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call-me-maggie13 · 1 year

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My late 40s to early 50s boss just asked what’s wrong with 18-25 year olds these days

And as a 21 year old all I could think was

The world has been on fire since we were born and we’ve been told the adults are putting it out and now we’re old enough to realize they’ve been pouring kerosene on the flames instead of water.

Before my first birthday, 9/11 happened and the world wouldn’t let us forget it. When I was 6 years old, on September 11th, my teacher sat us down in front of a tv and showed us footage of 9/11 and then told us we weren’t allowed to cry. She said that it was real and those were real people jumping from the building because jumping was a faster death than burning.

When I was 7 years old, the economy collapsed and my family went from lower middle class to poverty, we went from healthy home cooked meals every night to mac and cheese and beans for weeks in a row. We started skipping holidays because mom and dad couldn’t keep the lights on and buy us new toys. We started wearing clothes and shoes until they fell apart.

When I was 11 years old, Sandy Hook was attacked by a grown man with a gun and 26 children and teachers were brutally murdered. My teachers never looked at us the same and I haven’t felt safe in a school since. After that, once a month we would have active shooter drills and we were taught to fight and cause as much damage as possible if an armed man entered our classroom because it gave other classes a few extra seconds to escape, it gave our siblings a few extra breaths of safety. We were taught to cover ourselves in other students blood and play dead if we weren’t hit, we were taught that we weren’t safe and we wouldn’t be safe as long as we were in school.

When I was 15 years old, my high school art teacher locked us in the classroom and told us if we heard gunshots we should line the desks up lengthwise so that they reached the other wall because that would be harder to break through than a barricade. She told us that she knew about the threats and she wouldn’t judge any of us that wanted to leave. She told us to get our siblings and stay in the buildings as long as possible, to duck in between the cars so we couldn’t be seen until we got to ours. She told us about the trail behind the auto shop that was lined with trees and led off campus. I got my brother and his friends and we left, we spent the day sitting on the floor in my living room waiting for a phone call that the people we left behind were dying.

Two weeks later, one of my friends dragged me out of a football game and forced me to go home with him. He grabbed my brothers and my best friend and forced the six of us into a two seater car before he would tell us anything. His mom worked for the school board and had told him the police found an active bomb under the bleachers in the student section, and they weren’t informing anyone because they didn’t want to incite panic.

When I was 16 years old, ISIS set off a bomb at a pop concert in Britain and killed 22 people, injuring at least 100 more. The next day at school, our teachers went over how to stay safe if we ever experienced something like that. They told us the most important thing to remember was to not remove any shrapnel because it could be keeping us from bleeding out, they said it was more important to get yourself out safely before you worried about anyone else.

When I was 18 years old, my teachers stopped teaching and put the news up on the projector and we watched as the Notre-Dame burned. The boy I had sat next to since second grade spent the entire day trying to call his sister who was studying abroad in Paris, I watched this kid I had never even seen frown fall apart in English because she wouldn’t pick up the phone. We didn’t know it at the time, but she was okay.

Six months later, my history teacher put the news on the projector again for another fire. This time, we watched as an entire continent burned for three months. We watched their sky turned orange from the smoke and their wildlife drowned in pools because they were trying to escape the heat.

When I was 19 years old, the whole world shut down because of a global pandemic. I didn’t meet a single new person for eight months, despite the fact that I had just moved across the country. I watched as people didn’t wear masks and spread it to everyone around them, I was so scared when I went back to my room every night because my roommate was immunocompromised and I was terrified I would give her Covid and kill her.

Just two months later, I watched a video of a black man being murdered by police officers. I watched the world around me explode after George Floyd’s death, people destroying businesses and police stations. I watched some of my friends realize police officers didn’t exist to keep them safe, they existed to keep the people in power in power. I learned that some of the people I had grown up with would rather watch a black man die than admit that maybe, maybe, the system was broken.

When I was 20 years old, I went to the mall with a friend to buy a birthday present and I was pulled to the ground by a twelve-year-old girl after gunshots went off in the mall. I held this child’s hands as she cried for two hours until we were evacuated by police, and then I waited with her outside and helped her look for her mom. I gave her my phone to call her mom and I watched as she called the number over and over and never got a reply. I waited with her until a police officer took her to the station to try to find out more information about the girl’s mom, I hugged this girl I had never seen before and I wished her the best. I never found out what happened to her or her mom, it keeps me up at night sometimes worrying that this little girl was orphaned.

When I was 21 years old, I started working at a daycare and exactly a week later, Uvalde happened and I found myself crying because my students are the same age those kids were. When they came in after school the next day, one of them had asked me if I had heard about Uvalde and I told her I had, I asked her if she was scared of going to school because of it. Her reply broke my heart. “We practice for it every week so that when it happens to us, we know what to do. I’m just worried that the shooter is going to start in my baby sister’s classroom and not mine.” I listened as other students with younger siblings agreed with her, one of them saying “I would take fifty bullets, if I had to to keep my little brother safe.”

Early this year, I watched Russia launched bombs into Ukraine, blowing up churches and schools and hospitals and apartment buildings. I watched as the estimated death count rose from the hundreds to the thousands to the tens of thousands. I watched men send their wives and children to bordering countries for refuge while they stayed behind to fight, knowing they would probably never see each other again.

