Courfeyrac’s grin is one of sincerity; try as he might, there is no sort of a joke written on his face.  “Yes.”

Clearing his throat, he asks, “But… Why would you ask me of all people?”

At this, Courfeyrac frowns. “But why ever not you? I cannot think of a single reason why I would not ask you.”

He feels a humiliating blush stain his cheeks as the many, many reasons why he should be amongst the last people Courfeyrac should ask crosses his mind. For God’s sake, even Grantaire is a more preferable option—he, at least, hailed from a wealthy family, and so has the knowledge of the sort of behaviour and etiquette to be employed in such situations.

With a sad sort of smile, he places his hand on his friend’s shoulder and says, “Find someone else to go with you, Courfeyrac. I’m sorry, I truly am, but I must deny you this one thing.”

Courfeyrac’s frown deepens. “But why?”

Must he really push this issue?

Well, Feuilly is not ashamed of who he was, but it really is a little rude making him say the words.

“Courfeyrac,” he sputters, “I haven’t the faintest clue how to behave at such a social gathering. Neither do I… neither do I have the money for the sort of lavish clothing no doubt one is expected to wear there.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth flattens, and it is a rare moment that Feuilly sees him so frank. “Your background has not rendered you a scoundrel, Feuilly—I have only ever seen you act as a man should—honest and down-to-earth. You’re exactly the kind of person a man should be like, and frankly I do not care much for the opinions of my parents’ friends, and I believe you needn’t do so either. As for clothing, if you will not allow me to purchase you new clothing, I shall simply ask Combeferre to borrow his, on your behalf.”

His little speech shocks him. “But,” his voice is a little weak, “why would you ask me?”

At last, Courfeyrac’s face brightens once more into the sort of face he was famous for amongst his friends. “My friend! You are such interesting conversation! I cannot think of another person I would rather have by my side as I am forced to endure another gathering of insufferable royalists.”

Feuilly struggles with his words. Courfeyrac would have him attend the ball by his side? Once more he finds himself searching Courfeyrac’s face for any hint of a cruel joke, but finds none.

At his silence, Courfeyrac rises from his seat, grinning widely, for silence tends to give the impression that the opposing side has fallen into agreement. “Excellent! So, Tuesday next week we shall depart. And I shall begin my valiant search through Combeferre’s wardrobe!”

Feuilly remains astonished in his seat.

________________________________________________________________

1829

If he has to be completely honest, Feuilly does not talk very often with Grantaire, and so, Feuilly finds he cannot really come to a conclusion about him. He sees that the man is doubtful of their efforts, loud and rambunctious, and is drunk, always seems to be drunk.

But there is also a sort of melancholy present on his face when he thinks no one can see, when he does not constantly keep up that smirk as he goes on his next drunken ramble, a bitter and sardonic expression when he hears the rest speak of revolution and he finds himself too tired to even inject himself into the conversation. He sees a yearning, impossibly broken look grace Grantaire's face when their leader starts to speak or makes to smile or cries when upset or rages when he is furious—he seems to look as if he is reaching for something he can never quite have no matter how he stretches his fingers whenever Enjolras does anything, really.

Feuilly does not know much of Grantaire. So, he thinks to speak to him.

"Grantaire," he sits down next to him and inclines his head in greeting when Grantaire looks up from where he had been staring hard at his bottle of absinthe.

"Ah! The fan-maker makes time for me at last!" Grantaire cries as he spreads his arms wide. "Yes, young Feuilly, what is it that you find yourself in need of a drunk for?"

He ignores the young comment, only meditating briefly on the fact that he is the same age as Grantaire, and instead, hoping to forge a connection to the man, asks, "Did you really study under the guidance of Gros?"

Grantaire bellows out a loud peal of laughter. "My good fellow," he slurs, and Feuilly worries for how much he has had to drink tonight, "you must not believe everything that comes out of this drunkard's mouth."

He furrows his eyebrows. So he was lying?

"So you lied?" he asks in clarification. "You never did go to art school?"

A smile twists up Grantaire's face. "I only just told you not to trust everything I say. And yet! And yet, what is the first thing you do after I give you advice?"

He was beginning to get a little lost here. "I’m not quite sure I follow. Did you attend art school or not?"

Grantaire leans back in his chair. "Yes and no!"

"Yes and no?"

He grins at Feuilly. "A tale worthy of the likes of pleasant idlers, I am afraid, and while you are pleasant enough, you are anything but an idler—you cannot possibly hope to enjoy it."

He leans forward. "And yet, I find myself curious enough to hear of it nonetheless."

"Well," he starts, and for a moment, Feuilly fears that Grantaire will start on another one of his rather infamous rants, and while it is not that he is exactly opposed to them, but more so, he needs to get home so he can get however many hours of sleep Joly ordered him to get. "I certainly did attend classes at first. But the pretentiousness of it all! No man can tell you better that artists are amongst the most pretentious people to grace this hellish landscape we call earth. And the nude models were hardly anything to look at! I could get myself a better whore for less than a sou! Or better yet, not pay at all when it is me that such women always want!"

For a split second, Grantaire's gaze drifts, and when Feuilly tracks the movement of his eyes, he ends up looking over to where Enjolras stands at the table near the front, regarding Grantaire with a strong look of disappointment as he holds Grantaire's stare before returning to whatever it was he was discussing with Combeferre.

Grantaire tips his bottle towards the ceiling.

"No, I made the decision that no more would I waste away somewhere I knew I would rot. So instead I spent my time pilfering apples."

He huffs a laugh. “Pilfering apples? The ones used to model fruit?”

Within Grantaire’s eyes, Feuilly sees a mischievous sort of glint. “The very same.”

“And now? Do you still attend?”

He shrugs. “From time to time, though, I must ask why you think to ask me. My good fellow,” he reaches forward and lays a heavy hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “I should think to ask you, rather, on your own painting.”

Feuilly flushes a little. “I haven’t the slightest of time for painting, Capital R.”

“And yet what little you have painted deserves to be hung up next to the works of Géricault!” Grantaire cries once more, and despite himself, Feuilly grins a little.

“It is hardly anything compared to Géricault.”

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand. “Bah! All these names—Géricault, Prud’hon, Delacroix—all of them are insufferable men who catch one whiff of fame and lose themselves to their pretentiousness. Your one work, young fan-maker, would be worth more than any of those scoundrels’ paintings put together.”

And Feuilly cannot help but gape, for this man in front of him, the very set definition of a skeptic, who once told their group, on his own whims, that believing was for the foolish and that he had no wish to believe in anything that would earn him an early death—he now sits here telling Feuilly that he finds meaning in his work, more meaning than in the works of the greatest painters to exist.

It leaves him shocked beyond compared.

Attempting to gather his thoughts once more into a state of decent coherency, he proceeds to ask, "Do you paint anymore?"

For a moment, just one quick moment that Feuilly admits he would not have caught had he not been looking closely, Grantaire's eyes flicker over to where Enjolras appears to be moderating some sort of a debate between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, laughing at something Courfeyrac must have said, and he notices the way Grantaire's face twists bitterly.

"Yes."

Feuilly does not ever ask what—or who—his subject is.

________________________________________________________________

1830

The weather of Paris in the spring signals the approach of a storm the Friends, unknown yet to their knowledge, will find themselves fighting in when the people decide in the season of July that tyranny must not be allowed to continue, and will resurrect barricades all throughout the city in the name of a free France achieved through a revolution that sees the overthrowing of King Charles X.

But for now, it is spring and the rain beats down upon the poor the hardest, upon those who have less shelter, fewer clothes, scarce food, and only in abundance do they have misery.

Feuilly counts himself lucky that he has a roof over his head, even if it is one that freezes in the night’s cold, and in the summer, swelters in the day’s heat.

Joly, however, does not seem to think so.

“I simply cannot allow you to go back to your flat when the rain beats down on our heads like this!” he cries, ignoring Feuilly’s several protests to the idea of spending the night at Joly’s residence, after Joly had taken one step into Feuilly’s own apartment and declared it uninhabitable in their current temperatures. “There is more than enough room at my residence, and I will not have one of my own falling ill when I had more than enough resources to prevent the ailment.”

“I wish not to intrude,” Feuilly repeats for what must surely be the hundredth time. “You already find yourself housing Bossuet, too, and—”

“Feuilly,” Joly scrubs a hand across his face, “helping a friend is hardly any bother to me. In the six years we have known each other is this how you expect me to behave?”

And Feuilly stops short, because Feuilly, who has never had a family—who has never had a mother or father or brother or sister—could hardly ever have imagined in his life that would have a friend—that he would have several friends—who would care for him—who would love him—like this, enough to offer up the chance at a residence that must look like a palace compared to his own shabby room, even if for one night.

“I simply… I simply would not want to cause any burden,” he mumbles.

Joly’s face splits into a bright grin, the one everyone who knows him is familiar with, the one that gives reason to why they all call him Jolllly. “But my friend!” he exclaims. “The more people to house, the more amusing the occasion, no?” Armed in one hand with his cane and the other holding Feuilly by the elbow, he begins to lead him towards his apartment. “Come! We shall make merry by the fire and drink to our heart’s content today—and we will not have to worry about rationing our drinking, for Grantaire is not here, either!”

“Make merry by the fire? But I regret to inform you that the Yuletide season is well past us,” an amused voice says by their side. As they both turn to the left, a familiar, laughing bald head makes itself apparent to their eyes.

Feuilly snorts. “I have not known you to be one to turn down an opportunity to nest by Joly’s fire, Bossuet. I find that I would rather while away the time in the false pretense that Christmas is still upon us rather than spend the hours shivering in the rain—would you not?”

“Bossuet can handle a little rain, what with the two sous in his pockets, he may even be able to manage a meager coffee,” Joly teases, carefully bringing the tip of his cane to rub at his nose.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do tell, how does one manage a coffee at just two sous?”

“With enough grovelling at my door once he realizes that his endeavour is an impossible one and he owes me for the medical supplies I would inevitably have to purchase to bring him back to health after shivering so long in the cold.”

Bossuet bellows a laugh as he makes way for himself in between Feuilly and Joly, draping an arm around each's shoulders. “The grovelling will not be necessary, Jolllly, I shall tag along anyways. I would never decline, having found myself in the company of our dear friend Feuilly.”

Feuilly shoots him a confused look. “And why might my company be so desirable?”

Bossuet and Joly both laugh as if he had just told them the most amusing joke, but Feuilly cannot quite catch what it is that is so funny about what he said.

“Friends do not ask each other why their company is desirable, Feuilly,” Bossuet simply says.

And Feuilly feels something warm in his heart turn to a roaring fire, despite the chill of the rain.

Later, when he finds himself tucked into one of Joly’s armchairs, a blanket around him, he feels Joly lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder, looking at him most earnestly.

“I beg you think not of this as charity, my friend, but rather as something a friend would do for another. Nay a friend—more a brother.”

And with that, Joly leaves to prevent Bossuet from setting himself on fire in the kitchen while Feuilly struggles to blink back a wetness that threatens to slide down his cheeks, though his feelings are far from any sort of sorrow he has felt before.

________________________________________________________________

1832

He is hungry and he is thirsty and he is tired and he knows he is going to die.

He also knows that not only will he die in triumph, but he can imagine no other group of wonderful, extraordinary, familiar people he would rather die with.

Enjolras has already delivered news of their abandonment. Now, they sit and listen as he speaks of the principles of their fight, of the principles of their deaths, and Feuilly can think of no better speech he has ever heard in his short life.

He realizes, with a jolt, that Enjolras has turned to him. “Listen to me, Feuilly, valiant worker, man of the people, man of the peoples. I revere you. Yes, you see the future clearly, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father. You’re going to die here—in other words, to triumph.” He holds his gaze for a second longer before he continues.

And Feuilly nods. Because he believes in Enjolras. He trusts in his words.

He knows he will die. But what better cause could there be?

He wishes they had succeeded, he had hoped, had so ardently believed that the people would rise with them.

But if the people do not wish to answer the call of revolution, he knows it will not succeed. He has accepted this.

And he realizes it is okay. He has come to terms with it.

He dwells on Enjolras’ words.

You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father.

And, he quietly thinks to himself, I have adopted my friends as my brothers. And there is no one I would rather die beside. There are no other people who I would rather see smile one more time, or hold one more time, or laugh with and cry with and sit with one more time.

When he had first arrived in Paris, back eight years ago, Feuilly had resolved that he would adopt the people of Paris just as he had adopted those of the rest of the world.

He never imagined he himself would be adopted in turn.

________________________________________________________________

Rather than the bullet, Feuilly feels a sort of warmth spread through him instead. He lifts a hand to place at his side, where his blood begins to seep through his shirt and waistcoat.

He thinks of Bossuet’s laugh when he comes up with only two sous in his pocket and still offers Feuilly a drink.

He remembers why Joly was named the way he was, remembers his jollity in just about every situation Feuilly had found himself and Joly trapped in.

He nearly laughs at the thought of Grantaire’s rambles, and he sympathizes with his pursuit to find a family after his own had thrown him out. He sincerely hopes he will find the family that Feuilly did, too.

He recalls the feeling of Courfeyrac’s warmth, recalls how he kept the group together, how he shared that warmth with everyone no matter who they were, even if they were orphans like Feuilly.

He remembers Combeferre’s care, the way he always seemed to keep one eye open to look after everyone in the group, the way he never stopped making sure Feuilly got enough sleep, or had enough food, or rested enough, and he thinks that the world has just lost one of its greatest doctors.

He smiles at the memory of Jehan’s empathy, how his eyes seemed to see right through anything, and the way he always knew when to sit with Feuilly and ask him if there was something he wanted to share, something weighing down on his chest that was suffocating him, something that seemed to be relieved only when Jehan would smile that soft smile of his and tell him that he always had him by his side.

He can still feel Enjolras’ passion light up the barricade, recalls how his passion showed when he preached of a free France, when he spoke of the plight of the poor, and remembers the way that passion would soften into reverence when he would sit with Feuilly and listen to what he had to say, despite the fact that all his life he was likely taught to disregard men like him.

He remembers Bahorel’s bravery, how could he ever forget? He remembers that reckless smile, the bold behaviour that led to him taking his hand after being toppled to the ground, remembers that single question Bahorel asked him that would change his life forever, and he wishes—he cries at the thought of never having had the chance to say thank you, to tell him he is the reason why Feuilly is content to die in the situation he has found himself in.

Feuilly thinks of being born into the world with no family, no one to call his own.

Then he thinks about leaving it having found the men he loves, he loves—oh Lord above he loves like he could never love a mother or a father, he loves these men so much that it tears his heart in two thinking of each and everyone dying—he catches a glimpse of Enjolras being backed up the stairs while the National Guardsmen continues to prowl their way towards him and he sees Combeferre glance towards the heavens as his chest is speared by three bayonets and he sees Courfeyrac fall to his side having been shot once, twice, three times, and he sees Joly and Bossuet look towards each other as they are both shot side by side and he remembers the strength in Jehan’s voice when he cried out one last time in the name of the world they had sought to build and he remembers Bahorel’s spirit being the first to leave and he remembers, remembers, remembers, and it hurts so much, it makes him ache with a pain that makes him want to scream and cry for he cannot imagine the thought of having finally found his family and then having them torn from him, one by one, he hurts so much and surely God cannot be so cruel that he snatches their dreams, snatches the only people he knows he will ever love away—

And then he finds peace. Because as he bleeds out, he hears a voice, clear as the dawn drawing above the new day, cry out Long live the republic! and it is Grantaire, and he can almost hear Enjolras smile when he hears what he knows is the final report resounding, and in Combeferre’s eyes there is a sort of divine trust as his eyes remain affixed to where he believes he will find salvation, and there is a sort of tranquility in Courfeyrac’s eyes, and he sees the way Joly and Bossuet are still looking to each other even in death, and he thinks of how Jehan went out exactly as he wished, with strong words on his tongue, and he thinks of Bahorel’s fighting spirit and how he died doing what he thought was right.

His hand grows damper and hotter as his blood seeps out quicker and quicker.

The world may not remember their names in history—but Feuilly knows they will have a permanent place in his.

Like Combeferre, he casts his eyes towards heaven, and he thinks he can see Bahorel hold out his hand like he did eight years ago.

He can’t wait to have his life change again.

And Feuilly falls with a smile.

[journalxxx]

By Hook or by Crook (1)

"Is it possible to become a hero like you even without using any quirks?" Toshinori thought that it was a strange question. Strangely worded, and with too obvious an answer to be worth asking. Still, he stopped. The memory of a similarly naive middle-schooler from way too long ago made him pause. He shouldn't have paused. Another impossibly shrill scream erupted from the boy when Toshinori tried to reassure him of his identity, and turned up with a mouthful of blood instead. What a charming day this was proving to be. Almost an entire night spent awake due to his old wound deciding to make a fuss and disregard any sort of painkillers he threw at it, a frustrating morning followed by an equally frustrating afternoon he had struggled to navigate through with the alertness of a drunken sloth, which had caused him to get lost in the sewers while chasing a dangerous criminal, as well as fail to notice a whole human being sticking to his leg as he took off at the speed of several hundreds kilometres per hour, and now this.

Toshinori took a proper gander at the brand new crack in his privacy. He was a freckled, scrawny thing, with unruly green hair and enough jitters to be picked up by the nearest seismographs, probably.

"How... How? Is it- are you- are..." The boy stuttered, pale and physically shivering from the shock. "Is... was that your quirk? A transformation quirk?" He brought a hand to his mouth, subconsciously mimicking Toshinori as he wiped the blood from his lips. "That hurts you when you use it?" "...Something of the sort." It was an explanation as good as any. They stared at each other for a few moments, before the kid dropped his gaze and started muttering to himself. Toshinori could barely make out the words, but it seemed to be something about internet forums and theories about All Might's quirk. Toshinori sighed and sat down on the concrete, leaning his back against the railing to catch some much needed breath. There was no point in running off now, was there? He supposed the most sensible thing to do at this point was to have a little chat with the boy, if only to ascertain whether he was capable or willing to keep such a momentous secret. He waited for the boy to finish his quiet soliloquy... for two or three minutes, during which the onslaught of words didn't show any sign of dwindling. He politely cleared his throat, and the young man's attention was immediately back on him. "What's your name, boy?" "Uh... Izuku. Izuku Midoriya." "Midoriya." Toshinori acknowledged with a nod. "And you're quirkless, I take it." "Oh... Uh... Uhm..." Midoriya snappily clasped his hands behind his back and his eyes darted around as if caught stealing jam. It was an understandable reaction, if a tad overblown, Toshinori thought. Quirklessness was rare these days, and never something one could be proud of. His own powerlessness had frustrated him in his youth, and it positively tore at him in the present, now that his physical condition rendered him functionally quirkless for more than twenty hours a day. "Regarding your first question..." Toshinori paused, running a hand through his hair tiredly. Was there any way of putting this kindly? "Surely you realize the huge dangers and requirements that come with a hero's profession. Pros risk their lives every day, and in order to even make a livelihood out of it, they need to achieve a certain amount of success and visibility. Frankly, I'd advise anyone with a less than exceptional quirk, either in terms of combat ability or versatility, to think very carefully about undertaking this career path. To think of someone without a quirk attempting it..." Midoriya's head dropped again. "I... I see... But what if...?" The boy bit his lip and trailed off with a conflicted look. He shook his head, apparently reaching some private conclusion, and continued. "It's just... I've always admired you so much! Saving people with a fearless smile is just about the most inspiring and incredible thing one can do! If only everyone followed your example-" "I should hope they wouldn't have to!" Toshinori interjected decisively. "You know, the world I dream of is one where only few of the very strongest have to bear the hero's burden, so that all the more people can be free to enjoy their lives without fear or extreme sacrifices. We aren't there yet, not by a long shot, but..." He allowed himself a little smile. "I'm sure happy to know I'm inspiring courageous and driven citizens such as yourself." Midoriya's face immediately acquired a marked tomato hue. A small barrage of stuttered thanks followed. Toshinori raised a hand to stop him. "Look, kid. Your heart is in the right place and there's nothing worthier in life than pursuing your dreams, but... I cannot in good conscience encourage you to follow a path that would ultimately destroy you. You have no hope of becoming a hero - no hope to survive as a hero without a quirk, and a damn good one at that. As you can see..." Toshinori gestured towards himself, unable to keep his smile from turning sour. "Not even I can be a hero like me without using my quirk." Midoriya took it better than Toshinori was expecting, all things considered. Those anxious eyes roved around his gaunt form for a few moments, sympathetic and a tad disturbed. But the boy's features soon composed themselves into a look of calm thoughtfulness. "I understand." He nodded, straightening up his back, only to curl slightly upon himself all over when doubt reared its head again. "I guess... I'll just have to find a different solution..." "Indeed. If helping people is your goal, there are plenty of professions that regularly achieve that. Healthcare professionals, lawyers, policemen, firefighters, social workers-" "I know, I know..." Midoriya's expression became distant. No doubt it wasn't the first time he received such a speech. Children these days received their first career advice as early as primary school, during the mandatory quirk counselling sessions, to help them better understand how their abilities could be nurtured and directed into constructive endeavors for the benefit of the whole community. Now that Toshinori thought of it... did quirkless children like Midoriya even receive any such counselling? The program didn't exist when Toshinori himself was a kid, so he realized he didn't quite know. A lack of career counselling would explain the boy's irrealistic hopes. "If you are dead set on working in the heroics field, there are options there as well." Toshinori added, determined to do at least one thing right that day and offer the poor kid a grain of useful advice. "Have you considered working as a support item engineer or as a quirk analyst, for example? You certainly seem to have the qualities for jobs like these." "Uh? How can you say that?" "I took the liberty of flipping through your notebook before signing it." Toshinori tapped his temple as the boy's cheek tinged with pink again. He really wore his heart on his sleeve, didn't he? "You seem to have quite a well-organized mind, and keen observation skills. If I were you, I wouldn't underestimate how far those two talents could bring you in the right field." "Ah... Thank you! I- it's just a hobby, nothing more! But thank you! I really appreciate you taking the time to answer my question! And give me advice! And listen to-" It devolved into another short stream of gratefulness and humility. Toshinori deemed his impromptu orientation session a job decently done and he finally stood up. His left side gave a sharp twinge. He couldn't wait to be back home, stun it with a generous helping of ibuprofen and hopefully catch up on a few hours of sl- ah crap, he'd left his grocery bag near the manhole he had emerged from, hadn't he? Maybe it would be quicker to just do the whole shopping again at the closest convenience store... "Now, about what you just saw..." Toshinori approached the boy, lowered his voice and scanned his surroundings automatically, as if there was anyone who could overhear them on the small rooftop they were standing on. "I don't think I need to point out that it would be really, really bad if voices of a secretly emaciated Symbol of Peace were to start circulating, on the web or by other venues-" Midoriya raised his head from the deep bow he had maintained for the last good minute, eyes wide. "O-oh! Of course-" "But I'm going to do it anyway. It would be really bad. Catastrophic. Not only for me, because I would know exactly who put the rumors forth and I would have some choice words for said source, smash being one of them." He had meant it in jest, but the terrified expression on Midoriya's face warned him not to put too much faith on the boy's sense of humour. He showed the palms of his hands in the universal gesture for I'm not going to smash anything. "...I'm joking! Obviously. But I do need to know if I can count on your utmost discretion." "O-Of course! Your secret is safe! I swear it on my life, All Might! No one will know!" There was no doubting the fervor radiating from Midoriya's every pore. Toshinori nodded and squeezed the boy's shoulder while also not-so-subtly pushing him towards the door to the stairs. "Good to know, good to know. Now, let us both be off." Toshinori moved towards the exit as well, patting the pocket of his cargo pants. "I have to hand this guy over to the nearest precinct before-" His hand patted rough cloth and the wiry muscle of his thigh, and nothing inbetween. Toshinori stopped in his tracks and checked his right pocket. Then his left one. Both empty. He gazed around the rooftop in confusion, noticing a clear lack of plastic containers on the barren expanse of concrete. "Hey, have you seen..." He started, glancing at Midoriya. Who was staring at his empty pockets in obvious distress, both hands covering his mouth as if to keep himself silent. Something cold gripped Toshinori's scrambled insides. "...the bottles... where..." Toshinori's sleep-deprived brain pieced it all together with frustrating slowness. Loose trousers pockets. Clingy boy. Hundreds of kilometres per hour. Gravity. RIght on cue, a loud explosion made them turn their heads in unison, and a black cloud of smoke erupted among a cluster of buildings a little to the south of the one they were standing on. "...Shit." A small part of Toshinori's mind added 'cursing in front of a child' to the impressive streak of fuck-ups he was accumulating in a single day, but most of his evidently dwindling faculties were busy trying to come up with a way to unravel the current predicament. He marched to the door without wasting another moment. "Go home. Take a detour if you have to, just stay well away from there." "It's my fault." Once again, despite Toshinori's better judgement, the boy's words compelled him stop. Even muffled by Midoriya's hands, his whispers sounded positively agonized. "I made you drop them. It's my fault. Oh God, what do I...?" "What? Don't be absurd! You didn't do anything, I should have-" It came out more harshly than he thought, and the kid's horrified eyes snapped back to him. God, he hated seeing him blame himself for what was clearly Toshinori's blunder - a blunder unworthy of the greenest of rookies, let alone of the celebrated number one hero - but there was really no time to waste self-recriminating. "Look, just go home. I'll-" "I can't! None of this would have happened if I'd just-" Midoriya burst out, halting his own words just as abruptly and wringing his hands guiltily. "I have to help! I can help! Let me-" "All right then." Toshinori said, and his ready agreement shocked the boy into silence just as he had expected. Telling him to wait around and do nothing wasn't going to work with that hero-obsessed mentality of his, so he chose a different approach. "Here's what you'll do. You'll stay here until you've calmed down enough to keep your wits about you. Then you'll go to the nearest police station - there's one just over there - and tell the officers what just happened. Minus the part where you've seen me like this, obviously-" "How's that going to help?! They can see the smoke, by the time I get there they'll already know-" "We don't know if that explosion is the villain's doing. It might be unrelated, and in that case the villain would be still at large." Toshinori explained with his most commanding tone, despite the urge to dash off. "Even if it is connected to the villain, I scooped him up into two bottles. We don't know if each half is capable of causing damage on its own. You have to alert the police so that they can start searching for both as quickly as possible. I'll take care of whatever that accident is." Despite the panic, Midoriya seemed to process his words. He gulped, and gave him a worried once-over. "But... can you fight again? Even like that?" "Tsk! I'd expect more trust from a fan." One more for the road, Toshinori coached himself. He reached into his quirk and flexed, his muscle form puffing up dutifully and his trademark smile slotting back in place. He gave the boy a confident thumbs up. "I'll have this solved before you can blink!" Toshinori flung himself down the stairway before Midoriya could come up with more objections. He managed five flights of stairs before his quirk failed him again and one hundred and eighty kilos of muscles went up in steam. He stumbled as he coughed up more blood, his scar hurting like it was trying to murder him, but he didn't stop. Hopefully the boy would follow his orders and make himself marginally useful, and more importantly he would keep himself out of trouble and away from the danger zone. Meanwhile, Toshinori... well, he'd have to clean up his own mess in some way or another.