Just four months ago, I watched as my right to medical privacy got taken away. I watched my old roommate fall apart because she was denied the right to have her dead fetus removed from her body for almost two days, I worried every time I looked away from her that the next time I saw her would be in a casket. I watched as the women around me realized the military-grade weapons that had torn children in classrooms apart were protected by the government but our bodies weren’t.

There is nothing “wrong” with my generation, we’ve experienced all these things as children and were expected to respond with patriotism for a country that continuously sacrificed their children for the “right” to military-grade weapons, that took away my freedom of choice. We are tired, we were told the world was a wonderful place then shown, at every step, how the world was a place of destruction and pain. And we are angry. We are angry because no one but us seems to be trying to fix anything. And we are scared. We are scared because our children, our nieces and nephews, our cousins and our friends children are growing up in a world that won’t protect them.

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yelena-bellova · 10 months

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Heartfirst: A Ted Lasso Story - Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven: Christmas for Two

Plot: Away from their families, Jamie and Y/n attempt to do Christmas together.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: f!reader, language, talk of alcoholism, child abuse/neglect

A/N: A little Christmas in July/Phil Dunster Emmy nomination gift for you all! I have no clue what the timeline on s3 is, but this felt like a good place to put a Christmas chapter. I also did my best to combine English and American Christmas traditions/vernacular, hopefully did okay. Hope you enjoy!! 🎄❤️

—————

The coach’s office was a mess of ribbons and wrapping paper.

Ted gasped as he opened the box sat in his lap, “You are kiddin’ me.”

Stood in a corner of the room, Y/n beamed.

“C’mon now,” Ted pulled out the bottle of American barbecue sauce, “Where’d you find this?”

“Specialty store in Chiswick,” Y/n replied, “I was there seeing if Britain had finally caved and brought over Ben and Jerry’s. Spoiler alert: they have not.”

Ted was grinning ear to ear, “Man, this is special. Thank you, Y/n.”

On their traditional half-day of work on Christmas, the AFC Richmond staff were holding their party. Gifts were exchanged and treats were eaten. One room over, the Greyhounds were having their own celebration.

“Yes, I think you’ve got us all beat for gifts,” Rebecca said from her corner, sniffing one of the tea bags in the collection Y/n had gifted her.

“Not true,” Y/n held up a finger before holding up the spa certificate Rebecca had just handed her. “I just know the power of American barbecue.”

“And yet,” Beard held out his hands in expectation, “None for me.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, knowing how happy he actually was with the philosophy book she’d found him.

“So,” Ted drummed his hands on his desk, “What’s everybody’s plans for today?”

“The Higgins’ door will be open and ready to receive any and all weary travelers,” Higgins volunteered, “I believe most of the boys are coming.”

“I’ve got dinner with Nora and Sassy,” Rebecca said.

“Fun,” Ted said, looking over across the room, “What about you, Roy?”

“Phoebe’s got a pageant at school,” the coach replied, “Fuck knows why it wasn’t last night.”

“Nice,” Ted smiled, “Y/n?”

Y/n exhaled, “Well, my sister couldn’t come over this year, so it’ll just be dinner with a friend.”

“What about your folks?” Ted asked.

“Yeah, uh,” Y/n tried to put on a smile, “They couldn’t make it either.”

“Too bad,” Higgins empathized, “Well, if you and your friend don’t feel like cooking, there’s always room at our table.”

Y/n nodded, “Thanks.”

Things lasted another half hour or so before people began to trickle out, off to their respective plans. Y/n stayed behind, having volunteered to clean up since everyone else’s day was time sensitive. She was just tying the trash bag of wrapping paper when there was a knock.

Jamie hung on the frame that separated the coach’s offices, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Y/n set the bag in the corner of Roy’s office, “That’ll be Monday’s problem.”

Grabbing her bag of gifts and switching off the lights, Y/n glided past Jamie, who followed behind. They ducked out into the hall, some of the last people in the building.

Christmas was an off holiday for both of them. With the match against Crystal Palace that weekend, Jamie couldn’t get away to Manchester to visit his mom. And Y/n hadn’t lied when she said her sister couldn’t travel to spend the day with her, but she had lied about her parents. They had every opportunity to phone and ask her to come home, or to visit. They just chose not to.

So, with nowhere else to go, Jamie and Y/n had decided to spend the holiday together.

“Are there even any markets open on Christmas Day?” Y/n asked once they were in the parking lot.

“Yeah, I think there’s one near here,” Jamie unlocked his car door. They’d carpooled in the interest of the shopping they had planned after the party.

“I hope you thought right,” Y/n said as she climbed in the passenger seat, “Or else it’s going to be a pretty funky dinner.”

Jamie had, indeed, guessed right. There was one market open for half a day in Richmond for the cooks who’d forgotten that one ingredient. Y/n and Jamie, however, were starting completely from scratch.

“Okay,” Jamie tugged on one of the shopping trolleys and swung it around, “What do we need?”

“Everything,” Y/n stated, “You ever cooked a Christmas dinner?”

“Uh, no,” he replied, “You? We’re fucked if you say no.”

Y/n scanned the rows of aisles, unsure of where to start. “No, I have. It’s just been a while. Like, not-since-America while.”

Jamie puffed out his cheeks, “Right.”

“Okay,” Y/n clapped her hands together, “Turkey. Main attraction. Let’s start there.”

Down the aisle where the entrees should have been, there was an empty case. A few lonesome birds were still chilling, but it was clear all the good ones had been chosen long ago.

“So we’ve either got a fuckin’ Goliath,” Jamie held up a massive turkey in one arm, then the smallest in his other, “Or its baby.”

Y/n crinkled her nose at the colorful description. “I mean, that one’s meant for way more than two people,” she pointed to the first option, “It’s not like we need leftovers.“

Jamie nodded, that was true. Roy had allowed him one cheat day for the holidays, the free pass ended at 12AM, December 26th. But be was determined to enjoy the one meal.

“So the baby?” Jamie held up the small bird.

“If you stop calling it that,” Y/n grabbed the cart, “Yes.”

Jamie laughed cheekily, setting the turkey in the basket. “Right, what else?”

“Stuffing, potatoes, something for dessert,” Y/n listed items off her mental menu. She glanced over at Jamie, “Really hope we can cook.”

They went around the rest of the store, picking leftovers off the barren shelves. Unfortunately, that left either the specialty items or the nearly expired dishes, which was how they ended up with the most expensive potatoes, gluten free stuffing mix and a pudding that was on its sell-by date.

“Who was your secret Santa?” Y/n asked as they passed the wine aisle.

“Dani,” Jamie answered, “Why?”

Y/n stopped and backtracked her steps, reaching for the first bottle of red wine she saw. She’d stopped by the locker room on occasions where the Greyhounds won and had caught a whiff of the strong Mexican liquor Dani favored. A world didn’t exist where she felt like subjecting her stomach to that.

“Smart,” Jamie agreed as she popped the drink in the trolley.

They managed to get in and out quick enough that the only person who recognized Jamie was the cashier, who didn’t do more than wish him luck on the upcoming match. Y/n wasn’t used to worrying about being photographed, but she knew that any time she stepped out with Jamie, there was a chance of it.

As they loaded the bags into the boot of Jamie’s car, Y/n caught one lone present, wrapped and tied with a ribbon, pushed to the side.

“Did you forget someone today?”

“Huh?” Jamie hummed. Y/n pointed to the box. “Ah, no,” he shut the boot before she could get a better look and smirked, “That’s for later.”

Y/n pursed her lips a little, smiling as Jamie walked the cart back to its station.

“Alright,” he said as they got back in the car, “We doin’ this at my place or yours?”

Y/n thought for a second, “Do you even know how to use your kitchen?”

“Course I do,” Jamie paused a second, “I mean…pretty sure.”

“Uh-huh,” Y/n chuckled, “My place it is. That, or we ask Sam for the keys to the restaurant.”

Jamie backed the car out of its spot, “Think we need to have a bit more confidence for that.”

Y/n agreed silently, before her thoughts fell to the inevitable. A few weeks prior, during the whole Twitter fiasco, Sam’s restaurant had been broken into and destroyed. The night of the Arsenal match, the boys had all gone over to repair it, surprising Sam. Y/n had yet to see it in its restored glory.

“I feel like we got a pretty good handle, though,” Jamie interrupted her thoughts, “We got the meal, the crackers, place’ll be all decorated…”

Hoping his eyes were more focused on the road then her, Y/n grimaced.

“Yeah,” she said, “That’s, uh…”

“What?” Jamie asked.

“I’m not…totally decorated,” Y/n struggled to get out.

“You’ve got a tree at least, yeah?” Jamie replied.

Silence.

Fate bestowed him a red light, and Jamie turned to Y/n with widened eyes. “You haven’t got a tree? The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“I’ve been busy,” Y/n defended the decision, “I’ve barely been home between the away games and working late. There wasn’t much of a point in getting one.”

Jamie let his hand smack against the steering wheel, “Unbelievable.”

“Wha- you don’t have one either,” Y/n argued. There’d been a stunning lack of Christmas cheer in Jamie’s house the last week when he’d been appointed to host the monthly team dinner.

“That’s different,” Jamie put his foot to the gas as the car behind him honked.

“How?” Y/n laughed.

Jamie shrugged, “I dunno. You’re you. Figured you’d be one of those people who’s decoratin’ the day after Halloween.”

In another life, that was her. Y/n had been all over Christmas in her younger years. Every holiday was a speed bump in getting to December 24th and 25th. But once she’d graduated and started her corporate life, it became less and less of a big deal. If it was a year Caylee came to visit, she’d dust off decorations and make a show of it, but it just seemed sad to do it all on her own.

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint,” Y/n smiled, ignoring the particular bit of backstory she didn’t feel like sharing.

“You’re not,” Jamie replied as he signaled to get into the next lane, “‘Cause we’re fixin’ this.”

Y/n looked out the window, the turn that would’ve been theirs was drifting further and further away. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Ten minutes later, Jamie was pulling the car into a Christmas tree lot. Or rather, what once was a Christmas tree lot.

“Can’t believe these places are even open today,” Y/n commented as they walked up to the shop.

“They’re here for the sad sacks who wait till the last minute,” Jamie remarked smugly, nudging Y/n’s elbow with his.

Like the market, the lot was sparse. The only trees left were either the type that shed its needles if you breathed on it or the ones that were already turning brown.

“I’m not overwhelmed by our options,” Y/n said, scanning the rows over again.

“Hang on,” Jamie climbed behind one of the half-dead ones, having spotted a flash of green as he’d passed. He pulled out a miniature one that barely went up to his waist.

“It truly is a Charlie Brown Christmas,” Y/n remarked, smiling at the juxtaposition between Jamie’s size and the tree.

“I mean, it is going in the bin tomorrow, innit?” Jamie picked up the glorified shrub and brought it to the poor worker stuck there on Christmas Day. “We’ll take this one.”