Izuku stood stock-still for a good minute before his body reconnected to his brain. A lot had happened in the last half an hour, there was... there was a lot to unpack there. First things first, his duty. The admittedly sensible instructions given to him by All Might himself. Point number one was regaining a semblance of lucidity. His legs felt like jelly, so he simply let himself slump to the ground and breathe deeply. Never in a million years, not even in the darkest and most conspiratorial corners of the net, Izuku would have ever imagined to discover what he had discovered about All Might. All Might had a quirk... that debilitated him? Some sort of temporary performance-enhancing boost that wore his body down whenever he used it? Because what Izuku had just seen wasn't the body of a healthy person, not even remotely. Pale, hunched, with barely any flesh hanging from his still oversized bones, with sunken eyes and non-existent cheeks. Totally unperturbed by the gush of blood spurting from his mouth, as if that was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. Was it the result of decades of continued usage? Was Japan's Symbol of Peace constantly and deliberately harming himself in order to do his job? Izuku had experienced firsthand that powerful quirks came with unforeseen drawbacks, but this... this was... This was none of his business, Izuku chided himself. All Might was... All Might. Number one hero. An unprecedent and yet unsurpassed phenomenon. He knew what he was doing, for sure. It was presumptuous of Izuku to even doubt that he did. He had said he would take care of things, and he was certainly going to. Izuku scratched his head furiously, as if to rid himself of those intrusive thoughts. He felt better, more grounded. Time to move onto step two. He made his way down the stairs and out of the building, slowly, mindful of the lingering dizziness, careful not to trip and cause himself and others further troubles. The street was full of curious onlookers glancing at the rising column of smoke, filming it with their phones and chattering about it among themselves. Luckily, Izuku spotted a policeman almost immediately, as he was busy trying to disperse the small crowds and redirect the traffic. He recounted his tale, purged from gossip-inducing details, to the zealous officer, who promptly reported it to his superiors via his radio. There, he'd accomplished his task. Quick and effortless. The last item on his to-do last was heading home. Izuku stood on the sidewalk, contemplating the enlarging black cloud. Smaller explosions could still be heard popping in the air now and then. It had been at least ten minutes since All Might's departure and, judging by the heated talking coming from the officer nearby, the crisis hadn't been solved yet. Izuku thought back of how All Might had left the building using the stairs, instead of one of his much quicker, much more efficient leaps. A gnarling unease gripped his stomach, and his feet started moving on their own. He just couldn't get it out of his head. His idol's shrunken body, the immense tiredness that seeped through his every movement when in that form, his stern request for discretion. Your very life and safety may depend on your discretion, Izuku. Izuku shivered. Accidents aside, he had acted for the best, hadn't he? Despite everything... Civilians were not allowed to use quirks freely on public grounds, even though exceptions could be made in case of blatant self-defense. But even if he had used his quirk to stop the sludge villain by himself, what would he have done afterwards? He doubted he could use his newly acquired quirk effectively, and in a quirkless fight against an adult, he would have gotten the short end of the stick anyway. Not to mention the aftermath. Questions. His quirk revealed. Suspicion and distrust. Izuku's legs brought him to the site of the accident in a rushed daze, as his thoughts wandered in circles. He peered beyond the crowd of onlookers, and the scene he witnessed froze the blood in his veins. It was a disaster. The sludge villain was indeed responsible for it, and he had a hostage as well, tightly wrapped in layers and layers of goo. Numerous fires surrounded the captor and his victim, the heat and destruction giving them an almost hellish appearance. Almost half a dozen of heroes were already involved, but none of them seemed capable of creating an opening or coming up with a plan to face the situation. A veritable tragedy was unfolding before everyone's eyes, and no one was moving an inch to stop it. Izuku gazed around in a frenzy, searching for the one man who could and would solve it all. He spotted him quickly enough, his wild blond mane making him easy to pinpoint even with his gaunt frame huddled against a wall. All Might, the number one hero, looked like he was barely managing to stand on his feet. Hunched over, jaw clenched, one hand holding onto the nearest lamppost, the other clutching his side tightly, bright blue eyes dimmed in frustration and trained on the grim spectacle unfolding in the fiery lane. The sight dispelled any remaining doubt in Izuku's mind. All Might couldn't intervene. He couldn't use his quirk freely, either because of some pre-existing hard limit, or in fear of the repercussions it would have on his body. He had had to waste some of his limited stamina to save Izuku earlier that day - save him from a danger that Izuku could have, should have at least tried to handle himself - and now he was too drained to help. And the current hostage was paying for that - Izuku's heart nearly stopped as said hostage suddenly thrashed about enough to free a small portion of his face, enough for Izuku to recognize him, as more explosions boomed and set ablaze more of the surrounding buildings. Kacchan. Izuku moved without thinking, his mind blank. In that moment, he couldn't think about anything - not his father's recommendation, not his fear of exposure, not his weakness or inexperience, not the Symbol of Peace, not even his crushing guilt - except one thing. He couldn't let Kacchan die for his mistakes. A lot happened, very quickly, too quickly for him to process. The crowd and the heroes screamed. The villain saw him and readied a blow. Izuku barely dodged it by bodily throwing himself to the side, blindly. He landed hard on something that felt like overheated metal, but it didn't hurt too much. A slimy arm impacted solidly against the asphalt, missing him by mere centimetres. Goo from the monstruous limb splattered all around, staining his clothes. Without thinking, he reached for the green mass with both hands, let his palms sink into it, closed his eyed to focus and just did it. There was a strong gust of wind, as if a very fast car had suddenly raced past him and barely missed him, at the same time as he heard the asphalt crack a little to his left. Suddenly, all went perfectly still and silent. Izuku gulped, and forced his eyes open. The first thing he saw was All Might's massive back. Roaring muscles filling his oversized clothes amidst thin strands of steam, the hero was standing in full bulk right between him and the villain, his right arm raised and poised as if charging a punch, but completely motionless. There was no more sludge around Izuku's hands, nor anywhere in the street. Peeking between All Might's legs, Izuku saw Kacchan twitching weakly on the ground, and another person standing beside him. A thin, flabby-looking guy, with an ashen complexion and not a single hair on his head, face or bare chest. A blood-curling scream erupted from the man's - the villain's - mouth. As he stared in stark horror at himself - probably seeing his human limbs for the first time in his life, Izuku realized - the weird silence and stillness instantly receded. The heroes rushed forward to help Kacchan and apprehend the panicking criminal, the crowd cheered, and All Might turned to look at Izuku. There was no smile on his face. Izuku had never seen the Symbol of Peace without his usual cheery attitude. He realized the hero looked a lot less reassuring without it, and a lot more... purely, bleakly intimidating. The sheer magnitude of what Izuku had just done suddenly hit him like a train. He scrambled to his feet, heart beating wildly in his chest, and sprinted towards the closest alley. He heard All Might's voice calling to him, but he ignored it and ran, ran until his lungs burned with the effort and the tears made it impossible to see where he was going.

An undefined number of streets and turns and forks later, Izuku stopped. He collapsed against the closest wall, gasping for air and clutching at his jacket in a desperate effort not to succumb to hysteria. He'd done it. He'd used his quirk in front of a whole crowd of civilians and heroes. There was no hope of avoiding the consequences of that. Kacchan would dispel any doubt the police may have about what had transpired. Even though his childhood friend had kept quiet about it for years, out of... Fear? Respect? Leverage? Izuku honestly had no idea - there was no reason for him to shield him from the official investigations. It was out of Izuku's hands now. But maybe... maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. He had saved his friend from a gruesome fate, first of all, which was undoubtedly good. And maybe his father was plainly wrong, maybe their quirk could be tolerated, even accepted by society at large. Maybe even trained for the purpose of- "Midoriya!" Izuku's stomach did another somersault. All Might's skinny silhouette had just emerged from a nearby road and was approaching him quickly, one long arm raised to catch his attention. Oh God, Izuku had hoped he'd be too busy to chase him right off the bat. He'd hoped he could at least make it back home and talk with his father, with his mother before... "There you are! Why did you run off like- Hey, are you hurt?" All Might asked, immediately grabbing his arm to support him when Izuku wobbled dangerously. The man eyed his side worriedly, and Izuku finally remembered to check it himself. His jacket was torn and singed where he had fallen on the burning debris, but the layers of clothing underneath were surprisingly intact, and so was Izuku. "No no, I'm fine, thank you. I just... I guess I was scared of being told off for rushing in." Izuku offered with a poor attempt at a smile. "More afraid of being reproached than of facing a villain head on? You're an odd one, all right." All Might chuckled, visibly amused. "Law enforcers can be sticklers for non-professional quirk usage rules, but I don't think you would have gotten into too much trouble, all things considered." "I-I see... well... I guess I'll have to deal with it anyway, sooner or later..." "Ah... Not necessarily. I don't think anyone other than me realized what you did. In fact..." All Might rubbed the back of his neck with an oddly embarassed grimace. "I think I may have... sort of accidentally taken the merit of what happened back there. People saw me and just assumed I smashed the sludge off the villain faster than the eye can see. Journalists were already showing up and I was running quite low on stamina, so I scampered off before, you know... " He gestured at himself eloquently. "I can release an official statement later to rectify the matter, if you want. I'd hate to steal the spotlight of an aspiring hero." Izuku blinked. No one else knew? Kacchan hadn't talked? Or had All Might fled before he could hear his account? Probably the latter. And... "Aspiring hero?" "Indeed. It seems I have made some wrong assumptions about you." All Might positively beamed, ruffling his own hair and regarding Izuku with a sort of challenging grin that made Izuku squirm on the spot. "You aren't quirkless at all, are you?" "I never said I was..." Izuku tried to deflect lamely, hoping not to sound too cheeky. All Might merely laughed in response. "Very true! A variant of Erasure, isn't it? I've never seen any Erasure quirk work on mutant types, but I guess it is true that the new generations are naturally more endowed." "Uh... Y... Yeah..." Izuku heard himself say. He... He didn't want to lie. There wasn't even any point in lying considering that Kacchan was going to expose the truth anyway. But Izuku's mouth had been basically running on autopilot since his idol had materialized into his life, and his brain seemed to have lost the computational power to rein it in when said hero was in the vicinity. "That's good! Very good! Why would you be concerned about not using your quirk?" All Might scratched his chin thoughtfully. He seemed strangely unbothered by the fact that Izuku hadn't corrected him earlier, prompting him to waste valuable time of his day to bestow misplaced advice. "I guess Erasers tend to be somewhat at a disadvantage with rescue operations and solo missions... But I can assure you that, when it comes to apprehending villains, any combat specialist would beg to be teamed up with an Eraser. They're the absolute best support in case of quirk misfires and misuse... As you've just proven yourself." All Might seemed hell bent on encouraging Izuku's dream, now that he saw a real chance of success for him. Izuku was... moved, honestly, and sincerely grateful. But the hero was, once again, wasting his words. That wasn't Izuku's quirk, Izuku's quirk was far more sinister in its mechanics, far less likely to be requested or even endorsed by the hero community. Far more powerful, frighteningly so. Would All Might even be standing so close to the boy, within an arm's length, if he knew what would befall him if a hint of greed or envy pushed Izuku to- "Don't look down on yourself, kid." A bony yet amicable hand squeezed Izuku's shoulder, ripping him out of his meandering thoughts. All Might was smiling openly, his voice tinged with a softness that was entirely at odds with his haggard looks. "Your quirk might be less flashy than others, but I've seen enough today to know that you're definitely hero material, both in skills and heart." The really important thing is recognizing your own flesh and blood. Recognizing yourself. Izuku had been thinking a lot about that old interview of All Might's lately. The closer the UA admission test got, the more he found himself doubting his father's pessimistic take on the villainous nature of their quirk, and the more he wondered if he shouldn't trust himself, recognize himself, with enough conviction that everyone else would simply have to trust and recognize him too, eventually. It was easier said than done, of course. Spending the first twelve years of his life as quirkless hadn't exactly geared him towards building oodles of self-confidence. But he had to start somewhere. And if there was anyone in the world who was likely to see and trust and recognize Izuku for who he was, villanous quirk or not... it had to be him. The man who was the living embodiment of hope, reliability, rectitude and positivity. The man who apparently had a quirk with such a detrimental side effect that he ought to avoid resorting to it like the plague, and yet who kept using anyway, for the sake of the people. The man who was standing right in front of Izuku, giving it his all to obliterate his insecurities with sensible and kind words, with something awfully akin to pride for him shining in his clear eyes. If there was anyone that could change Izuku's world, it was All Might. "I, ah... actually, I... that isn't my quirk." "Oh?" All Might would have raised an eyebrow, if he had any. "Then what is it?" "I..." Izuku gulped. "I can take quirks. From other people. Permanently. And use them as my own." Silence. Not a muscle had moved on All Might's face, but suddenly his smile seemed a lot less alive, and a lot more set in stone. Izuku willed himself to keep speaking. "That's what I did to the villain. I stole- I took his quirk. It was the fastest way to stop him. The only way I could think of. It... worked quite well, uh?" Izuku offered a tentative smile, at the same time as All Might's started to fade. That... didn't bode well. But of course not even All Might could react to such a piece of information with immediate enthusiasm, it was a lot to take in, Izuku understood that. No doubt any moment now he'd slip back into his pep talk, reassure him of his chances to become a hero, wipe away his insecurities with a blinding smile and a boisterous laugh- "Do you still have it? The villain's quirk?" All Might asked in a whisper. "I do." Izuku knew, without really needing to try it out. He knew it with the same certainty as he knew that he was thirsty, or that his side did in fact hurt a little bit, or that most of skin was constantly brushing against his clothes. It was an almost visceral sensation, both conscious and subconscious, that he couldn't quite put into words. "I could try to use it too, if I wanted. Although I d-don't, really. I don't think I'll want to see any more slime for the next ten years or so, especially not on myself. Or as myself..." Izuku chuckled nervously, his heart growing heavier as All Might's expression reverted to one of studied, rigid neutrality. For once in his life, words failed him completely. He wrung his hands in discomfort, hoping that All Might would be the one to break that increasingly worrying silence. But his fidgeting caught the hero's attention. Very slowly, as if trying not to spook a wild animal, All Might's hand left Izuku's shoulder and took the boy's hand in his own, turning it over. He straightened the curled fingers with his thumb, fully exposing his palm and the small, circular hole right in the center of it. And then all of Izuku's hopes crumbled to dust. Very scary, very disturbing things had happened to him that day. He had almost died, he had almost accidentally killed a friend, he had inadvertedly learned a potentially peace-endangering secret, he had been forced to reveal a personally-endangering secret. He could have lived with all of that, probably. But nothing could have prepared him for the subtle shaking of All Might's hand as he observed the stigmata of Izuku's quirk. Nothing could have humiliated more than the sharp inhale of his idol, than the way his breath caught in his throat in obvious shock. Nothing could have confirmed his father's warnings more than the one thing he would have never, never, never expected to see - let alone cause - in the eyes of the Symbol of Peace. Fear.

[copelandpoynter]

❙❙ ❙ ❚❙ ❚ ❚❙❙ ❚ ❙❙  𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎 → 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎 C519LC10 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 ⤿ copeland poynter, better known as the daydreamer, is currently a legal aid in the gamma division. the file lists them as subservient and inviting, and originating from las cruces, new mexico but currently located in the european sector. at the age of twenty-four, they are currently a junior member. they are currently opposed to the current mission. the file notes that they have the following associations: the sound of crickets chirping softly through an open window, a clear night sky sparkling with stars and a crescent moon, dust-stained converse abandoned by the door, & the lingering smell of long-forgotten cigarette smoke. ✦ camila morrone. cis woman. she+her. ❛

TW: bullying, parental death

@societyrb​

full name: copeland virginia poynter

birthdate: june 16th, 1997

age: 24

height: 5’9”

fun facts:

from the moment she was born, it was made very clear that copeland poynter wasn’t part of anyone’s plans

born in las cruces, new mexico two two young parents with no real goals in life, the shock of an unplanned pregnancy sent them for a whirlwind

her mother got a job immediately, wanting to provide as comfortable a life as possible for her baby as she could

unfortunately, her dad got cold feet and split as soon as those two little pink lines showed up, making it blatantly obvious that he wasn’t about to let a baby infringe upon his life

without any sort of support system to back her, copeland’s mother set out to do it all on her own, picking up extra shifts at the grocery store she worked at and doing her best to save up for a small one-bedroom apartment

copeland’s arrival into the world was about as smooth as one could expect given the situation her mother was in

the single-parent struggle took a couple of years to get over before the girls developed a routine of their own; unfortunately, this meant cope had to take on responsibilities any normal child wouldn’t need to, and she did it with a smile on her face

despite things being hard, they always made the best of it, and cope’s mom showed her the unconditional love that she had never been shown herself

unfortunately, when copeland was just seven years old, her mother passed away tragically, leaving the girl by herself

the state of new mexico paired up with her case worker to try and track down her dad, but after digging themselves into a deep hole, they discovered that he’d signed his parental rights away, thus leaving copeland in the hands of the state

placed in the foster system, the young girl found it nearly impossible to integrate with other children, keeping mostly to herself and interacting with adults most of the time

she was bounced from foster home to foster home for the next few years, her disposition always remaining quiet and isolated, which often lead to her being bullied by the other kids around her

even though she struggled in the foster homes, she proved herself to be a rather smart individual, applying herself in school and excelling in most subjects

she liked to spend her free time in school in the library, her head kept down as she focused on her studies and worked to make a life for herself

at sixteen years old, copeland met tannen, and suddenly her life became very different

at first she did her best to ignore him, her only knowledge that he was a few years older and a bit of a wild card when it came to how he acted; but he always acted differently towards copeland, and that’s probably why he gained her attention

it wasn’t long before the two began dating, tannen shifting from some random boy that wouldn’t leave her alone to suddenly being the center of her universe

unfortunately with her new boyfriend came a new, careless attitude

suddenly the very studious copeland began skipping school and sneaking out of her foster house on a nightly basis, often not returning home until the sun was starting to show in the sky

the newfound rebellious nature landed copeland in hot water on more than one occasion and, by the time she was seventeen, she had been in threw new foster homes all within the span of a year

tannen was always right beside her, ready to egg on more bad behavior; he was already graduated, and it seemed that his one mission in life was to cause as much chaos as possible

one night, after a particularly risky night of tomfoolery, tannen had copeland convinced to up and leave new mexico to go to new york city, and that’s exactly what she did

with no money in their pockets and only a few bags of items between the two, copeland and tannen took a week to drive to the big city, no plans for once they got there but riding the thrill of escaping the dusty old state they came from

for a while, they couch surfed with whoever tannen happened to meet, copeland’s only mission to secure a job so they had some form of income; but after weeks of this, they finally settled into their own tiny apartment

it wasn’t long before tannen’s mood shifted into something more eerie; suddenly he was staying out all night, and when he did come home, he would pretend that she wasn’t there at all

she was always too scared to confront him about his behavior, keeping it all to herself and hoping he’d snap out of it soon

unfortunately, after two years of living together, tannen stopped coming home all together, leaving copeland to take care of everything by herself

left feeling unwanted and like she’d never quite be good enough, she continued living her life with her head down, working the rest of the way through school so she could have a fair share at graduating

she was twenty years old when she first heard about the society; she doesn’t remember where she was or how it happened, but she does remember being intrigued

her recruitment was easy, her want for something more in life enticing her to join, and soon enough she was flown to london to become a junior member of the european sector

her choice to become a legal aid stemmed from her years in the foster system, too many court dates having been attended where she had to watch unfairness unfold

copeland works hard in her studies, wanting to be the best she can be while assisting whatever lawyer she happens to be assigned to at the time

she’s hoping to soon become a full member of the society, though she is opposed to the current mission and hopes to see it shift to less criminal activity eventually

her disposition is quiet and reserved these days; the focus and determination is always clear, but when it comes to letting other people in, she fails miserably

still feels incredibly unwanted by everyone, so being a loner just works out best for her

she’s friendly to everyone unless they’re rude to her first, and then she switches to quietly polite

doesn’t make friends easily, if at all, and you can thank her past experiences with people for that

overall she’s a rather sweet but sad individual with trust issues, and it’ll take a lot for her to open up to somebody

[luisa2swag]

Love me for me (2)

"If you're so great how come you don't know how to tie your shoes properly, doo-doo head ?" I shot back, taking a step closer with my chin up, finger pointing at his untied basketball shoes. Jungkook scoffed "why am I even here arguing with you? You sure talk a lot but you forget that your last name is Mcniplecocker. Thats an instant L"

he towered over you, chest looking larger than usual thanks to the tight white shirt that stuck to his body with sweat. Your eyes darted to his nipple and before he could even muster another insult, His nipples were firmly grasped between your thumbs and index fingers, twisting away with all your might.