“And we’ll just stick it in the car,” Y/n added, catching Jamie’s confusion and whispering, “We are not making him go to the trouble of tying a houseplant to the roof.”

As Y/n handed the worker a few bills, Jamie spotted a small stack of ornaments and stands for sale as well. He grabbed one of each and pulled a few pounds out his wallet, adding to the total.

“Thank you,” Y/n said to the man, “Merry Christmas.”

Jamie looked proud as they walked back to the car, “Now it’s Christmas.”

Y/n couldn’t argue with him.

—————————

Once they got back to Y/n’s place, Jamie took over unpacking the groceries, while Y/n dug through the hall closet to find some lights for the tree.

“Oi,” Jamie called down the hallway, holding the box of stuffing, “We can still cook this normal, yeah? We don’t have to do anything different.”

“I would think,” Y/n yelled back, waist deep in old boxes, “It’s just bread.”

Jamie went back to the kitchen, he remembered his way around from when they’d unpacked it months ago. The only thing that had changed was the light fixture.

“That’s new,” he said, hearing Y/n’s footsteps approaching.

“Oh, yeah,” she replied, setting an old strand of multicolored lights on the counter, “Ted helped me install it last week. Couple shocks…mostly Ted, but we got it up.”

Jamie chuckled.

“Okay,” Y/n looked to the pile of food beside the stove, “I’ll do the turkey, you start on sides?”

Giving a little salute, Jamie went about grabbing bowls and spoons. Y/n pre-heated the oven and took the turkey out of its wrapping.

“Ugh,” she groaned, peeking inside the bird, “I forgot how disgusting this part is.”

Jamie glanced over and scoffed, “Nope.”

Y/n shut her eyes as she reached in and pulled out the giblets, nearly gagging as she did.

“Carry on with that,” Jamie teased, making a show of pouring in the very dry stuffing mix, “I’ll stay doing this.”

Annoyed, and slightly jealous, Y/n cupped the unmentionable parts of the turkey in her hands and approached Jamie.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he held up a wooden spoon as if it were a shield, “Get away. There’s probably, like, four different bird diseases in there.”

“Yep,” Y/n continued walking towards him, “Don’t get smug in my kitchen, or you’ll be benched with three of them.”

Jamie held up his hands in defeat, “Truce.”

The two of them snorted and snickered before carrying on with their tasks.

It all flowed rather well. Even though they were lacking in skill, Y/n and Jamie felt good about how well everything seemed to be going. In between mixing and flipping, they managed to get the tree in its stand and start decorating. As Jamie was finishing with the ornaments, Y/n popped over to check the turkey, surprised by what she found.

“Shit,” she exclaimed, reaching for the oven mitts.

“What?” Jamie called.

Hurriedly, she opened the oven door and pulled the bird out. The outer layer was far beyond well done, looking tough and chewy.

Jamie entered then, puzzled, but chuckling. “Thought you said you knew how to cook a dinner.”

“I do,” Y/n replied, her voice jumping an octave, “With a much bigger bird. This is a pigeon!”

Jamie was full on laughing by then, covering his mouth.

“Oh, yeah, Padma Lakshmi,” Y/n retorted with a smirk, “Smell that?”

The air was thick with the scent of something burning, and it wasn’t the meat. Jamie pushed past Y/n to get to the stuffing and potatoes he’d put on. Determining the stuffing was the cause of the scent, he switched the burner off and attempted to scoop it out of the pot.

What came out was one giant clump, burnt to a crisp on the bottom and around the edges.

Y/n snorted as she set the turkey on the counter, hand on her hip as she watched Jamie work up a reply. When he came up with nothing, holding the burnt blob on an oversized fork, the two of them fell into a fit of laughter.

In the spirit of Christmas magic, they were able to salvage the dinner. They scooped out the good stuffing, trimmed the chewy parts of the turkey off, and agreed the potatoes were the only dish that looked semi-normal.

After, with their paper crowns on their heads, Jamie and Y/n sat on opposite ends of the couch, still amused at their efforts.

“I think we did pretty good,” Jamie gestured to his chest.

Y/n made a doubtful noise, “We’re a ways away from opening our own Ola’s.”

“We’re keeping takeaways in business,” Jamie replied, “Think about it that way.”

“Oh, that we are,” Y/n smiled, taking a sip of wine, “That we are. And hey, you got to eat.”

Jamie slapped a hand over his sated stomach, “Don’t know if my body’s knows what to do with it.”

Y/n laughed before Jamie smacked his hands together. “Right, time for gifts.”

Y/n stayed in her spot, “That’s assuming I got you anything.”

Jamie looked back from the front door, shooting her a quirked eyebrow. Y/n smiled and got up, like there was a chance in hell she’d have neglected to get him something.

They each went to retrieve the gifts, meeting back on the couch. Jamie was holding the mystery box he’d had stashed in his trunk.

“You first,” he said as they swapped packages.

Y/n unwrapped the square, nearly holding her breath as she took off the box’s lid. Peeling back the tissue paper revealed-

“Oh, good Lord.”

Jamie was somewhere between a grin and a smirk. Whatever it was, he wore it proudly.

Y/n held up the #9 ‘Tartt’ jersey and smirked at Jamie. “Really?”

“You’re gonna work at a football club, you gotta have a kit,” Jamie shrugged.

“And it had to be #9, huh?” Y/n quirked an eyebrow, “Couldn’t have been Colin or Sam’s?”