Your lips tugged upwards in satisfaction when he let out a yell of surprise and pain.

"What the actual fuck?!" He backed away, freeing himself from your hands. You smirked "Now you know why my last name is Mcniplecocker. Because I twist nipples and I certainly do have a cock!"

You were shameless as you said theses words. Jungkook couldn't even bother thinking of something else to say other than "okay I'm leaving." As you watched him walk away from you in the empty classroom. You saw him turn the doorknob but he did not move.

Was he maybe going to say something?

The tugs at the door knob became more violent with each twist and you could see Jungkook losing patience. His shoulders slumped, "We're locked in."

"W-what?"

[THREE HOURS BEFORE BEING LOCKED]

"W-wow." You looked at the school in amazement, boxes in your hands, you watched as the other male students buzzled around campus with their parents and installed themselves into their dorms.

You didn't have the luxury of being here with your dad. Imagine one of the most wanted criminals in the past setting foot into a place filled with lawyers. Your plan would be immediately dead but most importantly, you'd be behind bars.

This school must of been as old as Harvard. The building resembled the ones they would teach about in history class -You know the medieval ages- only the inside had been done up.

They were the only University that didn't open its gates to every gender which only lured more male heirs from all over the planet.

Parents thought that no girls meant no distractions but what they failed to know was that in 2018,some boys didn't just like girls.

"Hey, do you want help? You seem lost.." startled at the sudden deep voice coming from your right side, you jumped a bit.

Turning around to take a look at who had the audacity to initiate a conversation with your lonely ass. To be completely honest, you had just been standing around, mouth agape, looking at boys passing you by.

Holy shit he's hot

Instantly, you felt blood rush to your cheeks, you hoped that he wouldn't notice. He stood tall compared to you, nose long and eyes almost rectangle-ish. The sun and the ore gold were both jealous of his heavenly skin. You watched as he ran a large hand through his chestnut hair.

"Uh-huh" was all you could muster. A frown draped itself on your features, realizing how dumb and un-dude-ish you just sounded. Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, nothing could prepare you to the fact that a freaking model would be here speaking to your thirsty ass.

"Are you perhaps looking for your dorm? I had tricky time finding mine too in my first year." His voice god his voice.

"Am Taehyung, by the way." He smiled, a smile so adorable you couldn't help but smile back too.

"Am Bob, yeah I think I need help."you smiled sheepishly, holding your box closer to your chest.

"Alright, ill need the number of your dorm."

"67-b"

"Ahhh, that's the law dorms. So you're a law student huh? So am I." He seemed excited. Long legs already taking the lead to find your dorm.

"Are you a third year student or ?" You asked, now entering the dorm you presumed to be yours.

"No, just a second year." He smiled.

You both walked in a comfortable silence until he stopped infront of a door. "67-b is here." He said with the nod of his head, leaning against the wall near the door.

"Do we usually have roommates?" You read that since it was such a prestigious and little school, they would give you your own room but you needed to be sure. You didn't want any surprises. "Yeah it'll just be you in there." He affirmed with his usual dashing smile.

"Official classes start in two days but if you want, you could still go check out the classrooms. There won't be any teachers so make sure you leave the door open or else you might be surprised."

"Oh okay." You didn't bother dropping your voice a couple octaves, sure that in the near future where you could be possibly drunk or inattentive, It'd royally fuck you up. You found it to be a better idea to stick to your normal low but warm voice and let the guys think that "oh, his voice sounds slightly feminine!"

You took a step back, hoodie floating around your body and hiding your womanly curves the best it could, you bowed slightly "thank you so much. I hope I'll see you around school!" You actually did hope to see him around .

Not only was he devilishly handsome but very sweet. You wouldn't mind spending time with him all while gawking at his beauty greater than the Greek gods. "If you want, in about three hours I'll be able to hang. I would've been available way sonner if it wasn't for the fact that we both need to unpack a little bit. We could meet up at your new law class? What do you say?" He pointed finger guns at you, only making you blush more.

Fuck he doesn't even know I am a girl and here I am blushing like a schoolgirl just because he invited me to hang out.

"I'd love to I-I mean yeah, that be cool dude." Awkwardly, you raised a fist in the air which he happily bumped. "Okay I'll be off now!"

And just like that, the chestnut haired boy was out of your feet with hop of his own. Leaving you to unpack with the sound of 90's music from your cellphone.

Your room was a decent size, a simple bed on the left with a desk on the right, a tiny kitchen area and out and down the hallways were the shared bathrooms.

You took out the basics, some clothes, toothbrush, the frozen goods your dad had cooked you and bedsheets. You'd finish up your room later,after seeing Taehyung.

Yeah, I'll do this as soon as I get back!

[thirty minutes before being locked]

Your room looked neat. There were still some boxes here and there but you promised yourself to unpack them as soon as you got back.

Now you had changed into a comfortable black t-shirt and joggers.You made sure to duck-tape your breast, of course.

You stepped outside, the sun hung lower but still shined and the wind blew, giving you a comfortable breeze. The other students also seemed to take this evening as a chance to explore the campus more.

You watched as two boys ran, almost bumping you on their way. The shorter one with plump lips turned and blurted a bunch of apologizes before his taller lean friend dragged him by the collar. "Cmon Jimin, we need to get him !" And they were gone, leaving you to wonder exactly who they were going to get.

You continued making your way to the class, eventually finding it.

It was spacious just like in the movies about college life. You quickly found yourself a the front where the teacher desk was but before that you made sure to keep the door open, starring into space and waiting for the young man. You heard foot-steps and a smile already adorned your features.

You turned around, waiting to be met with the chestnut haired boy but you were just met face to face with a chestnut haired boy, that wasn't your chestnut haired boy.

"Erm, sorry." You squirmed away as the buff boy with the angular nose reached to grab something behind you.

"Were you really trying to steal the notes professor had prepared for me?" He took out a sheet of paper almost out of thin air and you just stared in amazement until it hit you.

Hold on, did this guy just accuse me ?

"W-what? I didn't even know that was there. I don't even know who you are!" Brows twisted together in confusion, you couldn't help but dart your eyes to the paper and to his piercing gaze, examining me like a corpse.

I gulped when he crossed his arms over his chest, oblivious to his flexing, he stood about one head and a half taller than me.

"You're lying. Everyone knows me." He scoffed, confident in the words he spoke as I blinked away, still In confusion.

"Come again?" I tried, I really genuinely had no clue who this dude was. I mean yeah he's kinda cute or whatever but with an attitude like that, I don't see him having any friends.

"Of course you would play dumb, well you are dumb for trying to steal my notes. Maybe you should take the initiative like me and ask teachers to prepare you notes of everything you'll have to study for the semester." His thin upper lip twitched upwards, his eyes trailing over my body, probably judging.

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge lil punk, school hasn't even started yet and to inform you, i am the smartest student here, I don't need your bitchass notes to be able to catch up on class before class has even started."ooooh I burned his bunny looking ass!

A smirk adorned my full lips when I noticed the blush spread across his cheeks like wildfire. I watched as his confident facade slowly broke when he took a step back.

"I guess you really don't know me then, my name is Jeon Jungkook." Now he was the one with the smirk.

I deadpanned, "Uh, yeah I totally know you. Omg I cant believe I didn't realize sonner!" Arms crossed, I rolled my eyes.

"Think harder dumbass. Jeon Jungkook, doesn't that ring any bells?"

I thought hard, past all the cat memes, gta on PlayStation 2 cheat codes, my club penguin password, the pin of my first iPod. Past all the unnecessary things my brain stored I finally found what he has hinting.

All boys : Great Jeon University

It couldn't be, no .

Or could it be ? With my luck it could. His smile grew larger as he saw my eyes widen in shock. "Don't tell me this is some crappy wattpad plot where your family happens to own this school?" I already dreaded the answer I knew I would get. "Yes it is." His chest proudly rose.

"Well I couldn't care less , dumbass." I stated, indifferent.

"I just told you that my family basically owns this place and you don't give a shit?" Index pointed at my face, he asked dumbfounded. Not sure if my lack of respect for him should be a good thing or not. "You have a lot of guts for saying that to the great Jeon."

"If you're so great how come you don't know how to tie your shoes properly, doo-doo head ?" I shot back, taking a step closer with my chin up, finger pointing at his untied basketball shoes. Jungkook scoffed "why am I even here arguing with you? You sure talk a lot but you forget that your last name is Mcniplecocker. Thats an instant L" Your eyes twitched confused, how did he know your name? Then your orbs wondered down to your shirt who haired had gifted you as a joke with your fake name written just above your left tit.

he towered over you, chest looking larger than usual thanks to the tight white shirt that stuck to his body with sweat. Your eyes darted to his nipple and before he could even muster another insult, His nipples were firmly grasped between your thumbs and index fingers, twisting away with all your might.

Your lips tugged upwards in satisfaction when he let out a yell of surprise and pain.

"What the actual fuck?!" He backed away, freeing himself from your hands. You smirked "Now you know why my last name is Mcniplecocker. Because I twist nipples and I certainly do have a cock!"

[taehyung pov]

I don't remember the building being so far... I entered the law block, nothing but the sound of my sneakers against the wood floor could be heard. Hallways were clear and so was the sky this evening. I smiled thinking of the new friend I had made.

Pat pat pat I whipped my head around st the sudden running noise "Jimin? Namjoon?" My brows arched in confusion, I watched how they frantically started shouting my name.

I looked back to the front

The class where I had so kindly asked you to meet up with me was maybe twenty steps away

I couldn't just blow you off, no that wasn't something I'd want at all.

But with a blink of an eye and a stumbling Jimin, we we're passed the door and left behind a loud clacking noise. In fear of having accidentally closed the door shut, I twisted my neck to look back all while running with the two grown man looped around my arms. "J-Jimin, the d-door!" I let out breathless, heart thumping

"Guys -wait there's someone-" Jimin quickly interrupted "Yoongi snuck a girl on campus!" I looked back again, wishing that my gut feeling was wrong, wishing I hadn't just locked someone in a classroom.

She might be late, everyone comes late nowadays! I reassured myself.

With a aggressive tug of my sleeve from Namjoon, I realized that I didn't have a choice.

I'll come back later, I promise.

[Narrator pov] You were shameless as you said theses words. Jungkook couldn't even bother thinking of something else to say other than "okay I'm leaving." As you watched him walk away from you in the empty classroom. You saw him turn the doorknob but he did not move.

Was he maybe going to say something?

The tugs at the door knob became more violent with each twist and you could see Jungkook losing patience. His shoulders slumped, "We're locked in."

"W-what?"

[alarawriting]

Inktober 2019 #3 - Bait

TW for attempted child molestation, implication that it was more than “attempted” in the past.

This one was hard, and I feel like it kind of trails off rather than ending. Which probably means it wants to be a much larger piece, not a ficlet, but Inktober’s about doing the ficlets, so oh well. I may expand it at some point in the future. 

Minna was very, very reluctant to let Jasmine come to her house for a sleepover; Jasmine had to work on her for most of the school year, despite Minna coming over Jasmine’s house over a dozen times. But finally, in May, Minna agreed. “My dad’s going to be out of town,” she said, “so you can come over this weekend.”

“I don’t understand why I can’t come over when your dad’s around?”

“Uh, my dad likes peace and quiet, that’s all.”

On the night of the sleepover, however, it turned out Minna’s dad was in town after all, his business trip apparently unexpectedly canceled while Minna was at school. “Oh,” Minna said. “We ought to cancel this, then. Maybe you should call your parents?”

“Don’t be silly!” Minna’s mom said. “It’ll be fine, won’t it, Jake?”

“That’s right. I’ve got no problem with you having a sleepover, sweetie. Who’s your little friend there, honey?”

“I’m Jasmine.” He didn’t seem like he was angry, or mean.

“Jasmine?” He laughed. “Is that old-lady name making a comeback now?”

“I was named after my grandma. My friends call me Jazz, though.”

“That’s great,” Jake said, grinning. “You like board games, Jazz? You even heard of board games? I know you kids, always playing on your VR sets, but did you ever play real games like we used to when we were kids?”

Jasmine happened to know that if Jake was the age he appeared to be, his childhood was probably spent playing video games on 2 dimensional screens, but she didn’t challenge him. “I like board games, sure!”

Minna looked unhappy, but she didn’t say anything. Minna’s mom wanted to join in, so they all played Monopoly. And when it was over and Jake had won, Minna suggested playing Risk. “You like Risk, right, daddy? I bet Jazz would like Risk…”

“Too late in the evening, honeybuns,” Jake said, ruffling Minna’s hair as she flinched. “You girls need to get some sleep! I’ve got the guest room all made up for Minna.”

“But daddy! It’s a sleepover! She was going to sleep in my room!”

“Don’t be silly,” Jake said. “You girls would be up all night talking then, and ruin yourselves for school the day after tomorrow!”

Nightgowns were put on. Teeth were brushed. Jake hovered, making sure they went through their bedtime routines. Jasmine could see why Minna wouldn’t want her over for a sleepover if this was the way her dad acted. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Minna having friends, it was that he was obsessively attentive, to the point where it was hard to actually just find time to hang out by themselves and play. Maybe that was why Minna had suggested playing Risk; playing with her friend and her dad wasn’t as good as playing with her friend, but it was better than being sent to bed separately.

When lights went out, Jasmine took her nightly meds with the glass of water she’d cajoled from her friend’s parents for her bedside nightstand, and then lay in bed on her side looking out the window. Half an hour later, she heard the door open, and rolled over. “Mr. Levesque?”

“Oh, you can call me Jake, Jazz,” Minna’s dad said. “Mind if I come in?”

“Well, I was trying to sleep…”

“Oh, that’s okay. You’re young, you can deal with a little lost sleep. You just have to count them up when you find it.” He chuckled. “You get it? Because ‘little lost sheep’, and you’re supposed to count sheep to fall asleep. Do they tell you kids to do that nowadays? They told me.”

“I know about it,” Jazz said.

Jake sat down on the edge of the bed. “You kids know all kinds of things nowadays, don’t you? With all this stuff on the Internet nowadays.”

“Didn’t they have the internet when you were a kid?” The Internet had been around for over a century, but for some reason, adults seemed to love behaving as if it was a brand new thing that only kids understood.

“Oh, yeah, but it wasn’t the same. We didn’t have VR, we didn’t have olfactory or tactile back then.” He leaned in. “I bet you spend a lot of time on the VR, right?”

“Um, I guess. I have a lot of homework most days, though.”

“You ever watch any porn, Jazz?”

Jasmine sat up. “Uh, wow. That, uh. That’s… not a question dads are supposed to ask sleepover friends of their daughters, is it?”

“It’s fine,” Jake said. “I know you modern kids are into all that kind of stuff.”

“Um, not really.”

“Oh, come on. I know all you girls nowadays watch that stuff. Not like when I was a kid. Back then, the boys were the only one who used to watch that stuff. But I know you kids nowadays don’t think there’s anything wrong with girls liking, you know. To do it.”

“I don’t think—”

“You ever thought about doing it with a boy?”

“I, uh—”

Jake leaned forward again. He was far enough into Jasmine’s personal space that she would have difficulty getting out of the bed. “It’s okay. I can teach you.”

“I really don’t want to—”

“You’ve got to learn sometime,” he said, and kissed her. With tongue. Gross, disgusting, grownup tongue.              

Jasmine bit his tongue, hard, and as soon as he recoiled, she shoved the taser she’d been holding under the covers into his solar plexus. His face wasn’t in contact with hers anymore, so she was free to pull the trigger, and she did.

“You little—” Jake started to say, thickly, with his bitten tongue, and then he couldn’t speak again because he was convulsing and falling off the bed.

Jasmine threw the covers back and pulled out the badge and the ID card she’d been keeping under the pillow. “Detective Jasmine Sykes, Sex Crimes division. Jake Levesque, you’re under arrest for attempted solicitation of a minor, sexual assault—”

“You’re – you’re not a minor, bitch!” he gasped out. Good. So he knew what the color band around her ID meant.

“You’re right. I’m 53 years old,” she agreed. “But you thought I was a minor. And you did kiss me after I explicitly said I didn’t want to, which is sexual assault. Given the reports we have on you from some of Minna’s other friends, I think that’s going to be enough.”                                      

The door opened. “Jazz! Are you all right?” Minna asked, and then took in the taser, the ID with the colored hologrammatic border, the badge. “Oh.”

“My backup’s just pulled up outside, Minna. Can you get your mom to let them in?”

“I… okay…” She looked down at her father, and her face twisted. “Serves you right! I hope you go to jail, you creep!”

“Minna – honey –” He reached toward her, from where he was lying on the floor, but she turned and ran.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Jasmine said. “Anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to a lawyer—”

Her partner, 6 foot two and solid muscle, came in, holding a real gun, with two other cops behind her. “Jazz! You okay? This scumbag didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Naah. He kissed me. It was horrible, I don’t know what the fuck kind of aftershave he uses but he’d be better off moisturizing with a three day old dead rat. But I’ve dealt with worse, and that’s as far as it got.”

Jasmine let the grownup cops handle talking to Minna’s mom, filling out the paperwork for the arrest, cuffing the perp and dragging him off to the van. She had a traumatized ten year old to deal with.

“I thought – I thought you were my friend,” Minna said to her, eyes filled with tears.

“You are my friend.”

“But you’re a grownup! I saw your ID, I know you’re a child impersonator!”

Jasmine sighed. She hated that name, but in her particular case she really couldn’t dispute it. The Extended did not all have professions where they had to pretend to be children, but she did. “I’m not a grownup, I’m an adult. There’s a difference. And if I don’t have any friends who are actual kids, then I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I like you, Minna. I liked playing with you.”

“Did you just make friends with me to get at my dad?”

“I transferred to your school to get at your dad, but if you and I hadn’t been friends I would have gotten him to show his true colors some other way.” She took Minna’s hand. “He did this to some of your other friends, too, didn’t he?”

She choked on a sob. “He said – he said he’d never need to come to me again if I invited my friends over, but I didn’t know what that meant. I tried sleepovers twice. The first time I didn’t know. Kayde wouldn’t be my friend anymore after that, but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, what happened. The second time I heard him, with Myesha, I knew I couldn’t ever have another sleepover. But you kept asking, and he was supposed to be out of town! You were supposed to be safe!”

“It’s okay, Minna. I know you were trying to keep me safe. It’s all right.”

She hugged Minna, who sobbed again a couple of times before getting herself under control. “Is this – do you do this kind of thing a lot? Go over kids’ houses and prove their dads are…”

“I don’t always do it by making friends with the kids, no. Sometimes I take a class with the guys, or I get in their car, or something.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

Jasmine nodded. “But not as bad for me as for an actual kid. I’ve been doing this for 30 years.”

Minna shook her head. “That’s so weird. You look just like any of my classmates.”

“Yeah, it is weird.” Jasmine’s parents had been rich enough to make her one of the Extended, over 40 years ago. Anybody could be immortal – well, unaging, at least – as long as they started the treatment before puberty. The same treatment that kept her cells dividing and her body from breaking down with age, kept her from ever going through puberty or reaching an adult’s height. She was fortunate to be a cop – universal health care didn’t cover the cost of Extension, but Extended were so useful in the police force, with their ability to catch pedophiles in sting operations, get information out of child witnesses, go unnoticed by criminals, and anything else an actual kid could do but wouldn’t know how to, or couldn’t be exposed to the risk of doing, that most big-city forces paid for the Extension medications for their Extended officers. As few as five missed treatments and puberty would start, and once it did, Jasmine would age and eventually die the same as any normal human. She could be immortal, as long as she gave up her right to ever look like an adult.

Extended – usually referred to as “child impersonators” in the media, and by average people – could theoretically live forever. The oldest of them were only in their 60’s, but it was holding true so far. Enough people had made that bargain in their childhoods that Extended got specially marked IDs identifying them as Extended, granting them secure access to their full adult rights. No matter what age they looked, society had to acknowledge their true ages in any age-restricted activity. Such as drinking, or being cops.

“You are my friend,” Jasmine repeated. “I like making friends with kids. Adults don’t get to play. Who’d want to give that up?”

“Are you gonna stay? At my school?”

She couldn’t. She might find it very relaxing to impersonate a fourth grader, and she might enjoy having actual children for friends, but the department would want her to go somewhere else, especially now that her cover was blown here. “I’ll stay as long as they let me,” Jasmine said.

Notes: The “child impersonators” are an idea I’ve been kicking around for maybe 20, 30 years, and are inspired by “Child of All Ages” by P. J. Plauger. In that story, there is one child who’s been alive since before the birth of Christ, whose father was an alchemist who invented the formula that keeps her alive. My take on it was to have it invented at a more reasonable time, sometime in our near future, and have it implemented throughout society, not as a secret one child keeps, because I wanted to explore the impact on society of having people who look exactly like children but are not, are in fact immortal, and are dependent on having jobs that will pay for their treatments to continue. I will probably do some other things with child impersonators at some point besides having them catch pedophiles, but the prompt “Bait” made it obvious what the plot had to be.

[queerofcups]

By the amount of fic I read and how bad my memory is I'm still not surprised that I remember exactly what happens in your fic a superstar, a year on and I'm still so intrigued as to what would've happened next it was so good and such an interesting take on kid fic ugh your mind blows me away with your creativity and conception of plot

oh wow, a superstar! barring something truly unexpected that’s gonna be a forever WIP, so here anon, is what happens next along with a shit ton of backstory

Backstory / Outline

Dan’s been an au pair since he was 20. He’s only had a few families (because he’s so good and they love him) who all swear by him. Families who can afford nannies are, by nature of the job, usually wealthy. Families that can afford an au pair, particularly one of his rate and reputation, are usually quite wealthy. He hasn’t broken into the big Old Money leagues quite yet, but he finds the nouveau riche to be a little more flexible as far as Dan’s style and general deportment. 

Of course, working primarily with new money means he’s often working with celebrities. They’re British, so the celebrity culture isn’t nearly as rabid as it is in America. 

But he does have a respectable stack of clippings from gossip mags that have identified him as someone’s mysterious new lover or piece on the side. 

He doesn’t blink at Bryony’s assignment of one last job: Phil Lester. 