Jamie scoffed, “They ain’t your favorite.”

Y/n let out a single laugh, “What makes you think you are?”

“Don’t see either of them sittin’ here on Christmas with ya,” Jamie replied, “In a flat they found for ya, eatin’ a dinner they cooked with ya.”

It was hard not to laugh at Jamie’s cockiness. Behind the raging over-confidence, there was something sweet behind the gesture that Y/n could appreciate.

“Well,” Y/n set the jersey back in the box, “I’m not wearing it to matches.”

“Oh, why not?” Jamie asked unseriously.

“Because I’m there for all of you,” Y/n smirked, “And if I’m wearing anyone’s shirt, it’ll be Roy’s.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jamie moaned. Roy and Y/n had bonded on the mornings she joined them for training. The two of them took such joy in torturing Jamie.

Y/n set the Tartt box to the side and handed Jamie his gift. He went about unwrapping it, a little speechless when he removed the last of the paper.

“This from last week’s match?” He asked.

“Mm-hm,” Y/n hummed, hugging her legs to her chest.

In a thick silver frame was a picture of the Greyhounds on the pitch at Nelson Road. Sam, Jamie and Isaac were the most prominently featured. Sam had just scored a goal and a heap of the players were celebrating. It was a perfect representation of the brotherhood they carried with them on and off the field.

“One of the photographers snapped it and I asked him to send it to me,” Y/n explained, “I noticed you didn’t have any pictures up at your place, thought this could be the first one.”

Jamie’s home decor was less than personal. His first few years in the Premier League hadn’t come with many close relationships, his own fault. Most of his family pictures were tainted with memories of something that had happened the days they were taken involving his dad. That didn’t leave him many options.

But this, Jamie thought as he weighed the frame in his hand, this was special. Not only was it his team, his mates, his place in the world, but Y/n had seen the value of it all.

Jamie looked up at her, the corners of his lips tugging upwards, “I love it.”

Y/n grinned, shopping for everyone had been stressful. It had been a long time since she’d had to choose personal gifts, and there’d been a part of her that wanted to throw away the whole gesture. But she’d pushed past her instincts, choosing to give into sentiment. One look at how touched Jamie and the others had been told her it had been worth it.

“Well,” Jamie set the frame on the coffee table, next to his kit, “We can call this a win, yeah?”

“For sure,” Y/n said, reaching out to clink her wine glass against Jamie’s, “Best makeshift Christmas ever.”

“Yeah,” Jamie cackled.

“Best Christmas you’ve ever had?” Y/n asked, “Go.”

Jamie blew out a breath, thinking back. The last few holidays had been spent either in Manchester with his mum or on his own. Two years before, when he was back at Man City, he’d ended up with his dad for part of the day, which left him miserable. If he was being honest, the last Christmas Jamie had truly enjoyed was the one he was currently celebrating.

“Eh, probably when I were a kid,” he answered, “Forget how old I was, but it was the first year I remember being really into football. Me mum got me my first kit.”

Y/n looked over her wineglass, “Was it Roy’s?”

Jamie sighed, glaring softly at her, “Not the point.”

Y/n chortled.

“It was one year me dad was too drunk to remember what day it were,” Jamie went on, his eyes falling on the wall as the memories hit, “Spent the whole day worried he was gonna show up, but…never did. By dinner, I think even mum knew he weren’t coming ‘round, and everything just sorta…relaxed, y’know? Didn’t feel like Christmas till then.”

Jamie’s blue eyes melted into some sort of sad resignation. It was a piece of his history that still hurt, but enough time had passed to see the silver lining, if there was one to be found. He wouldn’t have told the story to anyone else, but this was Y/n. She understood.

Y/n smiled softly, feeling the melancholia. “And you went to bed wearing your little Roy Kent jersey?”

Jamie’s smile came back, thankful for the change in tone. “Fuck you,” he replied, downing the last of his wine, “Right, what’s yours?”

Y/n sighed, like Jamie, there weren’t many to pick from. “Probably when I was eleven. My parents were hosting some party and they pawned me and my sister off on our grandparents. I think they could see that they had zero interest in being with us or giving us a good Christmas, so they went overboard. My grandma got me and Caylee in the kitchen cooking with her,” Y/n glanced at the kitchen where the remnants of dinner sat, “Clearly none of the skills stuck with me. My grandpa had all the movies playing, he tried to keep us laughing as much as he could.”

Taking a breath, Y/n continued, “I remember Caylee and I wrote this Christmas play before dinner. There was a lot of dancing and a lot of off-key singing,” she laughed, Jamie snorted, “But…damn it if our grandparents weren’t up on their feet clapping as if we’d just done Hamlet.”

Though shitty parents came as no surprise to Jamie, he was still a bit shocked. His voice was soft as he asked, “They really just left you?”

Y/n nodded, hugging herself, “Most years.”

The two of them sat in silence, their mutual history sitting in the gap between their bodies. The holidays amplified the best in the world, goodwill and generosity, but for those already hurting, the ever-present loneliness only intensified.

“Don’t know why people have kids if they don’t want ‘em,” Jamie mused, his eyes flitting to Y/n.

She shrugged, her hand curled against her lips. “I’ve been asking myself that since I was old enough to. Haven’t found an answer yet.”

In the moment their eyes met, Y/n and Jamie were struck by just how similar they really were. They’d known it already, it was one of the reasons they got along so well, but it felt like there was a different reality to it. Another layer peeled back, another piece of themselves they were entrusting to the other. And, above all other things, it was safe.