Lester’s been making a comeback in the last couple of years, rebuilding his cultural cache after a few years outside of the spotlight. Bryony swears it's a short job, nothing like the last years-long job he just wrapped up. 

Dan’s loathe to admit it, but part of the reason he’s hesitant to take on another job, other than wanting a career change, is that leaving families wears on him. 

He’s not that breed of caretaker who can separate himself from his families. Some of these kids he’s watched grow from little lumps of cute into real humans with opinions and preferences and it can be hard to let go. 

Which is why, when he meets Sophia, he knows he’s screwed because she’s a firecracker of a kid and he falls a little in love with her as soon as they meet. 

Note: Sophie’s real first name is Manon

Dan’s bi and ends up helping Phil work through some of his own stuff about being pretty much gay, but having been in love with Margaux

He’s got depression and a touch of anxiety and explains those to Sophia at some point. 

He knows he’s in when he realizes he’s been looking up tutorials for styling curly hair online. 

Phil

Former youtuber that won a contest to be on a couple episodes of some failing TV show & became a dark horse who ends up getting picked up for a few other shows and eventually (shortly) makes the jump to film. 

The industry falls all over themselves to talk about how -nice- he is, how -polite-

It's untreated anxiety that leaves him bordering on panic attacks at every red carpet debut but he never says that. 

It gets worse after he’s caught coming out of a gay bar, mouth still attached to some boy

It's not exactly homophobia that drives him out. People are kind and don’t say anything to his face. 

But suddenly they want to know things. 

How long has he known?

What's his type?

They want him to be a role model and he just wants to live

It's an easy decision. It's so easy to walk away he almost feels guilty. He loves acting, so much it surprised him when he first started, but he knows he can’t stop doing it. 

So he stops taking roles. He doesn’t sign any new contracts. He nods and smiles when people tell him he’s making a mistake and he pickets his last checks. 

He doesn't go far,  just moves to a smaller apartment in London, in a less ritzy area and waitings until people stop trying to follow him home. 

It's not a meltdown, no matter what The Sun (?) says. The fame just starts to feel like a cold hand around his throat and he gets out before it starts to squeeze. 

There are people who understand and they’re proud of him. That feels awkward too, but nothing like the gaze of the public. 

He can eventually go back to school, for video editing, and he has a few things with guys that are short term. 

Which is fine. He’s young enough that he’s allowed to be restless and a little freewheeling. 

Margaux is...was...is a shock to his system. 

She’s a second generation French-American who moved to London so she can be boring in peace. 

(She’s French & Creole specifically. Sophia’s legal name is Manon Sophia Ange Siméon Lester. Obviously she only goes by Sophia Lester for the most part. Her maternal relatives aren’t pleased with that)

Margaux’s family was small when they met and only got smaller over the years they knew each other until it feels like it's just them and Sophia. 

The thing is, Phil never called himself gay. The press did. 

But he would now. Because he knows that there won’t be other women after Margaux. He knows it's unhealthy, but it's better than deciding there will never be anyone else at all. 

They were friends. They’d never called themselves anything more than that--not before Sophia and not after. 

Sophia is nearly seven with Margaux goes on the trip. They’d lived together on and off, so it's nothing strange for her to be with Phil rather than one of her two remaining maternal grandmothers. 

Phil is Sophia’s father, legally, biologically, all the way. But he sometimes feels like the most out of place person in her life. He doesn't know how to express to Sophia how much he loved Margaux while still being a mostly-gay man. 

Phil’s weirdness about bisexuality (his own and the very idea) is a sticking point between him and Dan

Sophia knows and doesn’t particularly get why the delineation matters. All she knows is her Dad sometimes acts unsure of his own Dadness. 

Margaux dies because of a head injury. She’d gone on an extended vacation with friends and gone bike riding without a helmet and fell. The friends took her to a clinic and she’d gotten a bandage for the scrapes to her forehead, a scolding and a clean bill of health. She’d skyped with them that night and made jokes about ruining her moneymaker. In the morning, she was gone. 

People in Phil’s life, his relatives and former friends, characterize Margaux as a funny little deviation that would have just faded into a fun story if not for Sophia. Phil doesn’t argue, because he doesn’t want to upset things)

Dan realizing that Phil loved her is a moment of breaking through Phil’s shiny veneer of untouchable politeness)

When Phil decided to start acting again, he’s not expecting things to progress as quickly as they do. He knows that people were impressed with him when he was younger. He’s shocked to hear words like “critically acclaimed” get thrown around. He was just a kid escaping into the lives of people who had bigger problems than him. 

But he reaches out, because he misses it and he’s tired of being a not-widower, hanting everywhere he goes, and the roles come. 

And the gaze comes with them. There are small things. A c-plot role, a secondary character. A lead role from a smaller studio. And then a big break comes across his desk. It's a middling role, but everyone that gets top billing comes with an Academy Award attached. And there are explosions in the script. The kind that mean a summer blockbuster. He takes it, and suddenly, he’s on the edges of spotlight again. 

Phil knows what he looks like. Internet star turned film star who goes gay, disappears for a few years, then returns, unpartnered with a brown, French speaking, half-American (half black America) pre-teen in tow. He looks like a ton of clicks, maybe a record number of copies sold.

Soph is 11. 

He takes the role and calls Bryony directly, because there’s no way he can do this alone. 

Part One: Meeting

Dan’s finishing up his first month back home after leaving a family. He’s got scripts on his desk--good, meaty roles that have him thinking he might not take another family on, yet. 

Bryony calls, which is interesting. She’s the head of the agency & they’re friendly but not on phone call terms. 

She offers him the job. He initially refuses. She admits it's a personal favor kind of job, and temporary and she wants her best on it. 

Dan agrees to a chemistry meeting. 

They meet up, Sophia charms dan and he still says no. 

She comes with a short term nanny because her dad’s running late. 

Phil shows up & Dan’s jaw clenches because PHil’s the kind of rung-jumping acting success story that Dan’ resents. 

So he’s sarcastic and a little cross because he hates that and the choir boy facade Phil puts on

Maybe he makes a euthanasia joke? Or something about an uncaring universe that goes over Sophia’s head. 

Except Phil laughs and doesn't glanced nervously at Sophia the way parents do sometimes when dan gets a little dark. 

Phil finally sends Sophia off to buy a cupcake so he can be alone and upfront with Dan. 

He explains that it won’t be a long term job, just the 9 months he needs to be in America to shoot and then Dan is free. 

“This is just the first time we’ve done this,” Phil says, watching Sophia through the window. “And I want to give Soph the best. She deserves the best. Better than that.”

And Dan’s a goner. He’s still a businessman, so he asks for time to consider and sends his terms of employment to the agency’s lawyer. But he knows he’s going to do it. He makes a mental note to look up a list of tutors if they don’t already have one hired. 

Part 2: Getting to Know Each Other

Dan makes the assumption that Sophia is adopted & Phil awkwardly corrects him--this is the beginning of their conflict over the word bisexual. 

Phil’s never had an au pair, so he’s uncomfortable with how *there* Dan suddenly is. He doesn’t move into their London flat because there’s not room for him but they start preparing for the move & he’s got experience in ordering houses for that, more than Phil does. 

They don’t have any other staff. Sophia will get a tutor in America, but she’s finishing her year in school & Phil lives well within his means, small flat, they cook for themselves and the cleaning lady visits once a week. Dan’s the only one there all the time & despite all his years of experience, he feels invasive. But he also gets to see how close Phil and Sophia are, including watching them do “homework” together, Sophia doing equations & Phil running lines. 

They go to America. Phil’s one movie has turned into parts in three movies. In one he’s playing a semi-serious playboy villain who was once the husband of the (superhero) lead. In another, he’s a professor/mentor in a teen dramedy. In the last one, the blockbuster/oscar bait, he’s playing a man whose life is ruined by the rise of the regime the main cast is fighting. Dan thinks the last one is the only one that sounds interesting. But he’s impressed with Phil’s handling of learning all the scripts. They’re surprisingly disparate characters. The playboy is, at his core, a sleaze that covers himself in a fine patina of British politeness. The professor is clearly meant to be someone whose awkwardness translates into the kind of cool kids would find appealing & Phil manages to strike the balance gamely. And the last one is...it's Oscar bait and even though Phil’s part isn’t big enough to get him supporting actor billing Dan can see him prepare to give a career-changing, maybe even life changing performance. 

The first two he practices in front of them. Dan gets sick of the lines, finds himself muttering them along with Phil as he makes Sophie’s snacks. 

The other one, only Dan sees. 

He doesn’t at first. For a while Phil locks himself away in his room and Dan can only hear the muffled yelling of a one sided argument. 

But one night he’s sitting, looking out over the city, thinking about going to bed when Phil comes out and asks him, sheepishly, if he’ll listen and tell Phil if he sounds wooden. 

Dan agrees and they sit at the kitchen table. Phil takes a long, steady breath and suddenly there are tears. He holds his head just slightly higher, proudly, and there’s suddenly a stoney archness Dan’s never seen on him before. 

“And so that’s it,” Phil says, his voice cold, closed off and defeated. “Eleven years and you hand me over to your precious leader.”“Josiah,” Dan says, looking at the script. “You have to understand. I had no choice--”“Coward,” Phil says. It's a simple word but still feels like it pierces Dan’s core.“My darling,” Dan says. “Please.”Phil stands. Dan watches him. “Remember that.” He stalks around the table, his eyes still shining with tears. “When I am on my knees, begging for life, when they’ve made you my executioner.”He steps closer, standing a hair too close to Dan, and says, anguished, “Remember that I was once your darling. Your beloved. Your love.”Dan is rapt, waiting for the next line, but Phil clears his throat and takes a step back. “And then they kiss and Josiah leaves,” Phil says, suddenly back in his own body and self. “What d’you think?”“Wow,” Dan says, hoping his face isn’t betraying his surprise that Phil can actually, really act. “Um. It’s good. Your movements could be a little smoother. They were together, right? So Josiah should be used to getting in--what’s her name?”“His,” Phil says, settling back into his kitchen chair. “Theodore. Theo.”“Woah,” Dan says before he thinks better of it. “You’re playing gay?”Phil quirks an eyebrow, “It's not really...playing?”Dan waves a hand, “Obviously. But that’s a big choice, role-wise. You aren’t afraid they’ll just see you as the gay one?”Phil stares at him, brows furrowed until Dan mouths, “What?”“You do know...about me, right? How my career got started? And why I stopped? I’m already the gay one.”“But you have a choice. I’m not saying you should change your mind. The film industries closet shit is bullshit. But you have a choice.”“Dan. I know. And the choice is what I get to be private about.  An actor--a celebrity who isn’t trying to walk back their youthful indiscretion is way more interesting than a mostly gay man with a kid and a dead...Margaux.”Dan feels...so many things. “You can’t hide Sophie. She’s your kid.”“I’m not hiding her,” Phil says, and Dan knows immediately that this isn’t the first time Phil’s heard this exact argument. “I’m protecting her.”

Dan keeps agreeing to run lines with Phil. He never asks for the script, so he learns Josiah through Phil, the early scenes where he’s playful, teasingly sensual, his deteriorating life and mental state and the way he dies. 

They don't run those lines when Sophie is home. It's understandable. It's unsettling for Dan, an adult who understands the depths you can get to while acting, to watch Phil muss himself up and drop unceremoniously to his knees, hands clasped behind himself. It's a short scene & Dan knows the public will be outraged with the scene. But every time he reads his own lines, a choked, delicate line of “I have to.”Phil nails it with workman’s precision everytime, He looks slightly past Dan, huffs a soft broken laugh and says, so quiet and tender, so full of betrayal. “You’ll never forget this day, Theo.” Dan doesn’t know what happens in the rest of the movie, but he’d pay the price of admission to watch Phil say that sentence.He’s been convinced, won over, sold & transported.

The fic doesn't end after they hook up for the first time, follows them through figuring out that this can’t be a one time thing and they both want this to last. Phil encouraging Dan to take on acting and not just because they can’t be together publicly while Dan is Sophie’s au pair. 

Ending of the fic is Sophie and Dan hanging out at the Oscars (or BAFTAs?) waiting for Phil to come out of the bathroom. It's a few years later (enough years that Dan should probably be freaked out about how many of the actresses he and Soph agree are super hot) and Phil’s up for an Oscar for best supporting actor. 

*At some point they get drunk together (after some terrible award show?) and talk about their first and best times with men and Dan accidentally dirty talks to Phil because he’s drunk and reminiscing about some truly outstanding cock he’s had in his day.

[thisselflovecamebacktome]

24 lessons I learned before turning 24

I considered writing this post before @taylorswift‘s Elle cover and then writing it in another 10 hours after sleeping seeing as it’s around 4am here, but after reading the piece, I felt the need to write this now. It’s not the first time I’ve written a piece like this, but it is the first time in over half a decade, so we’ll see how it goes.

ONE: Learn how to forgive yourself. My god is this one hard, and it’s a battle I still lose from time to time, but it saved my life. As harsh as it sounds, whatever mistakes you made in the past are exactly that; in the past. If you have the chance to, go and apologise and make amends, but never let your mistakes consume you. There’s no way to control other people’s reactions. But forgiven or not, you have to live with your choices. So let them be a learning curve and not a stop sign for future endeavours.

TWO: Learn to trust others. In our individualistic society, it’s often easy to feel like you’re alone. More so when your family and schooling environments promote the idea of life only having ‘winners’ and ‘losers’. But the truth is you don’t need to take on the world alone. There is always someone who loves you and wants the best for you. And maybe sometimes you get it wrong and let the wrong people in, but you can’t let that make you cold and unfeeling. The human race is a social one. We were not designed to live alone and never should force ourselves to.

THREE: You are not responsible for fixing other people and they’re not responsible for fixing you. Everybody on this Earth has a story; some kind of heartbreak they’ve had to endure. While human interaction is vital in recovery, all relationships must be give and take. You cannot expect emotional support 24/7 and then refuse to give it back. Likewise, you are not selfish for walking away from someone who has no intention of fixing themselves and just wants a manic pixie girl. Because either way, you will end up alone.

FOUR: Jealousy is deadlier than poison. Growing up in a tear down culture is never easy. I couldn’t name you one person who hasn’t been made to feel insecure or less than what they are. But you can’t let that control you. As I already mentioned, your true loved ones will love you regardless of if the flaws you see in yourself are real or not. Comparing yourself to others will destroy not only yourself and your happiness, but your relationships and loved ones’ happiness too.

FIVE: Communication is key. The saying is right; assumptions really do make a fool of you and me. The amount of relationships I’ve unnecessarily lost because I assumed they chose someone over me or they hated me is shameful. But it goes the other way too. You are only going to make yourself miserable if you keep making excuses for why they don’t make the effort or learn to communicate what they want from you. Anyone who truly loves you will be willing to listen and discuss issues. Don’t destroy yourself over mixed messages.

SIX: The past is the past. You are where you are now for a reason. Unless you’ve found a way to build a time machine that allows you to change things, you will never be able to change the past. Maybe things would have been better if you never got mentally ill or your family stayed together or whatever else has happened to you. But at the end of the day, ‘what ifs’ will end up killing you. All you can do is put your best foot forward today and trust that it will lead you to where you want to be.

SEVEN: Not everything is personal. As a kid, I was very sensitive... I still am, but I’ve definitely toned it down over the years. Because as time has gone on, I’ve realised that not everything is an attack on myself and everything I believe in and not every criticism is there just to be mean. I learned this the hard way when my 11th grade teacher used to mark the work by only pointing out what we needed to fix. As a child who was academically praised a lot, it was a blow and I cried a ridiculous amount of tears. But it made me better, not only academically, but at spotting constructive criticism for plain rudeness.

EIGHT: Having one best friend is a myth. Relationships are complex and everyone is looking for different things in each relationship. I remember as a child stressing over not only thinking that I was no one else’s best friend, but at the fact I couldn’t choose one person as mine. The typical questions of ‘who do you go to most for support?’ didn’t help much either as it was so case dependant. Then one day, I remember telling one of my best friends that I had several. I remember being terrified that I offended them... but instead they simply said “me too”. It was the most freeing experience.

NINE: Sometimes your (and others’) best isn’t enough. In life, we all play the cards we’ve been given. And sometimes, we get winning hands or at least come out even. But sometimes, and often without realising, we come up empty handed; and that empty hand hurts others outside ourselves. And those others are allowed to be hurt at that while still recognising you did your best. This is something it took me so long to accept... especially in terms of my mother. Because the truth is, I think she did do her best raising myself and my siblings, especially given how little responsibility my father took over us. But it doesn’t change the fact I have scars from my upbringing. But accepting you can feel hurt and acknowledge another’s effort is a step forward and I wish I had done it sooner.

TEN: Know who you are and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m grateful that on the whole, I learned this relatively early. I may have been overfilled with insecurities as a child, but I knew who I was. Whether it be the things society saw as bad such as poor, emotional, overweight and weird or the good things like kind, intelligent and mature, I knew these things shaped me. So when others spoke badly about me, while I may have shed my tears, I quickly stood up and was able to continue on knowing that they were either wrong or were picking on things I would not allow myself to be ashamed over. The minute you realise you don’t care what those outside your loved ones think of you is the first moment of freedom and though I may have had an easier life had things been different, I wouldn’t change me for the world.

ELEVEN: Being average is not the worst thing in the world. When I was in my early teens, I had my whole life sorted out. I was going to be a world renowned book writer or a doctor or a lawyer... anything to have my name known and to show I was extraordinary. My parents and others also pushed that idea a lot on me. It didn’t matter if it was only a one in a million chance I’d become famous, I was going to get there... and then I got mentally ill. At first it was alright, but the moment I got into a school where they bell curved grades I realised just how average I was. With the exception of Sociology, my grades dropped from high A’s to mostly C’s with a few B’s, my ATAR wasn’t anywhere near high enough to get into the courses I wanted and it hit hard. I remember getting half way through year 11 and considering dropping out because there was just no way I was going to do what I wanted in life. But then the realisation hit me; I am enough. What I have is what a lot of people end up with and it ended up okay for them, so why not me? And that revelation that being a 21st Century woman meant that I could do anything and not that I had to do everything was quite possibly the most relaxing moment of my life.

TWELVE: Not everyone who dislikes you does so because they’re jealous or keeping up appearances. I hate to break it to anyone who still believes it, but the old wife’s tale isn’t true. People generally do not hate you over jealousy. And people certainly didn’t dislike me because I was intelligent or confident, especially ones in middle/high school. They disliked me because I was arrogant and acted like I was better than everyone due to my intelligence. The boy I liked in seventh grade didn’t dislike me because I was unpopular. He disliked me because I acted like one of those ‘nice guys’ from the movies. Sure, there are always going to be that are in fact jealous or want to keep up with the status quo, but in general I’ve found that it’s more likely you have clashing personalities or one of you is a major dick. And sometimes that means you need to check yourself in a mirror before making assumptions. But much like I was saying with things not being personal, as time goes on, you get more intuitive of what are things you need to check and what is just jealousy.

THIRTEEN: Blood is not thicker than water. It turns out the actual quote this misquoted sentence comes from is true. The bonds you choose really are stronger than those you were born with. You do not have to be defined by nor live with your biological family if they constantly mistreat you. There will always be others ready with open arms to love you. Choose what you deserve.

FOURTEEN: Life is strange and sometimes taking a step or two back leads to better steps forwards. When I decided to repeat year 11, I cried for days on end. I felt so incredibly stupid and couldn’t understand how I got to that point. But when I walked into the school on the first day, I reconnected with two old friends, got closer to another one who was repeating with me and made several new ones. I am now still close to the ones I reconnected with and one of the new friends. I also got away from an abusive friendship I had the year before seeing as I no longer had to see him. My grades skyrocketed and I got into university which lead to me finishing a psychology degree last year and currently being halfway through a law one. All of which I’m not sure would have happened had I just continued onto year 12 as planned. So don’t be ashamed if you think you’re taking a step backwards. Chances are you’re heading right where you need to be.

FIFTEEN: Nothing good starts in a getaway car. Taylor Swift is right about this... well typically she’s right in general, but especially this. Jumping into something, or someone as I found out, as a temporary relief to your problems will always end in tears. Learn to deal with your issues face on, even if it means leaving alone, rather than using someone else as a scapegoat. Because end of the day, they may get you from A to B, but you need to remember that they are a real person with real feelings, and even if you jump into something rather than someone, that thing may not always be there and you need to know how to pick yourself up when it’s/they’re gone.

SIXTEEN: It’s not fair to project your insecurities and wants onto your favourite celebrity/others. During the 1989 era, I watched Taylor go from ‘underdog’ to ‘popular girl everyone loves’ and honestly? It made me bitter. It made me bitter to think that she was living the life I could never had and that everything seemed to be going right for her when it wasn’t for me. More so, it made me bitter that people who were bullying her before 1989 were now closer to her than I felt. Likewise, in the past there had been moments where I was upset that Taylor didn’t speak up on issues or even ‘come out’ when I was a Swiftgron fan despite not even knowing Taylor’s sexuality for sure. But as time went on and my life started to pick up, I realised how unfair I was being. The amount of expectation I had put on a woman I had never even met in person just so I could feel better was crazy. And to be honest, I still see a lot of people doing that with their favourite celebrities, seemingly not remembering that there’s a real person behind that screen and perhaps we should be the difference we want to see as opposed to expecting others to be.

SEVENTEEN: Social media is rarely your friend. Tying into the lesson above is this cautionary message. While tumblr is a little different, it’s important to remember that on other social media sites, it’s rare to see someone posting at their worst. And that creates a bubble for us where we often feel like less because we see our own pain but no one else’s. On the other side of the coin, constantly seeing social justice stories about terrible things in the world is depressing and can become too much. Learning to use social media selectively was one of the best choices I’ve made for my mental health.

EIGHTEEN: Clinginess does not show dedication. Messaging someone several times a day and expecting an immediate answer and several long conversations is not healthy. Perhaps wishing they’d send a ‘not feeling up to it’ or ‘I’m busy but we’ll talk later’ message is normal, but when you’re getting anxious or upset that they aren’t hanging out with you for one day out of seven in a week, you need to take a step back. If you don’t, you’re going to end up exhausting the other person and potentially straining if not flat out ruining the friendship. Plus, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realise that while keeping in contact is important, meeting up with people when you’ve had time away and actually have something new to say makes those trips extra special.

NINETEEN: Sometimes you just have to say ‘I tried’ and walk away Life is ever moving. People change, relationships change and time stands still for no one. And sadly this means that relationships you had when you’re younger reach a point where they no longer fit into your or the other person’s life. If possible, it’s always best to take steps to fix it, but that’s not always an option. If it’s reached the point where it’s causing you pain and you don’t see a way forward, it’s time to let go, regardless of how hard that is. You are not a bad person for walking away from something or someone that no longer makes you happy.

TWENTY: Like attracts like Socially, what you put out into this world is often what you get back. If you’re constantly surrounding yourself with toxic people, they will attract more toxic people. Same if you are projecting negative thoughts and actions. You need to be the change you want to see in your world, and once you’ve made that change, your whole world will dramatically improve.

TWENTY ONE: Nice doesn’t always mean good Growing up, I had a nice father. He rarely yelled at us and basically let us do whatever we wanted. So when things got bad enough with me that the abusive friend I mentioned earlier threatened to bring a gun to school and shoot all my friends in front of me and I knew he could access said gun, I went to my nice father thinking my mother would yell at me. My father looked me in the eyes, said “I’ll be thinking about you” and went off to work as if I had just told him I had the flu. He was also the type to not say when something was messed up and then admit he knew later when someone else called it out. So yes, my father appeared to be a very nice father, but he was never a good one, nor did he ever try to be. As time has passed, I realised that while my mother may not have been perfect, she did everything she could to be a good mother despite her abrasiveness.

TWENTY TWO: Life is unfair, so it’s up to us to make it fair This is pretty straightforward; the world is not going to become a better place unless we make it one. There is absolutely no point and little hope waiting for others to make a change because they’re probably waiting for you to do it.

TWENTY THREE: Learn to ask for help When I was a kid, I used to always told “there’s always going to be someone better than you at everything” in a negative context. And maybe they’re right, I’m probably not going to be the best at anything in life. But that’s not necessarily a negative thing. If there’s always someone better, there’s always someone to ask if you get stuck. Trying to struggle your way through something you can’t handle alone doesn’t help anyone. I know it’s scary to put yourself out there and feel stupid, but the absolute worst thing that can happen is you ask and they say two puny letters “No” in which case you’re no worse off and can go ask someone else until you get a positive answer. Seriously, learning to swallow my pride and anxiety and just ask for help drastically improved my life from that point on.

TWENTY FOUR: Recovery is everything. As cool as tumblr makes it seem, blaming the world for your issues and making self depreciating jokes only gets you so far. Eventually, you’re either going to hit rock bottom and just continuously bitter and depressed at the world or you can choose to get better. Or maybe you do both; I certainly did. And it sucked. Hating everything sucked. But honestly, putting in the amount of work for the slow process of recovery did too. The difference is that even if it’s not immediate, recovery changed everything for me. Not only am I doing better than I was while at my worst, in many ways, working out the issues I have has made me feel like I’m doing better than I ever was. I’m more optimistic yet realistic yet at peace with myself and I never would have found that balance without the choosing to recover. And so many people I know have said the same. So don’t give up. Choose recovery. Choose life. Choose yourself.

[warwagedhq]

emmeline vance · former slytherin · taken

AGE: 24 years old BLOOD STATUS: half-blood OCCUPATION: War Correspondent for the WWN & War Columnist for the Daily Prophet. FACECLAIM: Chloe Bennet

traits

POSITIVE: clever, resourceful, capable NEGATIVE: intense, tactless, emotional

biography

Emmeline Da Xia Vance is the oldest child of Tang Cong ( known as Cong Vance to the local community ) and her now husband of twenty six years, Andrew Vance. She is a bouncing baby girl, in a world full of boys and families driven by ambition and resourcefulness; but she is not misplaced. No, Emmeline is the granddaughter of three-time President of the Wizarding Congress of China, the daughter of the Junior Secretary to the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and daughter of the muggle man who became a Lawyer with the purpose of working in International Law. In any other case, they’d say she was simply wellbred, but more on that later. Emmeline comes into the world with a scream, a dark head of hair and warm, honey speckled brown eyes. She is first named Da Xia, but this name fades when she is three years old, and is taken to England. Her parents made the difficult ( hated ) decision to move to London in 1957 - tensions within the Wizarding Congress of China were growing, and they were careful to keep their eyes upon the happenings in the rest of the world. They flee in mid-August, taking up a new home half an hour from the city center, using a chunk of their savings to buy a house, wherein they raise their daughter. Her first showings of magic were in that house. Her first memories were forged within those walls, those walls which had only recently been rebuilt following the disastrous effects of the Second World War. It is one of the many reasons it is hard to accept that she must go to Hogwarts - that she must climb the ladder, that she must go to Scotland for eight or nine or so months out of the year.

It explains why, when she finds out, that she blows up her bed. She clenched her fists so tight around the fabric of the flimsy cover that it just fell apart, sparks flying from her hands as it bursts apart, flames settling into nonexistence as her mother rushes into the room, wand out from up her sleeve. She doesn’t enjoy the train ride, to say the least. She spends part of it sulking, thinking about how her goodbye to her father wasn’t enough, how it was inadequate. She could tell by the look of sadness in his eyes that he viewed this as her growing up; as her moving on from him, as her not needing him anymore. Her sulking only ends when the train rolls into the station, and she clambers from the empty compartment she’d sequestered for herself ( although not before moving her trunk to the middle of the floor, so nobody could feasibly get in alongside her, ) to see Rubeus Hagrid, holding a lantern the size of her head above his, calling for the students to follow him and get into the boats, as was customary. Emmeline follows, her head in a daze, and falls in love with Hogwarts at first sight: the impressive towers standing tall against the wind and the sky, the courtyards open and free and welcoming. She has read all about this place - read all about the ghosts, the many friendly and the sometimes not friendly - and knows which house she wants to get into, despite all of the bad press and the fact that she’s a half-blood, not a pureblood, which she hopes ( knows ) would infuriate the founder of the house like no other tidbit about her. Slytherin is the house which courses through Emmeline’s veins, and she is proud to be sorted there, when the Sorting Hat barely brushes the tips of her nearly waist length hair.

The tables are silent; there is a brief whisper of claps from the Slytherin table, but they turn their back when they realise her name is unrecognised. She is a nobody, a misnomer in their house, the house of greatness, the house of Merlin himself ( a fact they refuse to let anyone else forget. ) She is the friendliest Slytherin for four generations, gathering friends from every house, joining every club ( only really dropping out of Art and the Frog Choir, being an almost mythical figure in the others, ) and working to the bone. The girls she’s in Slytherin with aren’t always the worst - Anya is one of them, one of them who becomes a close friend. She works her way through the years, impressing the professors by clambering her way to the top, losing some friends along the way ( she’d always known she was too intense for some, and would always remain that way, ) and is an only child until she reaches sixth year. Her mother falls pregnant in April, a miracle in itself, for they’d been trying for so many years, and were nearing the age where it would be impossible for muggles to have children. Her brother, Thomas Vance, is at once Emmeline’s favourite person, and she promptly falls in love. He, at once, is her best friend - her favourite human being. Nothing can take those first days away from her; the memories live on, as one of the reasons she fights so honestly. She graduates with good grades, entering into her internship at the Daily Prophet without pause, without any form of reprieve. She doesn’t stop, she doesn’t slow down. She doesn’t let herself let up, doesn’t let herself stop until she gets what she wants, and even then, she doesn’t really stop.

Emmeline just lets her bones sink in, lets the feeling of a quill between her fingers establish itself in her heart, lets the little calluses on her fingers form from writing for so long. She is less than a month out of Hogwarts when she gets an Owl from Albus Dumbledore. The letter is short, ending with a brisk ‘the password is Black Jack,’ and before she knows it, she’s welcoming herself to his office. It’s somewhat less colourful than she once liked to imagine; a thin thread of purple lining it’s way around the room, occasionally shimmering as if it were the gateway to another universe ( or perhaps, it was, and she just couldn’t see it. ) She feels her world grind to a halt when she hears about the formation of an underground organisation, away from the prying eyes of the Ministry of Magic. The Order of the Phoenix, it’s called. It’s designed to protect those who can’t protect themselves, to be a voice for those who deserve one, a half-militant organisation. She doesn’t think twice before she joins: not until there’s a sick feeling in her stomach later that night, when she’s thinking about her brother, the little boy she’s protecting from the horrors of the state of the wizarding world. She knew, at once, the couldn’t involve him. She couldn’t let him be brought anywhere near the chaos that was the Ministry of Magic, near the upkeep of purist ideologies which isolates them, tells them their father is worth nothing because he is somehow lesser than them. Emmeline Vance refuses to let the world be what they are telling her it has to be, and so, she joins the only organisation she thinks is capable of changing anything. She still lives with the messy, insurmountable weight of anger settled heavy in her stomach, growing day after day.

connections

MILLICENT BAGNOLD: Millicent is one of Emmeline’s constants - the yin to her yang, the person she can turn to when she feels as if the world is against her. Their relationship may seem dysfunctional, but they’re found family. ANYA BLISHWICK: Emmeline met Anya in third year, formally introduced to the (slightly) older girl when she joined DADA club, on the advice of the Professor. The two were close friends, but have since drifted apart after graduating. She longs for their late night coffee hangouts, and misses her dearly, although she’d be hard pressed to admit it. REMUS LUPIN: Emmeline first met Remus on a very late night, when he’d stumbled in from whatever his day job was, post-Hogwarts (although, she seriously began to believe he had nothing and felt he had nobody to turn to.) The two became close friends over the last four months, and Emmeline occasionally hosts Remus in her spare room. The two are occasional roommates, and trust each other explicitly. ALECTO CARROW: Alecto and Emmeline used to get on. It was a paradoxical, toxic friendship which zapped the strength of both of them - there was a time where Emmeline used to be sure Alecto could be good, but that’s long gone. The girl has turned cold in Emmeline’s absence, and she knows she can’t fix any of it.

[dumbbelle]

robber!Minghao

In the end, Chan’s the one who says it best: “So… What you’re telling me is that you broke into Y/N’s house to steal a painting, and walked out having stolen their heart instead?”

Seokmin raises his hand for a high five. “Smooth man, smooth.”

Minghao Robin Hoods the frick outta his life, and quite literally bumps into you in the process. 

✄ Word Count: 3402 ✄ T/W: Swearing, attempted robbery, cute shit ✄ A/N: Heyo it’s Belle, I’m back with something that nobody asked for but I thought was necessary.

Masterlist

Contrary to what his best friend and roommate says, Xu Minghao insists that he’s a decent person.

(“And Mingyu can go fuck himself with his morals, the asshole’s the most notorious bootlegger you’ll find on campus”)

But honest, Minghao is a simple college boy.

He came to Pledis University when he was 18 as an international student, double majoring in Visual Arts, and Korean Language and Culture.

He’s there mostly on scholarship but he also has financial support from his parents, so he’s never really had to worry about his economic status.

He’s not the most social of kids but he’s also not the most introverted, so he always has just enough friends and just enough parties to attend as to not get bored.

But he gets bored anyway, because he’s always been an active child itching to do more.

So really, this whole mess started when he decides that he should pick up his old hobby:

Breakdancing

It’s mostly just a passing thought that comes to him when he comes back home for holiday and rewatches a VHR tape of an old b-boying competition.

But it lingers and every once in awhile he considers the possibility of him just quitting school and becoming a b-boy star like he once dreamed of.

After all, he was pretty damn good.

(He accidentally thinks this out loud during dinner and his mother throws her chopsticks at him)

Anyway, he returns to college for the new year and he’s almost completely forgotten about his old dreams.

Luckily enough (or maybe unluckily enough, depending on the perspective), there is a campus b-boy squad that he happens to stumble upon during his second-year clubs fair (as in, they barrelled into him with a flier and bombarded him with questions).

To be truthful, it seems pretty lame and Minghao’s sure that if he went underground, he could probably find a cooler scene,,,

But also, they said that there would be snacks at the interest meeting,,,

And so he makes the considerate decision to attend.

The interest meeting is where he meets Seokmin of all people.

The acting major makes a scene when he announces that he’s not there as Lee Seokmin but as Kang Hajoon, a lower-class high school drop out who finds his way through the power of breakdance.

(“Nobody knew who you were in the first place, dipshit–“

“–I said to call me Hajoon–“

“–Just sit down.”)

And people are snickering at Seokmin because they find his method acting lame.

But Minghao finds that lame so he proceeds to sit down right beside the boy and stare daggers at any jerk who directs a snide comment their way.

He hangs around just long enough so that he can decimate the rest in a b-boy demonstration, pretty much showing them all what they’re going to miss out on.

And then he gets up and leaves the meeting, Seokmin following behind him.

They grab some chips on their way out and properly introduce themselves.

“Hey sorry about all of that in there, Seo- uh, Hajoon. B-boyers usually aren’t assholes… Just them. Don’t let that bleed into your portrayal, you feel? I’m Minghao, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m over it. Thanks for what you did back there... It’s nice to meet you too. And you can call me Seokmin now, I’m done with Hajoon for the day.”

Which starts an odd, but well-oiled friendship.

Seokmin introduces Minghao to all of his friends, and that’s how Minghao ends up with an incredibly,, diverse,, friend group.

And by diverse, he means that he’s positive his friendship with them will likely result with him going to jail.

He should’ve realized it when the de facto leader Seungcheol introduced himself as “S.Coups” and made him sign a waiver of liability before joining the group.

It was scribbled on to the back of a receipt but yeah, it should’ve been a little concerning

But Minghao just kinda rolls with it.

And this is how he finds himself inducted into their so-called “League of Good Doers Doing Not So Good Doer Things”.

It’s a working title; LoGDDNSGDT for short.

(“What do you do, Seokmin?”

“I’m a recruiter!”

“… That’s fair.”)

It takes him a few months to solidify his role in the group (he’s the last to join), but in that time he manages to become especially good friends with Mingyu, so much so that he becomes his roommate.

Mingyu’s known for using his technical abilities to bootleg high quality concert footage, videos, textbooks, and whatever else you need.

(“We’re all just a bunch of broke college students with a bunch of broke college student needs. We’re just making those needs realities.”)

Also alcohol, he sells a lot of alcohol.

And though Minghao initially scoffs at this, it also makes him check his privilege a little

He’s always been fortunate enough to grow up with money and be smart, free to do whatever he wants when he wants.

Growing up, he’s had a lot of interests and a lot of phases, all of which he more than excelled in.

Gosh, there was even that one ninja phase…

THE NINJA PHASE

He’s eating a brownie that’s probably been laced with weed one Friday night as he watches tv with Mingyu and Seokmin when he remembers the ninja phase.

He remembers how stealthy he is and just how good he is at picking locks.

And so he decides to Robin Hood the frick outta his life, robbing the expensive belongings from the richer students and pawning their items off so he can donate to the poor.

He excels at this too, much to Mingyu’s chagrin (“the kid’s just fuckin’ good at everything!”)

It definitely alleviates him of his boredom, and he’s so subtle and precise with it that most of the time, people don’t even notice when things are missing.

He’s become some kind of town legend, and so many people idolize this mysterious robber that the authorities aren’t even too concerned.

He’s also somehow acquired this odd nickname?? The8?? They say it’s because you never know how his crimes begin or how they’ll end.

Like the only thing anybody knows about his victims is that they’ll be wealthy (but gosh, Pledis U has too many of those roaming the place),,,, but then next thing you know the underfunded art department will suddenly get a donation of a few thousand, or the Culture Club food drive will find a gazillion non-perishable cans when they come back the next morning.

Minghao likes to think he's spontaneous.

Now this is where you come in (“finally,” I can hear you sigh from behind your screens)

Unlike everyone else around you, you do not have the biggest crush on this mysterious figure.

(“Just for the record, ‘The8’ is literally the dumbest robber alias I have ever heard.”

“How many have you heard before?”

“Not. The. Point.”)

All he does is go around and undermine people’s hard work, invading their personal space and infringing on their privacy.

All so that he can make a quick buck.

And sure, maybe he’s not spending all that money on himself, but to make students feel unsafe and unprotected in their own freaking homes and dorms?

And to have nobody do anything about it?

Absurd.

It becomes such a constant source of ire for you that you rant about this almost daily.

But it’s like you’re the only one who understands the gravity of the situation.

Your closest friends are all about this guy, singing his praises and commending his selflessness.

Your junior, Chan, is particularly adamant about the quality of his character (you have no idea about his involvement with the LoGDDNSGDT, of course; after all, he also had to sign the receipt contract).

So you’re a party of 1 in the Anti-The-8 Movement.

He’s three months into it when he makes a rather stupid mistake:

He decides to rob you.

Minghao will later complain that anybody could’ve gotten the wrong idea.

He sees you for the first time in his Korean History class.

He doesn’t exactly know how he missed you before.

First of all, you’re fucking gorgeous

First of all, there is a certain air that you carry yourself with–

It’s poised and self-assured and kind of breathtaking.

You raise your hand to read a passage and even the way you speak is levelled and controlled.

You remind him of royalty some of the other wealthy kids on campus.

Probably trained to uphold a certain degree of eloquence so that you can one day take over your parents’ company and maintain good business relationships. 

And socialize at those hoity-toity parties with the little hors d'oeuvres.

His thoughts are confirmed after class when he overhears you talk with your friends.

You’re asking your friend to take notes in place for you when you go off to vacation with your family next week.

“Heading off to the island?” Your one friend chirps.

“Yeah, dad just finished a successful case and we’re celebrating.”

And wait, an island? These guys must be fucking loaded.

Your friend lets your name slip and it’s all starting to make a lot more sense.

Now he’s heard of your name around campus.

Your parents are lawyers who built an empire, opening up law firms around the country.

They’re known for being ruthless and never sharing their wealth.

In short, they’re prime targets!!

Minghao feels like it’s Christmas– this will be his biggest catch since that one kid who was the heir to the electric toothbrush company.

He trails you and your friends for a few minutes just to confirm the details and then he’s off to plan.

Fast forward a week later to when you should be going off to vacation.

But instead you come down with the stomach flu, and not a pretty one either.

You experience the full range of systems:

Vomit, fever, dizziness, fatigue,,, There’s no way your parents are letting you tag along on the trip.

And you’re too busy vomiting to argue.

So they ditch your ass and head off to vacation by themselves, once you assure them that you’ll be fine on your own.

After all, you are a certified GDI who can take care of yourself.

… Who just so happens to be dressed up in a onesie, cuddling a large teddy bear as you watch Netflix from your nest of pillows on the couch.

You’ve scrolling through your recommended feed when you hear it:

The door opening

And you have to wonder if the vacation ended early because who else… Would…

You gasp when you realize what’s going on, rushing to turn off the television as to eliminate all sources of sound.

All your nightmares are coming true, and you haven’t even fully developed a game plan to approach this awful situation.

Now you’re not dumb, you’re not gonna run headfirst into a situation where you don’t have the upper hand.

Instead, you’ll hide and discreetly notify the authorities when you activate the alarm system.

And so no, you’re not dumb,, 

But you are clumsy.

You’re trying to navigate your way to your bedroom, remote in hand as a backup weapon, checking over your shoulder at every possible moment.

Perhaps you’re checking over your shoulder a little too much, because next thing you know you’ve crashed into a wall.

Except the wall moves and you know that it’s definitely not a wall.

The wall makes a sound, a little grunt and you snap your head back around so quickly, you think you hear the whip of the wind.

The man in front of you is tall and skinny, and seems oddly familiar even with his ski mask on.

You don’t have too much time to contemplate this however , as you’re too busy trying to whack the heck outta him with your remote.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU ASSBUCKET.”

It's all just too much, and you're surprised you haven't shat your pants because of how scared you are.

But,,,, The8 is kinda just taking it??? He's trying to block you of course (and mostly succeeding to, the jerk) but he's not trying to fight back. What kind of shitty robber…?

You're c o n f u s e d, which is why you stop to look up at him expectantly.

“You done?” His voice incites a whole new wave of panic to wash over you, and you raise your remote to start hitting him again but The8 quickly raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, hey now, I'm not here to hurt you.”

You're skeptical, of course you are. But you think back to all the gossip you’ve heard about The8, and realize that you can’t recall any accounts of violence.

This doesn't change the fact that this asshole is robbing you, so you use the remote to gesture towards his ski mask.

“Take it off.”

And he sighs, as if it's inevitable, but holds up a finger and starts to negotiate,,,, as if he has any right to in this current situation,,, and gosh, how is he so damn calm right now??

“Okay, but if I do, promise you won’t call the cops immediately.”

You don't know why you agree to his terms– you're sure it won't make a difference.

He’ll get the cops called on him sooner or later.

But if it gets him to cooperate… You agree with a swift dip of your head.

The tension in the room is palpable, and you have to remind yourself to breathe as he starts to take off his mask.

And oh fuck you know who it is you know who it is you know who it is.

You recognize him immediately as the cute guy in your Korean History class, the one you've had a crush on since forever and a half ago.

The one that's always hanging out with that group of loud kids…Chan's Precious Seniors

And somewhere in your subconscious, you're freaking out about the possibility of Chan being involved in a crime syndicate.

And further freaking out about how you’ve confided in Chan about your crush in Xu Minghao, who just so happens to be The8 and holy fuck you can’t believe it’s him.

You really don’t have much time to dwell, because the shock and overexertion of the situation starts gets to you, and you’re starting to feel dizzy. It’s like the fever finally catches up to you–

And then you’re falling, fainting–

The last thing you hear before you pass out is the startled cry of your name.

…

You wake up to the smell of broth, and the feeling of a damp cloth pressed to the top of your forehead.

Your headache is devastating, but you’re otherwise positioned comfortably

It takes you a minute to process that you’re back on your living room couch, low hum of the television sounding from somewhere to your right

You try to locate the smell of broth, which is when you meet eye-to-eye with a very timid looking Minghao

He’s more tense than earlier, as if he’s scared you’ll jump up right then and there to attack him

And you would, honest, but the broth,,, smells,,, so,,, good,,,

You motion for him to give it to you and he relaxes before quickly complying, letting you sit up before gently placing the bowl in your hands.

He settles into a stool beside you– one that definitely wasn’t there before, but it’s whatever.

You sit there in silence for a good couple of minutes, Minghao watching the drama playing on TV as you drink your broth.

It’s kinda nice

Minghao’s the first one to speak.

“Please don’t exert yourself like that if you’re sick. You could’ve had a heart attack or something.”

He sounds so small that you just manage to resist throwing the rest of the hot soup at him in the sudden bubble of anger that erupts from you in the form of a hiss.

“Um, my memory might be wrong here but wasn’t it you who broke into my house in the first place, assbucket?”

He chuckles at that, and you’re slowly losing that sliver of self-restraint.

“Assbucket, that’s a new one.” You notice that his accent is more prominent when he’s amused.

“You deserve worse, you assbucket.”

At that he really laughs, and you have to look away to distract yourself from how attractive the sound is.

“You’re cute, you know that?”

You’re not sure what to say to that, and Minghao can tell. He quickly changes tact.

“Listen, I get why you’re mad.” Oh, now wouldn’t that be the understatement of the year.

“But I promise I’m not here to hurt you. I-I won’t even steal anything from here anymore. But please, please don’t make yourself more sick because of me.”

And man, fuck Minghao for making it damn near impossible to call the police on his ass. You don’t say anything more until you finish up your broth.

“Why… Why do you do it?”

Minghao shrugs. “Just because.”

“Just because? You’re violating my home, Minghao. This is my private space, and you’re infringing upon it without my consent.”

Minghao furrows his eyebrows, as if he’s never considered it before. And God, why did it have to be him?

Minghao finally hums. “Would you miss it?”

W-wha… “Huh?”

Minghao nods towards an abstract modernist piece that hangs high up on your wall. “Would you miss it?”

Your silence is more than enough to answer his question.

“But I’m sorry, you know. I truly wouldn’t have come around if I was aware you’d be home. Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

“. . . Minghao, that’s creepy. Don’t do that. Besides, how do you know my name?”

“How do you know mine?”

The fucker. You blush, shrugging and dropping the subject completely. You’re avoiding his eyes so much that you miss the fond smile on his lips. He’s about to say something when a phone sounds. You realize it’s coming from Minghao’s pocket and watch as he takes it out, curious.

Minghao checks his phone and immediately scowls, closing his eyes in what seems like exasperation.

“I… I have to go, so sorry. My roommate just did something unbelievably stupid because he’s unbelievably stupid.”