Y/n sniffled, wiping a stray tear away, “This is getting depressing. It’s Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Jamie cleared his throat.

Climbing off the sofa, Y/n went over to the kitchen bar and grabbed her Bluetooth speaker. She connected her phone and pulled up her Christmas playlist.

Jamie watched from his spot on the couch as she slid over to him, hand extended. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going to dance,” Y/n replied, “And we’re going to celebrate the fact that it’s Christmas and we’re somewhere better than we’ve been.”

If it were another day, Jamie wouldn’t have hesitated to make some joke of what Y/n had said. How of course it was better, because he was there. But all he really wanted to do, and what he did do, was take her hand, anchor them together and dance to whatever overly cheery song was playing.

All over Richmond, the uplifting mood was hitting its peak. Ted was on the phone with Henry, sharing his dinner and his son’s lunch, talking about what Santa had brought. Rebecca was giggling with Nora and Sassy at a five star restaurant. Keeley was seated at a full family table at her mother’s. Roy was with his sister, applauding Phoebe as her and her classmates took their bows. Beard was helping Leslie carve a massive turkey as Sam, Dani, Jan, and the rest of the Greyhounds sat around foldout tables. Y/n and Jamie were giggling uncontrollably as he picked her up and spun her around, the sounds of Nat King Cole filling the flat.

For all of them, it was Christmas to remember.

—————

Heartfirst Taglist: @lalla-04p @optimisticsandwichgladiator @makingmunson94 @taytaylala12 @storysimp @sokkigarden @lightninginab0ttle @poohkie90 @alipap3 @verra-nerevarine @shineforever19 @spaceagechimera @burnafter-reading @qardasngan @cyberpvnk-enthusiast @sogoodtoheritsvicious @buckybarnex @angelsunflxwer @blueanfield @thewildestwonderland @sablecities @oxxolovemelikeyoudooxxo @strawberryacethingz @mentalistfan @tortilla-maria1 @katdahlali @for-fuck-sake-im-alive @glitterquadricorn @jamieolivia27 @imvibin69 @katlizada @lil-tracys @fanaticalfantasist @heyitz-julia @cactajuice @peachyy-tea @notalxx @rockchickrebel @anxiety-prime-max @loveforaugust @jellycolors @actuallybarb @heletsmelovehim @lovinnscarletknight @imfalling-inlove @leslieiscrying @meg-ro @littlemisssunshine192 @beboldbebravethings @maydayfigment @spencerreidsbookclub @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @lemoonandlestars

#ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso imagine #ted lasso fic #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt imagine #heartfirst

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elfenbensord · 7 months

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remus lupin masterlist

*=requested

series

these days -> coming soon!

goodbye stranger -> discontinued

four weddings and a funeral

fics

>1 k words

star crossed lovers

good old-fashioned lover boy

when we met*

our last summer*

moonlight*

could have been*

happy new year

christmas morning

good

lovely sights on saturday mornings

take a chance on me*

please mister postman

reasons of sentiment*

like like love*

sense and sensibility

the time the moon fell in love with the stars*

paper cut secrets*

i promise you*

cold hands and nice hearts*

just friends -> part two

a lot can be done in thirty minutes

blurbs

<1 k words

fluff

lovebug -- new!

bedroom

exam season

favourite jumper

alright

take my hand and i’ll be home

engagement ring

take care

morning

jealous

bubble bath

polaroids

your touch

the smell of coffee in the morning

exploring a new city

morning routine

pet peeves

real wine

worst cook in all of britain

l’chaim

fever

when the moon fell in love with the sun

marry me on a sunday morning

frozen peas

hersey’s kiss

angst

“if you left me now”

safe

the most handsome

good enough

goodbye

“i don’t know what i’d do without you”

best friends to lovers to memory

risqué

“i would very much like you without your shirt right now”

suit up

wanting kids

dinner

“how much did you miss me?”

“i was getting bored of watching pidgeons anyways”

hands

concentration

“after you, mrs. lupin”

first time

#remus lupin x reader #young!remus lupin imagine #remus lupin #young!remus lupin #remus lupin x you #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fic #the marauders #the marauders x reader #marauders era #young!remus lupin x reader #x reader #sirius black x reader #sirius black #james potter x reader #james potter

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amasugiyuusaku · 8 months

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Ace Attorney Prosecutor Headcanons: Which Ones Would I Let Babysit My Child

What it says on the tin. Unhinged ramblings

Miles Edgeworth? No, probably not. It would depend on what point in the timeline, but likely a no. He is just too likely to get entirely absorbed in something and not notice your kid falling in the toilet or sticking forks into electrical appliances. Maybe for just a couple hours. It'd be funny to watch him playing, like, Candy Land.

Franziska Von Karma? Actually, depending on the kid, sure. I bet she's better with kids than you think. She would probably take them horseback riding or something really cool and rich person that they would remember forever. However she would also 100% make your kid tuna salad and when they complained about it, she'd be like THEN STARVE!

Godot? No. Nope. Absolutely not. He would literally immediately forget the child existed. If he did happen to remember he would forget they are a child and let them just like, attempt to fry bacon on the stove at age 5. The house would be burned to the ground when you got back and he would just be like How morbid a sight when the flames from Hell encroach upon our mortal plane. Almost as dark as my coffee

Klavier? Yes! Yes, absolutely! Klavier would be the kind of babysitter kids adore and call their friend. I mean come on who wouldn't love to hang out with a rock star while your parents are away? And bonus for the parents, he's actually responsible?? Fantastic. He would teach the kids to play guitar and they would write songs together and he'd put them all on an EP for their birthdays.

Simon Blackquill? For an older child, I actually wouldn't be too against it. He's snarky and not particularly tender, but he is a very caring person and I also think he would be enjoyable to converse with if you were old enough to keep up with him. He would put on old-timey samurai movies when they got tired of talking. Also, if a burglar broke in, he would absolutely kick that burglar's ass.

Nahyuta Sahdmadhi? Nope. No thank you. Those kids would be in bed with lights out at 7pm, all vegetables eaten, and crayons put away in the order of the rainbow, and the kids would HATE him for it. Definitely the type of sitter to pull out the big lectures when kids are misbehaving rather than save it for the parents to deal with. Also, I do NOT trust him not to make a child cry. Like what if the kid was like HEy wHy aReN'T yOu mArRieD yET??? You CANNOT tell me nahyuta wouldn't just be like Idk timothy, why do you still wear diapers? 🤭🤭oop! In his defense though he would absolutely play Candy Land with enthusiasm

Sebastian Debeste is the baby

Barok van Zieks? I can't decide. I think he would do his best but the unfortunate reality is that his sheer presence might traumatize a child for life. Also since he is from you know 20th century Britain I feel like his bar is kind of low for caretaking and he'd probably be like Oh yes i let her go across town a couple hours ago, i gave her money, she will be home before the sun sets! However at the same time I also feel like he's secretly a hobbyist cook and makes them a nice dinner and then afterward stokes a roaring fire in the hearth and reads Grimms' Fairy Tales

#ace attorney #hcs #headcanons #ace attorney headcanons #babysitting #miles edgeworth #franziska von karma #godot #klavier gavin #simon blackquill #nahyuta sahdmadhi #sebastian debeste #barok van zieks #this is so goofy

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sabosbabygirl · 1 year

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Here’s my take on How I think Simon Ghost Riley would treat you plus a lil bit abt SAS.

I’m military, so I’m using my knowledge, have seen and what I have actually researched

Simon is my favorite Britain

Also idk why ppl keep saying “i wish british ppl existed?!” Like they do…fictional ppl don’t 😔

First off SAS is one of theeeee best special forces teams in the World. The US equivalent would be the Army Delta Force (the unit).

The SAS go through physical and mentally exhausting trainings. Only the fittest, hardest and most resourceful soldiers become part of the SAS.

SAS is real and is British lol. Its not made up. In fact most of the CoD stuff is real minus the operators and respawning after dying lol.

Lets dive into how he would treat you:

-Ghost and Simon same guy but different. Ghost is the job version. While Simon is your sweet honeybun.

-I will forever say this but NO HE DOES NOT WEAR THE MASK OUTSIDE WORK..any special forces personnel that does is stupid tbh. Bc that is risking his entire life, family, friends, etc.

-The man drinks bourbon. It is said, and I’ve researched this, that people that drink bourbon are: unique, passionate, complex and free spirits. I mean the man dumped a dude in a garbage can after killing him..thats free spirited enough for me.

-He is an old soul. He may be in his mid 30s but he has a wealthy amount of knowledge. Another perk to being an old soul is once his eyes are on you, they are only on you.

-Observant. That one dress you like but in a different color, he’d notice. The new hairstyle, he’d be first to compliment you. He is observant to every detail. All your scars, freckles, curves, all of it. As a special forces personnel they have to be observant and aware of their surroundings.

-Loyal. The man is SAS, loyal to his country..so why would he not be loyal to you?!

-Having a bad day and he’s not there, the florist down the shop got his message and will be bringing you flowers. Having a bad day and he is home: he got off early and raced home. Made your favorite tea, started your bath, ordered pizza and has that scented candle on.

-Passionate! The man loves his job. You can tell by way he performs execution moves and the way he shoots perfectly. But that also translates outside the field. He is passionate towards you. Expressing his love whether it be through sex, taking care of the house, cooking or as simple as “did you eat, my love?”.

-Expert at many things. You need your car fixed, he’ll do it (just don’t ask him to drive it), need a new coat of paint on the walls, he’s there with a roller brush. That dishwasher is leaking, he’s got his tools out ready to be your bob the fixer or whatever.

-Sex is great! When the man goes on missions, tbh, the chances of him having time, whether it be actual time or alone time to masturbate to you is probably slim. But once he is home. Its game over. That pussy is his and he’ll be swimming in it all night long.

-Honestly he’s a good man. Claims to have a cold heart but considering his past trauma and his SAS experience, I don’t blame him for having a wall up. But once he meets you, he will tear that shit down and settle with you.

#cod mw2 #cod mw2 headcanons #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost x you #ghost x reader #light read on ghost #ghost is baby

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jamiesfootball · 1 month

Note

🌹🌹!!!!

What if my brain continued spinning the wheels about the mess I left in that other prompt fic, and instead of letting me work on anything else I had to write more Sam-hugs? What then?

And then what if I just. released them piecemeal.

Part one here

Other small scene here

What if there was now a chapter count-?