You refrain from asking; you really don’t wanna know.

“Will you be alright by yourself? I’m worried… I’ll try to stay longer if you don’t think you will… I mean, if you want. Or I can call someone to come or–”

Where was this bashful kid an hour ago? For the first time that evening, you let out a small smile. He sees it and is stunned, momentarily blinded by your beauty.

“I’ll be fine Minghao, go help your roommate.”

He nods, getting up to leave, but not before taking your phone from the coffee table. He holds it out so that you can unlock it, and you do, though the question hangs in your eyes.

“I-I’m not taking it, just wanted to give you my phone number. In case you start to feel worse. Call me or don’t... It’s whatever.”

And so you do.

...

Bonus:

Three months later, you’re recounting the tale to the rest of the boys during one of their weekly movie nights. (You don’t dare touch the brownies, Minghao tells you they’re fucked.)

In the end, Chan’s the one who says it best: “So… What you’re telling me is that you broke into Y/N’s house to steal a painting, and walked out having stolen their heart instead?”

Seokmin raises his hand for a high five. “Smooth man, smooth.”

Your boyfriend ignores it, though Seokmin stubbornly keeps his hand up and waits for anyone to complete the exchange. You tap your palm against his in pity.

“Actually,” Minghao starts, nuzzling his nose into your hair, “I would say Y/N is the one who stole my heart instead. Just had to fall straight into my arms like that… A true master of seduction.”

You giggle, turning your head to peck his lips. The boys groan, losing interest in your story and turning back towards the movie.

From somewhere in the corner, you hear Mingyu fake a gag.

(Perhaps it’s the brownies, you can’t really tell.)

Masterlist 

[sonderlivra]

Winners and Losers - an SnK AU One-shot

Requested by @pickalilywrites

Rating: K+

Warnings: None, strong language.

Universe: Modern AU

Genre: Fluff (I tried!)

Prompt: #52. “I think I’m in love with you and that scares me half to death.”

Summary: Jean, Mikasa and corny pick-up lines at a bar.

————–

It was a pretty cosy bar, not too shabby, not too swanky. The patrons were friendly but not bawdy. The burly bartender made sure of that with his no-nonsense demeanour.

On this Friday evening, sitting at one end of the bar, casually sipping a whiskey sour, was a woman. She caused quite a few stares to be directed her way, with her silky dark hair, her sharp features, and her shapely long legs that extended from a fitted dark dress. Only one man had approached her so far this evening; he had clearly not noticed her bulging biceps or her stone-grey gaze. Unsurprisingly, he was sent back in short order.

This was entertainment enough for the bartender. He topped up her drink at a gesture from her, and as he did so, he couldn’t hide his grin.

“What?” She asked him dryly.

“That guy’s lucky to be alive,” he jerked his head at the would-be suitor, who was currently moping in a corner booth.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bob,” she told him, smiling, and tipped her glass at him.

“Cheers,” he nodded and went to serve a customer.

The woman sat alone for some more time, even as the bar began to fill with more people. At one point, the bartender happened to glance her way, and saw a young man with copper hair approach her. His immediate reaction was, “Oh no.”

“What?” Asked the woman waiting for her margaritas.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly and continued mixing the drinks. That young man had no idea what he was walking into. Well, he’d find out soon enough.

The young man in question had his eyes drawn to the woman almost as soon as he entered the bar. Without stopping to think, or even ordering a drink, he sauntered over to her, a confident smirk on his face.

Ladies loved a guy who knew what he was doing, after all.

“Hey, there,” he said, and the woman turned to him. Holy fuck, she was stunning.

“Hello.”

He gestured for the bartender, and drawled, “Another of these for me.” He pointed at the whiskey in front of the woman. “Can I buy you one?”

“No, thanks.”

“One whiskey sour, coming right up,” the bartender nodded.

Jean leaned forward, looking at the woman very pointedly. “So,” he began archly.

The woman looked at him again, her face expressionless. “Do I know you?”

Ouch.

Jean restructured his lines immediately. “The name’s Jean Kirschtein. My friends call me Jean, but you,” he winked at her, “can call me anytime.”

He did not think it possible, but her expression became colder. He had to gulp down a large quantity of his drink before he continued.

“Hmm, too tame for you, huh,” Jean said, nodding sagely. “Understandable. So,” he made a grand gesture with his hands for another drink and leaned lazily against the bar counter. “I withdraw my previous statement and I now propose to you- the stars.” He widened his eyes and blinked up at her in a manner he knew would make his eyes sparkle. “The forecast today must be wrong because I can still see stars despite the clouds -in your eyes.”

The bartender chose this moment to set down his drink and winced. “Yikes, man,” he muttered and Jean managed to spare a split-second glare at the man. The woman, meanwhile, took another casual sip of her drink with no change in her countenance whatsoever.

Still, Jean rallied. “Speaking of your eyes, do you happen to have a map? Because I’m so totally lost in your eyes, like, damn.”

And then it happened. Finally, finally, the woman responded. “You must get lost a lot. I can see that from your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.”

The bartender cackled as he mixed a cocktail. A voice in Jean’s head that sounded disturbingly like Jaeger went, ‘Oooh, burn.’

Jean stared at the woman, at a loss for words. Imaginary Jaeger was right. That had been a devastating burn, indeed.

She coolly swigged the last of her drink, and leaned towards him. “I win,” she smirked.

Jean blinked rapidly. “What? N -no!”

“No? Then where’s your comeback, lover boy?” She raised her eyebrow tauntingly. “Do you have anything to say?”

Jean searched madly in his head, but came up with zilch. “I -I… aw, fuck.”

Still grinning, she gestured at the bartender for two more drinks. “Since you’re paying,” she told Jean sweetly.

Words finally made themselves accessible to him, and Jean sputtered, “Woah, Mikasa, I agreed to no such thing!”

“Don’t be a spendthrift, darling,” she said smoothly as two more glasses were placed before them. She smiled up at the bartender. “Hey, Bob. Allow me to introduce to you Jean Kirschtein.” A slight widening of her smile. “My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Bob grunted as he shook Jean’s hand. “What do you do, then?”

“I just passed the bar exam,” Jean said, trying to be casual about it but failing miserably.

To his surprise, the bartender let out a bark of laughter. “Boy, you really need to work on your lines or you’re a piss-poor lawyer.” To Jean’s annoyance Mikasa chuckled next to him. But then she put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Oh, he can handle himself,” making him feel instantly better.

The bartender simply shrugged and withdrew with a smile. Jean turned to Mikasa. “Were they really that bad?”

“Um… cheers?” Clearly still holding back laughter, she nudged his drink that Bob the bartender had just placed before them.

“Wow, thanks,” Jean groaned and guzzled his drink.

“Oh, come on, Jean. It’s alright. To be honest, I expected worse.” She squeezed his arm reassuringly.

“Such high praise,” he said sarcastically, suppressing a burp. How many drinks had he downed already? Three? Four?

“No, but you exceeded my expectations! That’s something, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Speaking of exceeding expectations, I had one in mind to use on you,” she said, fingering a chain around her neck. “I thought you’d open with a reference, because of, you know, this.” She held up the pendant of the chain, a well-known geometric symbol from a popular fantasy series.

“Oh yeah? What was the line?” He asked half-heartedly.

Mikasa made a great show of clearing her throat, then leaned in and whispered, “'What Hogwarts house are you in? Because I’d totally like to Slytherin your bed’.”

They stared at each other in a split second of silence, his eyes narrowed in shock, hers sparkling with anticipation.

Then he grasped her hand. “Mikasa,” he murmured.

“What?” She asked, clearly startled at his serious tone.

“I have to… to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

He took a deep breath. He had been agonising over telling her this for weeks. But now, maybe because of the alcohol, or because of that ridiculous bloody statement (Slytherin? The fuck?), Jean suddenly felt like it was the easiest, most important thing to say.

“I think I’m in love with you and that scares me half to death.”

He felt her hand freeze in his grasp. Her eyes remained wide. “Why… why does it scare you?”

“Because you’re you. And I’m me. I mean, you're… you.” He gestured at her with his free hand. “You’re -you’re perfect.”

“Jean-”

“No, but you are.” He placed his hand gently on her cheek. “You’re so fucking perfect it’s insane, Mikasa. Half the time I’m with you, I think, am I dreaming? Because why are you with me? I mean, I’m not bad, like, I’m pretty handsome, right?” He grinned but didn’t really feel like laughing. “I’m good, but yeah, I can be a dick. But you -you’re just -just on a whole other level, with your brains and your -your incredible kindness and the way you can just kick ass-”

“Jean.” She leaned forward and put a finger on his lip, effectively cutting off his speech. “Nobody’s perfect. And for the record… I love you, too.” She blinked rapidly and he saw her cheeks flush pink under his palm.

Good gods, she was adorable.

“I love you so much it scared me too. Because I’m not perfect either. I was convinced there are tons of girls prettier, smarter, just better than me at being your girlfriend. But,” she said loudly as he tried to interrupt, and pressed her finger more firmly on his lips. “I have come to realise that it doesn’t really matter. That no one is really perfect, but I think, I really think that we’re perfect together. And that’s enough for me.” She withdrew her finger and leaned back slightly. “Is -is that enough for you?”

His answer was immediate, unthinking.

“Fuck yes.” He breathed and caught her lips in his, heat spreading from his chest and through his very veins when she kissed him back just as fervently.

Several delicious moments later, they broke apart and Jean said, “Okay, but there’s also the tiny thing about your friends that terrifies me.”

A smirk was beginning to quiver at her lips. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, have you met them? Between the homicidal bastard and the twisted little creep I’m pretty much screwed when it comes to dating you.”

“Now you’re just being mean,” she nudged him gently. “And I thought you liked Armin?”

“I did. Until he manipulated me into getting into a bet with my super talented, super amazing girlfriend. He was totally setting me up to fail.”

Mikasa snorted. “I’m sure that’s not true. He has faith in you.”

“Miks, babe, I’m saying he has faith in your ability to leave me speechless. Like…” he raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck was that Slytherin one? It was fucking deplorable.”

Mikasa bit her lip. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Are you kidding me? If you’d used that on me, there would have been no way, no fucking way I’d have known how to respond to that. I would have lost, for sure.”

She was grinning in full force now and took a sip of her drink archly. “I thought I was super talented and super amazing?”

He matched her grin with his and kissed her fondly on her head. “You are. You’re also super bad at pickup lines. Like, really, really bad. It’s amazing how bad you are.”

“Hey!”

He deftly avoided a swat of her hand, knowing from experience that they hurt like a bitch. Instead, he curled his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“Like I said,” he murmured in her ear, “You’re perfect.”

He felt her arms wrap around him. “I love you, too,” she whispered in his ear.

He shook with laughter, joy blooming like a balloon in his chest. “You were wrong before.”

“Mm?”

He held her tighter. “I win,” he murmured, and kissed her again.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

What are other books/series that you'd recommend that are in the same vein as Animorphs?

Honestly, your ask inspired me to get off my butt and finally compile a list of the books that I reference with my character names in Eleutherophobia, because in a lot of ways that’s my list of recommendations right there: I deliberately chose children’s and/or sci-fi stories that deal really well with death, war, dark humor, class divides, and/or social trauma for most of my character names.  I also tend to use allusions that either comment on Animorphs or on the source work in the way that the names come up.

That said, here are The Ten Greatest Animorphs-Adjacent Works of Literature According to Sol’s Totally Arbitrary Standards: 

1. A Ring of Endless Light, Madeline L’Engle

This is a really good teen story that, in painfully accurate detail, captures exactly what it’s like to be too young to really understand death while forced to confront it anyway.  I read it at about the same age as the protagonist, not that long after having suffered the first major loss in my own life (a friend, also 14, killed by cancer).  It accomplished exactly what a really good novel should by putting words to the experiences that I couldn’t describe properly either then or now.  This isn’t a light read—its main plot is about terminal illness, and the story is bookended by two different unexpected deaths—but it is a powerful one. 

2. The One and Only Ivan, K.A. Applegate 

This prose novel (think an epic poem, sort of like The Iliad, only better) obviously has everything in it that makes K.A. Applegate one of the greatest children’s authors alive: heartbreaking tragedy, disturbing commentary on the human condition, unforgettably individuated narration, pop culture references, and poop jokes.  Although I’m mostly joking when I refer to Marco in my tags as “the one and only” (since this book is narrated by a gorilla), Ivan does remind me of Marco with his sometimes-toxic determination to see the best of every possible situation when grief and anger allow him no other outlet for his feelings and the terrifying lengths to which he will go in order to protect his found family.

3. My Teacher Flunked the Planet, Bruce Coville

Although the entire My Teacher is an Alien series is really well-written and powerful, this book is definitely my favorite because in many ways it’s sort of an anti-Animorphs.  Whereas Animorphs (at least in my opinion) is a story about the battle for personal freedom and privacy, with huge emphasis on one’s inner identity remaining the same even as one’s physical shape changes, My Teacher Flunked the Planet is about how maybe the answer to all our problems doesn’t come from violent struggle for personal freedoms, but from peaceful acceptance of common ground among all humans.  There’s a lot of intuitive appeal in reading about the protagonists of a war epic all shouting “Free or dead!” before going off to battle (#13) but this series actually deconstructs that message as blind and excessive, especially when options like “all you need is love” or “no man is an island” are still on the table.

4. Moon Called, Patricia Briggs

I think this book is the only piece of adult fiction on this whole list, and that’s no accident: the Mercy Thompson series is all about the process of adulthood and how that happens to interact with the presence of the supernatural in one’s life.  The last time I tried to make a list of my favorite fictional characters of all time, it ended up being about 75% Mercy Thompson series, 24% Animorphs, and the other 1% was Eugenides Attolis (who I’ll get back to in my rec for The Theif).  These books are about a VW mechanic, her security-administrator next door neighbor, her surgeon roommate, her retail-working best friend and his defense-lawyer boyfriend, and their cybersecurity frenemy.  The fact that half those characters are supernatural creatures only serves to inconvenience Mercy as she contemplates how she’s going to pay next month’s rent when a demon destroyed her trailer, whether to get married for the first time at age 38 when doing so would make her co-alpha of a werewolf pack, what to do about the vampires that keep asking for her mechanic services without paying, and how to be a good neighbor to the area ghosts that only she can see.  

5. The Thief, Megan Whalen Turner

This book (and its sequel A Conspiracy of Kings) are the ones that I return to every time I struggle with first-person writing and no Animorphs are at hand.  Turner does maybe the best of any author I’ve seen of having character-driven plots and plot-driven characters.  This book is the story of five individuals (with five slightly different agendas) traveling through an alternate version of ancient Greece and Turkey with a deceptively simple goal: they all want to work together to steal a magical stone from the gods.  However, the narrator especially is more complicated than he seems, which everyone else fails to realize at their own detriment. 

6. Homecoming, Cynthia Voight

Critics have compared this book to a modern, realistic reimagining of The Boxcar Children, which always made a lot of sense to me.  It’s the story of four children who must find their own way from relative to relative in an effort to find a permanent home, struggling every single day with the question of what they will eat and how they will find a safe place to sleep that night.  The main character herself is one of those unforgettable heroines that is easy to love even as she makes mistake after mistake as a 13-year-old who is forced to navigate the world of adult decisions, shouldering the burden of finding a home for her family because even though she doesn’t know what she’s doing, it’s not like she can ask an adult for help.  Too bad the Animorphs didn’t have Dicey Tillerman on the team, because this girl shepherds her family through an Odysseus-worthy journey on stubbornness alone.

7. High Wizardry, Diane Duane

The Young Wizards series has a lot of good books in it, but this one will forever be my favorite because it shows that weird, awkward, science- and sci-fi-loving girls can save the world just by being themselves.  Dairine Callahan was the first geek girl who ever taught me it’s not only okay to be a geek girl, but that there’s power in empiricism when properly applied.  In contrast to a lot of scientifically “smart” characters from sci-fi (who often use long words or good grades as a shorthand for conveying their expertise), Dairine applies the scientific method, programming theory, and a love of Star Wars to her problem-solving skills in a way that easily conveys that she—and Diane Duane, for that matter—love science for what it is: an adventurous way of taking apart the universe to find out how it works.  This is sci-fi at its best. 

8. Dr. Franklin’s Island, Gwyneth Jones

If you love Animorphs’ body horror, personal tragedy, and portrayal of teens struggling to cope with unimaginable circumstances, then this the book for you!  I’m only being about 80% facetious, because this story has all that and a huge dose of teen angst besides.  It’s a loose retelling of H.G. Wells’s classic The Island of Doctor Moreau, but really goes beyond that story by showing how the identity struggles of adolescence interact with the identity struggles of being kidnapped by a mad scientist and forcibly transformed into a different animal.  It’s a survival story with a huge dose of nightmare fuel (seriously: this book is not for the faint of heart, the weak of stomach, or anyone who skips the descriptions of skin melting and bones realigning in Animorphs) but it’s also one about how three kids with a ton of personal differences and no particular reason to like each other become fast friends over the process of surviving hell by relying on each other.  

9. Sideways Stories from Wayside School, Louis Sachar

Louis Sachar is the only author I’ve ever seen who can match K.A. Applegate for nihilistic humor and absurdist horror layered on top of an awesome story that’s actually fun for kids to read.  Where he beats K.A. Applegate out is in terms of his ability to generate dream-like surrealism in these short stories, each one of which starts out hilariously bizarre and gradually devolves into becoming nightmare-inducingly bizarre.  Generally, each one ends with an unsettling abruptness that never quite relieves the tension evoked by the horror of the previous pages, leaving the reader wondering what the hell just happened, and whether one just wet one’s pants from laughing too hard or from sheer existential terror.  The fact that so much of this effect is achieved through meta-humor and wordplay is, in my opinion, just a testament to Sachar’s huge skill as a writer. 

10. Magyk, Angie Sage

As I mentioned, the Septimus Heap series is probably the second most powerful portrayal of the effect of war on children that I’ve ever encountered; the fact that the books are so funny on top of their subtle horror is a huge bonus as well.  There are a lot of excellent moments throughout the series where the one protagonist’s history as a child soldier (throughout this novel he’s simply known as “Boy 412″) will interact with his stepsister’s (and co-protagonist’s) comparatively privileged upbringing.  Probably my favorite is the moment when the two main characters end up working together to kill a man in self-defense, and the girl raised as a princess makes the horrified comment that she never thought she’d actually have to kill someone, to which her stepbrother calmly responds that that’s a privilege he never had; the ensuing conversation strongly implies that his psyche has been permanently damaged by the fact that he was raised to kill pretty much from infancy, but all in a way that is both child-friendly and respectful of real trauma.  

[landenhqcf035-blog]

What's new in Grand Theft Auto Vice City

Last year, GTA III took the world with surprise. While the first two activity in the chain had a little, hard-core following, their simple 2D graphics and lack of a focused narrative structure limited their application. On the other hand, Grand Theft Auto 3 featured a massive, clockwork world which was really amazing to see, and it improved the predecessors' free-roaming, nonlinear target also created a much more compelling story in the process. Those improvements, coupled with amazing vehicle physics, a surprising total of diversity in the gameplay, with an excellent feel of approach, made GTA3 a fugitive hit and one of the few activity to remains received with both great and relaxed game players similar. But as good as Grand Theft Auto III is, another game in the series, GTA VC, improves on this. Vice City expands on the designs and views found in GTA 3, fixes several of the trivial issues in the last game, then puts lots of new powers and pieces to play with. All this comes together to create one of the most stylish and most enjoyable games ever released.

The new GTA game is set in a fictional take on Miami, Florida, known as Vice City. The season is 1986, and Tommy Vercetti has really been published from prison like organizing a 15-year stretch for the mob. The mob--more in particular, the Forelli family--appreciates Tommy's refusal to cry in exchange regarding a minor sentence, and so they throw him down to Vice City to found around new businesses. Tommy's first succession of commercial in Vice City is to report a large sum of cocaine to work with. Yet Tommy's first drug deal goes sour, leaving him without money, no cocaine, and no idea who wronged him. The mafia is, certainly, angry in the whole situation, and now Tommy has to make up to the loss before the gangsters fall from Liberty City to clean in the mess. As Tommy, you'll surprise the study, discover who ripped people away, take care of commerce, and established look with Vice City in the giant, great way. Oh, and you'll also take taxis, get involved in a turf war between the Cubans and also the Haitians, help a Scottish rock group named Love Fist, become a pizza delivery boy, smash up the local mall, demolish a shape to real estate values, catch up with a biker gang, run an adult film studio, remove a reservoir, and much, much more.

While Grand Theft Auto is definitely a violent, mature-themed series, it has always considered the violent crime with an total amount of tongue-in-cheek humor and fashion. Vice City is no exception, showing a exaggerated opinion on the 1980s that makes use of many the loud pop-culture stereotypes found in pictures with box in the few years. The drug-laced tale recalls such films like Scarface with television shows like Miami Vice. The comedy comes mainly from the radio, which really takes family the almost form-over-function mentality which many people associate with the '80s. Some of the game's major characters are a supply of comic relief, from the Jim Bakker-like Pastor Richards to the Steven Spielberg-like porn director Steve Scott. The playoffs large toss of appeals is bright and wonderful. For example, local drug kingpin Ricardo Diaz is always hilariously breaking great and cursing wildly when anyone happen to meet him. Ken Rosenberg is your own fidgety coke-fiend lawyer friend, and he finds you started in city by growing you connected with the city's major players. Lance Vance, appropriately voiced by Miami Vice alum Philip Michael Thomas, becomes the sidekick of types, as both of you chase vengeance to your own reasons. The Cuban gang contact, Umberto Robina, is regularly reminding people how much of the man he is, and most in the Cuban team members you'll run into are alike inclined.

Stylistically, the game near an appropriate portrayal of the average '80s crime saga. Like now Miami Vice, many of the spirits are wearing pastel goes with. The sport vehicles also install the payment, with a lot of basic sedans united at home with cars that air enough like Porsches, Lamborghinis, and Ferraris to deliver to the real point. Nothing on the cars are passed, of course, though in the wonderful touch, some of the cars are earlier models of vehicles to was found with GTA III. Supporters of the preceding game can certainly appreciate little stuff like this then the other occasional links for the humanity of GTA III, that really stop this modern Grand Theft Auto game feel like portion of a unified universe.

So famous as the game's demonstration and utilization of its supply data are, without a collection of gameplay improvements, this would hold remained little more than a mission pack with a touch-up job. But Rockstar North has surely been difficult at work in this region. The most obvious addition is the inclusion of various types of motorcycles among all the cars on the road. There's a decent variety of two-wheelers in the game, including mopeds, street bikes, dirt cycles, with large hogs. As you'd demand, the bikes feel a lot differently in one another. The standard street bike is a good mix of rush and maneuverability. The good choppers are harder to push, yet state ludicrous top speeds. You'll get tossed away from a bike in almost any collision, which costs a little of health or armor. That becomes them pretty much useless in a location that means dodging the police. But they're incredibly handy in any vision to wants fly, with since you can draw a lot of fancy tricks on them, they're also a lot of fun to drive around.

You'll also perform little race into Vice City. After moving through a number of key plot points, you'll available the western world half of Vice City, that is locked apart in the onset due to hurricane warnings. After that, you'll encounter vision to allowed anyone fly a jet about the city. You'll and get a number of different helicopters here and there. Travel around the city is very impressive, and it showcases the game's engine quite well--you could get for miles when you're ahead inside heavens. While some of the city's skyscrapers are far too high to get over, you can country the choppers by many in the playoffs buildings. Expect to find a few of the game's hidden items put left within these forms of difficult-to-reach areas.

Some new person actions have survived put into the game as well. Pressing L3 will join Tommy in a crouched view. This allows you remove cover behind things with picks up the shooting accuracy. You can and jump out of step vehicles, which useful for ditching cars or bikes into the ocean, breaking a burning vehicle, or just ramming empty cars into other vehicles for kicks. Like wrecking a motorcycle, bailing from a car causes some bodily harm. You can also enter certain buildings now. While the interior sites are little in amount and typically extraneous, they stare good and are used to effectively create a city that's even more realistic than GTAIII's Liberty City. You'll be able to go into the hotel then flow right upstairs to help ones bedroom. You can also insert a club, a reel club, the Vice City mall, and several other houses. There are load times associated with entering certain buildings, but they're pretty brief.

Many of the game's story missions are more interested than those associated with GTAIII. Grand Theft Auto III had plenty of missions where you necessary to make one thing or get somebody somewhere and then return for your reward. You might get those kinds of missions in Vice City, although the majority of the original game's missions are multiple-part event which require over just go starting top A to level B then to position A. Some pieces are clean extensions, like as maybe having to stay a respray shop after moving a job. However, other missions are more included also want the use of more-advanced tactics. For case, one mission wants you to place a bomb inside a mall of which occurs swarming with cops. To do so, you'll first need a barely heat chasing after you. You'll then advance the cops in a garage, where you'll ambush them with understand among the uniforms so you can pose as a cop, which makes getting into the roughly guarded mall possible. After you've taken concentration of thing on the mall, you'll then must escape and get all the way to the hideout.

The objective live well designed for the most part. The noticeably longer average mission length is great, still this could become a foundation of rare frustration, since failure in the mission means having to replay every aspect until you get it right. Moving back to a vision subject becomes easier than ever before, while. In GTAIII, you'd restart in a clinic or police station and be compelled to bargain a car with hightail that time for a quest area, which could take a while. Wearing Vice City, a cab appears near the respawn direct, and also, for a smaller price, it will guide people to the last mission briefing question you went to. Unfortunately, since you're generally going to want to grab some supports plus about armor before going back in most missions, you'll still need to drive over to the local Ammu-Nation first. That would have been there wonderful if you would have benefited from the taxis to address that measure from the process also. At any rate, while the game definitely takes their piece of tough missions, the average mission difficulty looks like a mark or two easier with Vice City than during Grand Theft Auto 3, and so people must have to do too many missions too often. Though, overall, Vice City's stage of effort is comparable to which on the preceding game, due to increased tenacity for the police in their endeavor to help spoil you.

Close to the amendment for the vision themselves, the playoffs mission building is very different from which from the earlier Grand Theft Auto games. With earlier installments, you were given a pretty clear-cut path to follow--you may also have many mission options by any given time, and you consistently understood exactly what to do then and also pro whom. In Vice City, you'll spend the first portion in the game undertaking objective for others, much like in GTA III. But when the city is yours, you'll be working for yourself, going with respect the defense racket in track and determining yourself as the town's new boss.

Eventually, you'll even be able to go out and get various properties, that begins happy new quest. For case, when you buy the taxi company, you'll open up a series of taxi-related missions that happen break from the surface vision which you can handle by entering any taxi. Once you've completed a property's missions, that property may launch make money for you. That reality means that money eventually turns into a nonissue--as it should be for any self-respecting crime lord--since the various properties will also have some funds for you. All you need to do is travel in to all of these and collect from time to time. There are several other properties to purchase, including the film business, the Malibu Beat, and a car dealership. All the secondary-mission types from GTA III have benefited, such as vigilante missions, taxi missions, fire truck missions, and ambulance missions. New to Vice City is the ability to do on the limited type of scooter and present pizza. Pizza is saved while in motion using the same mechanics you'd normally spent for drive-by shootings, only however you throw pizza pies on customers.

While the influence in Vice City remains generally just like that of GTAIII, the feeling of the game's various cars feels really different, because game's frequent driving sequences seem much more exciting and dangerous. Perhaps in part due to the difference of generation period, many the cars feel a lot looser traveling and often understand beat in quite a bit easier. That offers much of the game the kind of car-flipping, explosion-filled quality you'd expect coming from a episode of The A-Team. And once you factor in the new gift for you--or other in-game characters--to take out tires, handling becomes an even bigger issue. Vehicles with blown tires are really difficult to control, making car chases to very much tougher when you have a flat (or many). And as if cars weren't dangerous enough, a bike with a blown roll is almost useless, as it usually spins ready with places you in the handlebars whenever people try and achieve any serious speed. One of the tougher vision take anyone looking for a tandem with even tires back to a rider but while remaining pursued by angry thugs.

Cars break apart in an more spectacular fashion this time around. Along with holding away tires, you can smash up cars with your melee weapons now. Ride way up then giving in a car's hood with your baseball bat is usually a good way to urge the inhabitants to vacate the vehicle in a hurry. You can also burst out car windows and even hit people inside the car with your shots. That causes a huge difference when it comes to holding off cars, as you can now focus on the rolls to slow down the vehicle down and then remove the driver with a well-placed rifle shot.

As mentioned, the police have become a much more formidable risk than they were now GTA 3, especially since they have the ability to take away the rolls upon the getaway vehicle. Attempting to jump in a car and donate the area of an crime usually gives the cops ample time to take out one of the tires. On elevated levels of response, the police will set up spike strips to take off all the tires. Of course, they'll also established standard bars also make all the points the GTAIII cops did, including ignore most standard traffic violations. Though, with Vice City, mixing up a serious ruckus will get the rob plus the FBI by your case. Helicopters will also chase after you. Now around, SWAT teams may in fact rappel out of the helicopters, getting them more dangerous. If you can manage to download gta 5 apk get a clean aimed with a chopper's cockpit, though, you can consider one decrease with individual win. In the main level of law enforcement response, the throng once again rolls tanks onto the street, making your chance of survival slim. All this means that, as in GTA III, many encounters with the confidence with Vice City can be really exciting. But, one spot for the law record is the idea that the cops still do not deal with elevation changes particularly good. If you encounter a square shed and give the first or second floor, the police officer aren't intelligent enough to get their means up to face you. They'll still hold firing in your general direction, while there are several blocks and roofs among you then the detectives. But you'll encounter such a thing really rarely amidst many, many memorable with strong chases and shoot-outs.

While there are a lot more systems with Vice City, the free arsenal hasn't really changed that significantly overall. The most obvious additions are in the melee weapon department--or, rather, the hardware department. You can head to a hardware stock with grab a screwdriver, a split, a trusty baseball bat, or a machete. You'll also get additional melee weapons in different chunk on the city. Arriving at the greens, for example, is that simple find a golf club. You can as well perceive a chainsaw, which is famous in principle, but surprisingly unsatisfying in action. Systems are beaten up in another categories. Your basic attack rifle will be a Ruger, but later on you'll be able to acquire a M16. You can have one stick within both grade, so gather winning a good M16 will replace the Ruger, getting a golf club can restore the baseball bat, and so on. The number of weapons closely mirrors GTAIII's set, just now with more types of pistols, submachine guns, rifles, shotguns, sniper firearms, and flung explosives.

You'll work your way upward from simple weapons up to deadlier versions. For example, the Tec-9 is a quality submachine gun, but later on you'll be able to accept a MP5K, that receives a considerably closer rate of fire. Later still, you'll be able to wield rocket launchers, a flamethrower, an M60 machine gun, or perhaps a Gatling gun. Different weapons have different weights, and your movement rate may suffering from the gun you're holding. Having a gun or a submachine gun lets you go on by whole speed. Busting exposed the shotgun or rifle prevents a person by sprinting, but you could go generally. And the severe weapons cause you to lumber around sluggishly. The aim system by GTAIII has been changed a bit for Vice City, making it easier to target opponents with honor the video camera by making too crazy when you're locked to a board.

Vice City and increases on Grand Theft Auto 3 graphically. The only difficulty with the graphics is the body rate's predisposition to bog down while you've catch a blunder of law enforcement swarming all about you, making flight to significantly harder. But thinking that problem is no worse in Vice City than it was in Grand Theft Auto III, and that the game looks a good bit better overall than GTA 3, it's not really a big deal. The entire aspect of the game is quite different from their predecessor overall, but technically, this new Grand Theft Auto game allows a much cleaner appearance. The character styles become superior looking, with the animation--some of it reused from GTA 3--looks great. Some of the highlights include jacking a motorcycle on the front, which lead to Tommy to execute a wing jump stop to taps the rider dust down the bike. Jack a bicycle on the quality, and misery deliver an elbow on the experience with the rider.

The pull distance is a lot farther away now about as well, meaning you can see a greater distance down the road than you might in GTA 3. This is even more noticeable when you're flying high above the city and can see most the way around to the different piece of it. But you'll even see as only run the street, especially when you give up a stir car watching it cruise off outside with its. Outside of in which, the playoffs textures are light with vibrant, properly reflecting what '80s-era Miami should look like. Nearby shops are laced with neon that glows nicely at night. You'll also notice bunches of immense little touches, such as the spark of sunshine down the panes of neighborhood cars.

GTA3's sound played a crucial role with adjusting the tone to the total game. The expression acting used throughout the history segments effectively shared the offense report, and the radio produced the soundtrack to go with the action. Vice City's sound is a dramatic advance in GTAIII's already amazing appears. The game's cast is top-notch. The main change in the state product lives to, unlike in GTA 3, the front integrity in Vice City speaks. Tommy Vercetti's state is given by Ray Liotta (Blow, Muppets Through Space), who does a great duty of earning the character to life. The rest of the voice talent--which includes Gary Busey, Dennis Hopper, David Paymer, Danny Trejo, Luis Guzman, Philip Michael Thomas, and retired adult film actress Jenna Jameson--also does a very good trade. The playoffs positive effects are top-notch. Everything from explosions to gunfire just sounds outstanding.

The radio stations in Vice City are incredibly well done. The '80s music entirely on the locations really helps agreed the tone for the overall game. You'll find tons of belts with designers, including Quiet Riot, Michael Jackson, David Lee Roth, Herbie Hancock, Judas Priest, and Frankie Goes

[twylaymaa727-blog]

We describe the PC game Grand Theft Auto VC

Last year, Grand Theft Auto III took the world in surprise. While the first two games in the chain had a small, hard-core monitor, their basic 2D artwork and lack of a focused narrative structure control the request. On the other hand, GTA3 featured a massive, clockwork world which was really remarkable to consider, and it refined its predecessors' free-roaming, nonlinear layout also swollen a far more compelling story in the process. Those improvements, coupled with amazing vehicle physics, a bombshell amount of class in the gameplay, also a great perception of cut, made Grand Theft Auto III a fugitive hit and one in the extraordinary match that happens acknowledged by both great and relaxed game players similar. But as good as GTA III is, the next game in the sequence, Grand Theft Auto VC, improves after it. Vice City expands on the designs and strategies found in Grand Theft Auto 3, fixes some of the teenager issues in the last game, then adds many new powers and items to tease with. It all comes together to form one of the most stylish and most enjoyable games ever released.

The new Grand Theft Auto game is set in a fictional take on Miami, Florida, known as Vice City. The season is 1986, and Tommy Vercetti say now happened announced by jail after accomplish a 15-year stretch to the mob. The mob--more particularly, the Forelli family--appreciates Tommy's refusal to cry in exchange for a lower sentence, so they send him into Vice City to launch some fresh business. Tommy's first sequence of subject with Vice City is to gain a greater amount of cocaine to operate with. But Tommy's first drug trade goes sour, causing him without money, no cocaine, and no idea which wronged him. The mafia is, naturally, angry on the entire situation, now Tommy has to make up with the decline before the gangsters come down from Liberty City to clean in the mess. As Tommy, you'll surprise the investigation, decide that flew people down, take care of responsibility, also create store with Vice City in the big, big way. Oh, and you'll and make taxis, get involved in a turf battle between Cubans along with the Haitians, befriend a Scottish rock group named Love Fist, become a pizza delivery boy, smash up the local mall, demolish a form to real estate prices, hook up with a biker gang, run an adult film studio, remove a level, and much, much more.

While Grand Theft Auto has become a violent, mature-themed series, it has always calculated the chaotic crime with an total volume of tongue-in-cheek humor with cut. Vice City is no different, providing the exaggerated picture in the 1980s that makes use of many the loud pop-culture stereotypes found in tape with television from the decade. The drug-laced tale recalls such records as Scarface and tv program like Miami Vice. The comedy comes mainly from the radio, that really gets home the type of form-over-function mentality which many people link with the '80s. Some of the game's main characters are a spring of comic relief, in the Jim Bakker-like Pastor Richards to the Steven Spielberg-like porn director Steve Scott. The playoffs large cast of appeals is interesting and remarkable. For example, local drug kingpin Ricardo Diaz is always hilariously breaking something and cursing wildly each time anyone eventually tell him. Ken Rosenberg is the fidgety coke-fiend lawyer pal, next he receives you started in area by getting you connected with the city's key players. Lance Vance, appropriately said by Miami Vice alum Philip Michael Thomas, becomes your associate of persons, as both of you chase vengeance for your own reasons. Your Cuban gang contact, Umberto Robina, is regularly reminding you how much of a man he is, and most of the Cuban team members you'll face are likewise inclined.

Stylistically, the game shows an exact description of your normal '80s crime saga. Like here Miami Vice, many of the identities are wearing pastel becomes. The game's vehicles and right the tab, with a lot of basic sedans combined at home with vehicles which aspect enough like Porsches, Lamborghinis, and Ferraris to leave behind to the real thing. Nothing in the vehicles are passed, of course, though in the good touch, some of the cars are earlier models of vehicles which happened in Grand Theft Auto 3. Fans of the past game can undoubtedly appreciate little stuff like this also one other occasional ties on the earth of GTA3, that really help this another Grand Theft Auto game feel like part of a consistent universe.

As large as the game's presentation and using its foundation ideas survive, without a collection of gameplay improvements, that would experience lived little more than a mission group with a touch-up work. But Rockstar North has definitely been tough at work in this field. The most obvious addition is the inclusion of types of motorcycles among the many cars on the road. There's a decent variety of two-wheelers from the game, including mopeds, street bikes, dirt bikes, and massive hogs. As you'd think, the cycles feel a lot differently in one another. Your basic street bike is a good mix of fly with maneuverability. The immense choppers are harder to drive, yet give ludicrous top speeds. You'll get tossed off a motorcycle in virtually any impact, which costs you a small amount of strength or armor. That gets them pretty much useless in any situation that interests dodging the police. But they're incredibly handy in any vision that demands speed, with since you can influence a lot of fancy tricks on them, they're also many fun to drive around.

You'll also perform bit of rushing into Vice City. Like go through a number of major piece points, you'll available the western half of Vice City, which is locked apart on the dawn due to hurricane warnings. After that, you'll encounter vision to let anyone escape a seaplane around the city. You'll also get a few different helicopters here and there. Travel throughout the city is attractive impressive, and it show off the playoffs engine quite well--you may visit for miles when you're up inside air. While some of the city's skyscrapers are extremely tall to get on top of, you can settle the choppers in most from the game's buildings. Expect to find a few of the game's hidden items stashed away into these forms of difficult-to-reach areas.

Some new person cases have been included in the game as well. Pressing L3 will lock Tommy in a crouched put. That permits people suffer cover behind reasons and looks up the speed accuracy. You can also dive out of step vehicles, which helpful for ditching cars or bikes to the ocean, escaping a shed vehicle, or just ramming empty cars in different vehicles for kicks. Like wrecking a bike, bailing from a car causes some bodily harm. You can and enter certain buildings now. While the interior situations are few in number and mainly extraneous, they stare good and are used to effectively create a city that's more realistic than Grand Theft Auto III's Liberty City. You'll be able to go into your hotel then run right upstairs to help ones bedroom. You can also get into a nightclub, a reel club, the Vice City mall, and a few other buildings. There are load times associated with entering certain buildings, but they're pretty simple.

Many of the game's story missions are more involved than those associated with GTAIII. GTA 3 had many missions where you needed to get great before bring someone somewhere and return to your reward. You can get those types of assignment with Vice City, yet many of the novel game's missions are multiple-part business which include more than now shift by heart A to position B and then to spot A. Some positions are basic extensions, like because possibly having to break a respray look after moving a job. But, other missions are more required also involve the use of more-advanced strategies. For order, one mission requires you to hide a bomb in the mall that takes place swarming with cops. To do so, you'll first have to get a miniature heat chasing after you. You'll then direct the cops into a garage, where you'll ambush them also haul one of their standards so you can pose as a cop, which makes stepping into the heavily guarded mall possible. After you've taken trouble of company at the mall, you'll then should escape and get all the way time for the hideout.

The objective live fortunate designed for the most position. The noticeably longer average mission length is great, even if this could become a supply of unexpected frustration, since failure in a mission means having to replay every piece until you have it right. Moving back to a quest district becomes easier than ever before, even though. In GTAIII, you'd restart in a clinic or watch station and be compelled to bargain a car and hightail it back to a quest area, which could take a Grand Theft Auto Episodes from Liberty City Download while. Wearing Vice City, a cab appears close your respawn stage, with, instead of a tiny price, it will need people back to the last mission briefing question you visited. Unfortunately, since you're generally going to want to pick up some section along with several armor before heading back into most missions, you'll even have to get up to the local Ammu-Nation opening. This would have become fine if you could have treated the cab to handle this phase of the development as well. At any rate, while the game definitely has the portion of difficult missions, the average mission difficulty looks a level or two easier with Vice City than in GTA III, and so you ought to have to repeat too many missions too often. Though, overall, Vice City's amount of sweat is a lot like which with the earlier game, because of increased tenacity on the part of the police of their hard work to help impede you.

Alongside the cash to the missions themselves, the game's mission design is sweet different from that of the earlier GTA match. In prior installments, you were given a pretty clear-cut path to follow--you could have had multiple mission choices at any present period, and you consistently knew just what to do then plus for who. With Vice City, you'll spend the first piece from the game undertaking vision for people, much like in GTA3. But once the city is yours, you'll be working for yourself, going and go on your safety racket into collection and identifying yourself as the town's new boss.

Eventually, you'll even be able to go out with hold various properties, that begins up another missions. For example, when you buy the taxi company, you'll open up a series of taxi-related vision to occur separate through the edge missions to you can handle by entering any taxi. Once you've achieved a property's missions, to property may launch making money for you. This information means that money eventually turns into a nonissue--as it should be for any self-respecting crime lord--since your various properties will also have some cash for you. All you need to do is run around to all advisors with gather from time to time. There are several other properties to purchase, including the film studio, the Malibu Stick, with a car dealership. All the secondary-mission types from Grand Theft Auto 3 have returned, like as vigilante missions, taxi missions, fire truck vision, and ambulance missions. New to Vice City is the ability to do on a special type of scooter and transport pizza. Pizza is given while in motion using the same mechanics you'd normally work for drive-by shootings, only in this case you throw pizza pies on customers.

While the inspection in Vice City is mostly the same as which of Grand Theft Auto 3, the trading of the game's various cars feels really different, because game's frequent driving sequences seem much more exciting and dangerous. Perhaps in part due to the adjustment of point period, a lot of the cars feel a lot looser on the road and manage to find hit in a good bit easier. This presents much on the game the form of car-flipping, explosion-filled quality you'd expect via a great instance in the A-Team. And when you consider the new ability for you--or other in-game characters--to burst out tires, handling becomes an even bigger question. Cars with blown tires are really hard to control, making car chases to very much tougher when you have a flat (or many). And as if cars weren't dangerous enough, a motorcycle with a blown wheel is nearly useless, as it usually spins exposed next puts people over the handlebars whenever you try and attain any significant speed. One of the tougher vision gives people trying to get a cycle with even tires returning to a motorcycle bar while remaining pursued by angry thugs.

Cars split apart in an even more spectacular fashion now around. Along with holding away tires, you can hit up cars with your melee weapons now. Reaching winning and caving in a car's hood with your baseball bat is usually a good way to make the tenants to quit the vehicle in a hurry. You can also run out car windows and even hit the people inside car with your shots. That becomes an enormous difference when it comes to taking away cars, as you can now aim at the rolls to slow down the vehicle down and then take away the drivers with a well-placed rifle shot.

As revealed, the police have become a much more powerful risk than they were in Grand Theft Auto 3, especially since they have the ability to get the wheels about your own getaway car. Attempting to jump in a auto then run off the picture of an crime usually gives the cops enough time to take out among the wheels. In higher levels of response, the police force set up spike strips to take off every the tires. Of course, they'll and set up standard roadblocks also act all of the things the Grand Theft Auto 3 cops did, including ignore most common traffic violations. Though, in Vice City, stirring up a serious ruckus will get both the rob and the FBI in the situation. Helicopters will also chase after you. This time in, SWAT players will in fact rappel out of the helicopters, making them more dangerous. If you can manage to get a good shot with a chopper's cockpit, although, you can rent one overcome with individual strike. On the supreme level of law enforcement answer, the multitude once again rolls tanks on the street, doing your own chance of success slim. All this means that, as in GTAIII, many encounters with the conviction with Vice City can be extremely exciting. Yet, one mark for the police record is the fact that the policemen still do not deal with elevation changes remarkably so. If you come across a square garage then effect the first or back ground, the police officer aren't wise enough to get the system around deal with you. They'll even hold firing in your general direction, even though there are several blocks with ceilings between a person along with the specialists. But you'll encounter such a thing really rarely amidst many, many wonderful and powerful chases and shoot-outs.

While there are a lot other systems in Vice City, the free arsenal gets really changed that significantly overall. The most obvious additions are in the melee weapon department--or, somewhat, the hardware department. You can visit a hardware collection and grab a screwdriver, a strike, a trusty baseball bat, or a machete. You'll and learn other melee weapons in different measurement on the city. Knocking the course, for example, gets it easy to find a golf club. You can also make a chainsaw, which is large with principle, but surprisingly unsatisfying in action. Weapons are destroyed upward in another styles. Your main attack rifle will be a Ruger, but later on you'll manage to obtain the M16. You can have one weapon in each grade, so picking winning an M16 can return the Ruger, getting a golf club can change your baseball bat, and so on. The choice of weapons closely mirrors GTA3's set, only now with more types of pistols, submachine guns, rifles, shotguns, sniper firearms, and confused explosives.

You'll work your way upward from central weapons up to deadlier versions. For example, the Tec-9 is a good submachine gun, but later on you'll be able to obtain a MP5K, that includes a much faster measure of passion. Later still, you'll be able to wield rocket launchers, a flamethrower, an M60 machine gun, or even a Gatling gun. Different weapons have different weights, and your movement rate may suffering from the bat you're holding. Wielding a gun or a submachine gun lets you throw at full speed. Busting away the shotgun or rifle prevents people through sprinting, but you may move normally. Also the deep weapons cause you to land around slowly. The ending system by GTA 3 has been reworked a bit for Vice City, making it easier to target opponents and house the video camera by obtaining too crazy when you're locked on a goal.

Vice City also increases on GTA 3 graphically. The only trouble with the image is the body rate's movement toward bog down after you've grew a mess of law swarming all over you, doing escape to very much harder. But considering that problem is no worse in Vice City than it had been during Grand Theft Auto 3, and that the game looks a good bit better overall than Grand Theft Auto III, it's not really a huge deal. The entire glimpse on the game is quite different from their predecessor overall, but technically, that modern Grand Theft Auto game owns a radically cleaner appearance. The character examples become superior gaze, and the animation--some of it reused from GTA3--looks great. Some of the highlights include jacking a bike in the top, which affects Tommy to complete a wing jump end that beats the condition dust away the bike. Jack a cycle in the wall, with misery give the elbow to the look with the condition.

The draw distance is a lot farther away this time about as well, meaning you can see a greater distance down the road than you can in GTA 3. This is even more apparent when you're flying high preceding the city and can see most the way across to the new part of it. But you'll still see when simply driving in the street, especially when you give up a cause car and watch this cruise off outside with its. Outside which, the playoffs surfaces are lively with bright, properly considering what '80s-era Miami should look like. Nearby shops are mixed with neon that glows nicely at night. You'll also see whole lot of large little touches, such as the flicker of sunshine down the openings of community cars.

GTA 3's sound played a crucial cut with establishing the tone to the overall game. The voice acting used throughout the history segments effectively shared the offense lie, and the air offered the soundtrack to go with the action. Vice City's sound is a dramatic increase on GTAIII's already amazing good. The sport cast is top-notch. The main variance from the words run becomes which, unlike in GTA III, the advanced spirit in Vice City speaks. Tommy Vercetti's expression is given by Ray Liotta (Blow, Muppets By Area), who does an excellent post of produce the character to life. The rest of the voice talent--which includes Gary Busey, Dennis Hopper, David Paymer, Danny Trejo, Luis Guzman, Philip Michael Thomas, and retired adult film actress Jenna Jameson--also does a very good post. The playoffs positive effects are top-notch. Everything from explosions to gunfire just sounds outstanding.

The radio classes with Vice City are extremely well done. The '80s music found on the posts really helps settled on the tone to the entire game. You'll find plenty of

[thevalkirias]

Female adolescence and prestige dramas: the case of Sally Draper

The most famous dialogue in The Virgin Suicides – “you're not even old enough to know how bad life gets” / “obviously, Doctor, you've never been a 13-year-old girl” – says a lot about the way society sees the anxieties carried by young girls growing up and building their identities around us. The afflictions that come with not only adolescence as a whole, but specifically female adolescence, which adds the burden of misogyny to the mix, including the misogyny ingrained in ourselves, seem to make teenage girls particularly interesting for the storytellers that aren’t actually talking about them, but about their parents. Dana Brody in Homeland, Grace Florrick in The Good Wife, Paige Jennings in The Americans, Sally Draper in Mad Men: these were all part of TV shows that dedicated plenty of screen time to the teenage daughters of their main characters, who were marines/ alleged terrorist agents, lawyers returning to work after stepping away to be full-time mothers, Soviet superspies by night and suburban parents by day, or sad and alcoholic ad men.

In the four shows the exact same premise can be found: raising children is hard, and it is potentially harder if you are a spy, or someone who turned against your own country, or a good wife whose husband was very publicly arrested for corruption, or perhaps just empty on the inside. When Dana Brody takes the more cliché path of the rebellious teen and has her “Dana does drugs!”, “Dana has a questionable boyfriend!”, “Dana hates her father!” moments, or when Grace Florrick – whose mother is firmly set on the agnostic-atheist territory – and Paige Jennings –- whose parents believe that religion is the opium of the people – decide to fully dedicate themselves to Christianity, it’s all done with a single goal: to make these girls a Problem for Their Parents. Consequently, they become insufferable and, above all, uninteresting from the point of view of the narrative, since all they do is disturb the main stories.

When Homeland tried to humanize Dana, exploring the consequences that being the daughter of a traitor, terrorist and national enemy brought to her life, adding up to the experience of being a girl coming of age, it was too late. Because after two years no one had learned to empathize with her and no one wanted to watch that plot unfolding, not on that show. By then Alex Gansa and his team of writers had already made Dana only a shadow of a character, completely one-dimensional, since she existed only so that Sergeant Nicholas Brody could react to her. Just like Grace existed to create drama in Alicia’s life, the working mom (and the truly excellent character, complex and well developed). It’s because she doesn’t fit in this common and cliché categorization, which can be so unfortunate (Dana could have been a great character), that Sally Draper is so special.

There is a fundamental difference between Sally and the three other girls, of course: when Mad Men began Kiernan Shipka was seven – in other words, Sally was still a child. Back then there was still not much for her to do, except showing her unconditional love for her mostly absent father who sometimes was there to tuck her in. She existed mainly to help us read Don as a pretty terrible father – this was, after all, the man who, scared by the possibility of everyone finding out he was a deserter who had taken a dead man’s identity, decides he should run away with his mistress and has to be reminded by her that he had children to raise. Don seems surprised when he’s reminded of the children, but he assures her he would provide for them, as if his relationship with his kids was nothing but a financial matter. Sally also existed, beyond Don’s universe, to show us the difficulties Betty Draper had with her role as a mother, even though she tried more than Don.

Sally’s first big moment, which showed Shipka’s precocious talent, came in season three, when Betty’s senile and ill father moves to the Draper residence, and Sally develops a close relationship with him. When her grandfather passes away, young Sally goes through her first experience of mourning and is unable to understand why the adults around her can sit at the kitchen table and laugh when her grandfather was never, ever coming back. A young Kiernan, then a ten year old, competently portrays the complicated feelings Sally had to experience so early. The situation is further complicated when Sally’s baby brother is born soon after, and Betty decides to name him after her late father: Gene. Sally then needs to deal not only with the natural feelings of jealousy awakened in a child by the arrival of a new baby who demands attention, but also with the fact that this baby receives the name and the room that belonged to the grandfather whom she liked so much, as if her parents were trying to exchange her Gene for another when he was no longer supposed to be there. This moment is also crucial in Don’s complexification as a father: he is the one who sits Gene and Sally on his lap and tells her that that’s only her little brother, just a baby, not her grandfather – he is the only person to tell her everything was going to be alright.

Sally never becomes insufferable because Matthew Weiner and his writers make the right decision of never writing her or her stories as a mere problem that Don had to deal with. On the contrary, the father-daughter relationship exists to add nuance to a character who was always rather complex. We’re talking about a man who was chronically unfaithful and addicted to extramarital adventures, but who, when Peggy suggests a campaign based on the sexualization of the female image, stating (not wrongly) that sex sells, suggests another path – one that is based on the “I love you, daddy” card he got from Sally and is sitting on his desk. What truly sells anything, he says, is to awaken some kind of feeling. This is a discussion he has within the scope of advertisement, but it’s also a discussion he has with himself, about being more than the standard executive who “likes short skirts”, as Peggy puts it (not necessarily wrongly), about not being the man who wouldn’t understand Frank O’Hara’s poetry, like the unknown man he sees at the bar reading Meditations in an Emergency assumes, or about not being just the man who can no longer have sex with his wife – everything that builds the context surrounding him in “For Those Who Think Young”, one of the many episodes that emphasize that Don has not been a young man in the margins of the system for a really long time.

In such a context it would be easy to say that Don simply did not care about Sally and would rather not have to deal with her and fully dedicate himself to his adventures – as it happened in the abhorrent episode when he has the children with him for the weekend after the divorce and decides to go on a date, leaving them with his neighbor. But that isn’t really true, and part of the problem comes from his own internal issues, including the fact that he never had any decent father figure: Don does not know how to be a good father. To the extent that he believes that a woman who has literally just met his daughter would be better at talking to her than he would. This is what makes the character so rich and fascinating. Even when Sally exists for her father to react to her, it’s done in a good way, adding complexity to him exactly because she isn’t a one-dimensional character who exists to create problems.

One of the most important moments in this relationship is season six’s “Favors”, when Sally catches her father and his neighbor and mistress in bed. The situation was not only uncomfortable, the way it would be for anyone, but Sally knew that the neighbor was the wife of a man whom Don called his friend, a man she had seen sincerely thanking her father when Don helps freeing his son from being recruited for war. Sally had gone through a lot because of her father, but this is the big moment of rupture between them. If we all eventually find out that our parents are as flawed and human as anyone else, and this is part of the process of growing up, Sally has to face the fact that her father is absurdly flawed and, more than that, is very, very distant from the heroic father figure she had idealized for so long simply because she spent most of the time very far away from him, but under the incessant scoldings from her mother. Mad Men chooses to explore the quite devastating effects of this rupture not only for Don, the main character, but also for Sally. This choice resulted in one of the girl’s most famous scenes, when Betty offers her a cigarette, saying Don surely would have offered her a beer by then, and Sally responds, cigarette in hand (a pose that mimicked Betty herself): “my father has never given me anything”. It was an obvious but powerful case of double meaning.

Beginning with Sally’s big moment in season three, and increasingly as she grew up, she was given her own plots in some of the episodes. Maybe the good response to this choice is related to Mad Men being essentially character-driven, to the inexistence of a bigger plot that lies beyond its characters; it was common for a myriad of them to be highlighted in different episodes. So, when season six came, we were given Sally’s boarding school plot, when she was finally free from the mother about whom she complained so much. Once there, Sally smokes, drinks and takes boys to the dorm illicitly, incited by her roommates. This could represent the establishment of Sally-the-rebel-girl, but it doesn’t. Because none of what happens there reflects on Don or Betty; those are not “Sally smokes! What now, Don Draper?” moments, but moments in which Sally is away from home for the first time and has to decide who she is and what she wants to do for herself. These small transgressions of the school’s code of conduct (sometimes of the law) don’t make Sally a “mean girl”, just like her increasing interactions, full of discreet flirtation, with the boys that cross her path don’t make them the absolute center of her life. All of this is part of Sally, but none of it defines her. She is not a girl-problem, neither is she daddy’s little girl.

“I’m so many people”, says Sally in the next season. In “A Day’s Work” she spends a day in the city to go to the funeral of her friend’s mother, but also to go shopping. Sally loses her wallet and has to resort to her father, the adult she had in New York. By then she and Don were speaking to each other again, after he told her his real story right after he was forced by his partners to take a compulsory leave of absence. But Sally did not know about the second part, and she finds out in the worst way: looking for her father at the office, sure he could only be there. In face of another gigantic lie, Sally is once again upset and responds to Don’s attempts at conversation with monosyllables. It’s only when he explains what was happening and that he was ashamed and did not know how to solve it – and she sees herself being treated as an adult and as an equal –, that they make it up. After this conversation she calls one of her school friends who had been in New York with her; the girl wants to talk about trivial things, on the same day they had been looking at the dead body of someone important to their friend. Sally cuts the conversation short impatiently and soon after tells her father that the funeral had been horrible, but she had only been there so she could go shopping later. Don says he doubted that, and it’s easy to see he was right. Sally seems to take what he says under consideration as well, declaring then that she was so many people.

Mad Men allows Sally Draper to be so many people, to be the version of herself she presents to her mother, to her father or to Megan, her stepmother. It allows her to be the version of herself she presents to Glen, her long-time neighbor, or the one she presents to her roommates and to the cute boy at the hall of the fancy building where Don lives. It allows her to worry about boots and sandals, but it also allows her to be affected by a funeral. The script allows her to be much more than a mere accessory in the stories of the grownups that surround her, who are traditionally considered more important and relevant. Matthew Weiner allows Sally to at last see her parents very clearly, showing a maturity that sometimes seems to surpass theirs. It’s notorious that she declares, right before leaving on a trip with other girls, that she hopes to be someone very different from her parents and that her dream is to live far away from them – in an episode in which both Betty and Don are ridiculously flattered by the attention they receive from their daughter’s teenage friends.

Eventually Sally is forced by the circumstances to go back home, because nothing in life is so simple, and in the final stretch of her story it becomes evident that she mimics many of Betty’s mannerisms and ways. But it is in the responsibility towards her brothers that she automatically takes on when it’s necessary to do so, it is in her understanding that if there is one person she cannot count on that person is her father, it is in her realizing that her mother’s cold and stoic ways do not signify she is not feeling pain, that Sally shows an admirable level of maturity. These are moments which show us that the little girl we saw growing up throughout seven seasons and ten years is someone who has the chance of being happier – and a better person – than her parents were. At the end of Mad Men, the story of Sally’s growth functions as a formidable bildungsroman: of a character who was complex, solid and well developed, who was way too many people to be the thorn in her parent’s side.

About the author

FERNANDA

Officially a translator and proofreader, Fernanda has a special love for literature and for this writing thing. A loyal follower of the uncool lifestyle, she doesn’t believe in guilty pleasures nor in the concept of liking something ironically.

This piece was originally published in Portuguese on August 23, 2017, as "Escrevendo a adolescência feminina nos dramas de prestígio: o caso de Sally Draper". Translated by the author.

[sceawere]

another time pt. 13 | alfie solomons

[STORY BIO + PREVIOUS CHAPTERS HERE]

The boys sat quietly for a long time after you finished the rambling story you’d delivered. Trying to fit so many confusing things into a coherent timeline was difficult. Especially when you didn’t fully understand it yourself. Toby was frowning, staring out the window. Aaron was turning a spoon up and over, up and over.

Alfie would flip his eyes up to you every so often, checking you were alright. He was leaning against the wall opposite, with one arm crossed over his chest, the other resting on it by his elbow. He was tracing his thumb over his beard, bent slightly over himself to balance.

Up and over. Up and over. Eyes up. Eyes down.

Up and over. Up and over. Eyes up. Eyes down.

“Someone say something, please. Good or bad, I don’t care” you broke through the silence, stepping away from leaning on the counter.

“The future?” Toby questioned and you sighed.

“The future” you confirmed. You didn’t know how this was going to go but it definitely wasn’t going well.

Aaron let go of the spoon as it was balancing on its curve, letting it crash to the table top. Pickles jumped up from where he was tucked under the windowsill, investigating the ruckus. Aaron rose from the chair, flicking his jacket off the back as he moved passed you.

“Aaron” Alfie warned, unmoving. You stepped aside, letting him leave. Toby turned to watch his brother leave, brow still furrowed. He flicked his eyes to you, raising from his own seat. He sighed, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers, rocking a little in place.

“Well…I was actually expecting worse”

“Wait, you believe me?” you questioned and he scoffed a laugh.

“I don’t disbelieve you. Let’s hold off on anything more concrete for now, eh? Besides, it explains a lot” he added and you scowled.

“What does it explain?”

“Your complete lack of understanding of current events, for a start. I thought maybe you’d been locked up or something but…”

You looked over to Alfie as he unfolded himself, stepping towards the doorway.

“Let him go” Toby insisted after him, moving to a serious state you rarely saw from him. Toby was all nervous energy. Like static, bouncing and dancing, electrifying its environment. Aaron was more solid, less fluctuating. He took a place as he found it - left it how he did too.

“I need to talk to him” Alfie explained but Toby shook his head.

“You need to give him time”

You fidgeted, preparing.

“We need to talk about what happened yesterday. We need to talk about what’s happening today. I’m sorry, but I don’t think any of us have had the privilege of time since this all started and I don’t think now is the best time to start wasting it” you added, trying to stick to your new plan while you still had the courage.

Toby shuffled in place, freeing one hand to scratch at Pickles sniffing nose.

“How are you?” he asked, looking up to meet your eye. The question froze you up, shifting your weight as you mulled over the question.

“Has anyone asked you that?” he continued and you saw Alfie push his shoulder into the doorway, probably offended at the accusation that he hadn’t been looking after you properly.

“If I’m honest, I don’t actually know” you breathed out, half a laugh at the end. It soured in your mouth, rolling your tongue around the inside of your teeth.

“This had to melt your mind, huh?” he laughed, leaning back to perch on the edge of the windowsill.

“You have no idea. Alfie’s kept me busy. Helps, you know? Not thinking about it” he nodded a response, solemn.

“Oh yeah, he’s good at that” he looked up to Alfie, then moved to you “When bullets are flying, you’re not exactly stopping to sort through things frame by frame, huh?”

“Yeah can’t say I have much time to contemplate my place in the universe when I’m worrying about disappearing into the ether or getting locked up. Time travel, gangsters, and vendettas. It’s all very interesting” you joked, managing a smile “Now please stop being serious and go back to being the guy I know. You’re creeping me out more than the other stuff is”

He smirked and you waited for whatever was coming.

“Nice jammies, by the way. You sleep well last night you two?” he made sure to look over to Alfie at the end and you rolled your eyes.

“There’s my boy. Knew you still had it in you” you fired back, making as if you were going to exit the room, before turning back at the last second “Tobias Valentine the second”

As his face fell, Alfie’s lit up, as though it had passed between them. You winked to Alfie on the way out, waving off Toby’s protestations as you went. One out of two wasn’t bad, and you had to work on building Aaron’s trust no matter what.

“It’s ‘Valentin’, time lady. Valentin. It means ‘strength’!” he followed you out of the kitchen, shouting down the corridor at you, before turning back to Alfie “Did you tell her that?”

“It’s on your arrest record, mate. Tough luck” he slapped a hand to his shoulder as he followed you down to the bedroom.

Toby sighed, watching the two of you disappear behind the door. He turned his head, catching sight of Pickles sat square in the middle of the kitchen.

“She named you Pickles for goodness sake” he frowned at the dog’s whine, stepping into the now empty room to scratch at their ears again.

-

You flopped down onto the bed, pulling your legs up to cross before you. Alfie shut the door softly, moving to drop beside you.

“You alright?”

“I think”

“That was brave” he assured, lifting an arm up and over your head to wrap around you. You dropped your head to his shoulder, watching your reflection in the mirror on top of the dresser. Alfie was resting his chin on your forehead, looking over you out the window.

“Was it the right thing to do? I heard Aaron and I just…couldn’t keep the secret anymore. With everything that’s happening, we need them, and I couldn’t keep lying to them while asking them to put themselves at risk for me”

“It was the right thing to do” he licked his lips, then amended his answer “I think”

You laughed, turning so your forehead was flush with his shoulder, tucked into him.

“The great Alfred Solomons, floored by questions of morality”

“What, we giving everyone their proper names now? Don’t go making a habit, love. Besides, you know how I feel now. Weighing everything up, wondering if you’re doing the best for everyone or just doing what needs to be done to get you through to make another decision tomorrow”

You untucked your head, lifting to meet his eyes. He still looked tired, and you wondered if he’d woken up as soon as you’d fallen asleep. You started to think ‘when all this is over…’ before remembering it had only just started. The thought alone was exhausting.

“You do a good job. I think” he smiled to you and you continued “I don’t really know. I mean, I’ve never seen you actually working properly but now I think of it…from what you’ve demonstrated you’re really fucking dodgy”

He laughed, nodding in agreement.

“Pretty spot on description”

“I mean, you threatened to shoot me within an hour of meeting me”

“Only if you kept misbehaving” he amended.

“And you faked me a number of documents at short notice, with little effort and thought to the consequence or legality”

“Well-“

“And you broke me out of jail yesterday, which-”

“Legally. I sent a lawyer to get- how is that ‘breaking you out of jail’?” he tripped over himself mid-sentence, worked up at the allegation.

“I was thankful for it!” you assured and he scowled down at you.

“Damn right, you better be, missus”

“Oh, shut up and piss off. I need to get dressed” you leant forward to dot a kiss at his cheek, lifting yourself from the bed quickly when you realised what you’d done on instinct. You moved straight to the dresser, opening the drawer that had been cleared of Alfie’s things and was now yours.

You kept your head down, digging through the cloth to find something decent to wear. You felt him move behind you, hovering a short distance away. A safe distance.

“You’re not going to work”

You stalled, not turning your head to him, but flicking up to see him in the mirror.

“Well, no, I’m not going to be at my desk today. But we need to have a meeting with the boys, and we need to get a plan sorted. That police guy was sniffing around the lot of you and we need to work out-“

“We will do, but I think it’s best if you go to the big house until we sort what’s happening” he reasoned and you turned to him for real.

“The big house?” you questioned, gripping your dress in hand “You’re hiding me away?”

He clicked his tongue, looking away and back. He was exasperated before you’d even begun to argue your case.

“I’m not hiding you away, I’m making sure you’re somewhere safe. This place isn’t exactly a fortress is it? I need you somewhere safe until we get Kaye out of the way and then- “

“You wouldn’t let Esther live here if it wasn’t safe” you argued.

“Oh trust me, I’ve tried to move her many a time” he pointed to you “she makes her own decisions and everyone else can make theirs. Bless ‘em if they try to get at her up there”

“She makes her decisions and I make mine. That whole thing this morning-“you lifted your arm to point blindly in the direction of the door, dress swaying in your grip “was about me being brave and making decisions now. Not going with the flow of whatever came before me. Assessing a situation, and making a decision.

I got arrested yesterday. I got tagged with you and yours. They’re coming after me as they’re coming after you. They see me as part of this organisation now. So I’m part of this organisation now. I’m-“

You took a breath, swallowed, and forged ahead.

“I’m part of this family now, Alfie. I need to part of decisions. I need to have a hand in what happens. It involves me, and I’m not a thing to be shied away and hidden until its safe. I don’t need you to protect me like that. I need you to trust me and…teach me. I need you to teach me how to survive here”

He paced away a little, looping around to lean over the footboard. His hands wrapped around the piping, eyes to the quilt as he thought.

“I’m not hiding you away. But, I take your point. You’re in this now, same as the rest of us. This changes things. Which is why-“he looked up to you “I need to be working from a place of safety, instead of worrying about you being exposed, right? I can’t be focusing on what I need to be doing if I’m constantly looking to see where you are”

You sighed, and dropped back against the dresser.

“Point taken” you agreed “You come to the big house with me”

“We all go to the big house, sweet. Like I’d let you lap up the luxury all on your lonesome. It’s my damn house”

You rolled your eyes, smiling lightly at him.

“I like this place” you noted.

“Yeah, it’s lovely. What else?” he asked, catching you out.

“What else what?”

“Well, you sounded like you had a plan. You went off there like you were about to break out a speech” he replied.

“I didn’t…I want you to teach me about the…you know” you swung your hand in front of you, scrunched dress flapping around “the lay of the land. Who we like, who we don’t. Who to work with, who not to trust”

He stood straight, crossing his arms again.

“I not been giving you enough homework?” he joked but you ignored him.

“I want you to teach me to shoot. Or, find someone to teach me to shoot. Maybe not you”

He tilted his head and you nodded to him.

“Sweetheart-“

“I need to know. You keep a gun in the drawer by the bed, Alfie. I need to know” you threw the dress onto the bed before it was completely crumpled beyond hope “what happens if the shit hits the roof and you’re not there? I need to know”

He mulled it over for a few moments, not looking entirely sure on his decision when he made it.

“Right. I’m make sure to produce a well-rounded curriculum, then”

“Alfie, be serious”

“It’s all I ever am. Anymore demands?” he sighed, stepping to the entry and putting his hand on the doorknob.

“Whose ‘Kaye’?” you went back to what he’d said before, confused.

“Kaye. Detective Kaye. The guy who had you arrested” he looked more confused than you did.

“Oh”

“You didn’t get his name?” he questioned, sounding disappointed.

“No! I was busy…being…intimidated”

“We’re all…we’ve all got a lot on, love. You still- right, you’re right. I need to teach you some stuff. I’ll add it to the list” he opened the door, stepping out.

“And pack a bag!” he shouted a few moments later and you dropped your head back. Here we go.