Sam had a smile that could light up the room on the best of days, but the way he beamed when he opened the door could brighten up the whole of Britain through a long winter. Jamie’s heart flopped uselessly in his chest, unable to muster up the same back. “‘Ey, twenty-four. Not too late for you, am I?” “Not at all,” Sam reassured, and then he was stepping forward to wrap Jamie in another hug. Two Obisanya hugs in a day. Not that Jamie minded. Most of the time it was Jamie cadging for scraps, but he supposed even Sam had moments where he needed help minding the gaps where the ugly stuff bled through. A nasty voice in the back of his head reminded him that he hadn’t earned it, hadn’t even scored any goals during their last match on account of the- But he didn’t want to think about that with Sam tucked up against his chest. That could wait 'til he got home. For now, all he had to do was help Sam. When Sam pulled away, having had his fill, he clapped Jamie’s on the shoulder. Jamie bit down the yelp on his tongue. “Although you should have called,” Sam admonished, wagging his finger with an air of disappointment that was transparently fake. “Seriously. I was worried. Any longer and I would have had to call Roy.”

Jamie snorted. “Ain’t you feeling cheeky? Nah, man, traffic was a nightmare,” he lied. “Brought this for us though?”

At the offered chardonnay, Sam cooed. It was his favorite brand too - something he described as buttery, which Jamie figured meant dry and cloying. He'd made himself late by having to swing by the shops, but he was working apology on top of apology here. Besides, it was worth it to have Sam waving him inside, quickly, we have just enough time to let it chill before dinner.

Jamie stepped inside, quickly. The whole house smelled amazing. Sam had something cooking on the stove, and the aroma of it set his mouth watering. All the lights were dimmed, but the space felt bright. He had pictures everywhere, and big paintings on the wall that were probably from all those local art shows he attended, and every piece of furniture had it's own blanket thrown over it like surviving the winter was going to be a team effort. This, despite Sam keeping the place a little warmer than most people liked it in London. Nice and toasty -- Jamie didn't think twice of sliding off his coat. He slung it on the hook by the door, right next to Sam's new bomber jacket.

Then he went to slide off his shoes and his knees buckled out from under him. A shocked noise escaped as he caught himself against the side table.

"Did you say something?" asked Sam, leaning out of the kitchen with a corkscrew wielded in one hand and the bottle in the other.

"Slipped," Jamie answered.

Sam disappeared back into the kitchen. Jamie shook his head at himself.

He wasn't dehydrated. Sure, his stomach was growling all of the sudden, but it wasn't like he'd skipped his smoothie that morning. Could barely exercise until he was cleared by the physios, could he, and the handful of injuries-

Well. None of them were on his knees, were they?

Fucking weird.

The weirdness didn't end there. Soon as he sat down at the table - Sam, feeling himself an extra cheeky lad that evening, pulled his chair out for him - it slapped Jamie in the face.

He was tired.

Scratch that, he was exhausted.

Surrounded by soothing kitchen music, the smell of baked bread ("We won't tell, Coach."), and half a glass of chilled wine ("We will tell, Coach."), every scrap of tension holding him upright had suddenly vanished. All he wanted to do was lie down under the table and take a nap.

His breath hitched.

Mortified, he glanced over his shoulder, certain that Sam had heard it. A wave of dizziness crashed into him as he realised he hoped Sam had heard it. Because Sam would have something nice to say about it, wouldn't he? Sam with his endless patience for Jamie's unending string of messes and his endless tolerance until Jamie had done whatever he had done. That Sam would take one look at Jamie -- and look at the mess he'd made; no way his face was hiding anything right now -- and his head would tilt and his face would soften into something that looked like pity and he would tell Jamie something nice because Jamie needed it. He needed it more than water and protein shakes and bread and cold wine and the painkillers that wore off hours ago except he couldn't have them in the house any more.

Sam had something nice to say about everything under the sun.

More than anything right now, Jamie could use a little sun.

Instead, Sam ladled a bowl of something that smelled- fuck, delicious, and said with low hint of regret in his voice, "I think we should discuss what happened at the match."

#my dinner went cold writing this #rose for a snippet #writing snippet #sam obisanya #jamie tartt #cw food #cw implied jamie's dad #post injury #fic: I'm a fine line on a razor's edge #that's right we're at titling now #(though that is the partial title. I'm not having another OGYGGIYHNBGL to type)

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ang3lik · 1 year

Note

Hi, can I request a 💛 (sfw) for Britain Dalton

Letters are B, D, T

and yes, I am the anon who did the previous request 😅

😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘😘

he’s literally so scrumptious and gorgeous, i love him! 💗

(britain dalton x all!reader)

𝐁 = 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 (what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?)

britain would be a very supportive best friend. always cheering you in from the sidelines, very easy to talk to, he’s a really good listener and he’s just always there for you. you were definitely introduced through mutual friends and he was quite shy and reluctant but slowly and surely he got more comfortable talking to you.

𝐃 = 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 (do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?)

you have a pretty good couple dynamic so whatever he doesn’t do you and vice versa. but he likes having someone like you he can rely on and not have the eight of having to do it all on his own like cooking, cleaning etc. he does know how to cook and clean but sometimes he just doesn’t want to do it. he likes when you cook for him though and he’ll do the dishes afterwards.

𝐓 = 𝐓𝐫𝐲 (how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

britain really just loves to stay inside and chill out together. he hates having to get dress up and go out and have it all planned out. he likes to be spontaneous and sometimes he might come home with flowers or takeout so you can have a small date or sometimes you might come home to a candlelit dinner and a movie. but on special days like anniversaries and birthdays etc. YOU ARE SPOILEDDD WITH GIFTS!!

#★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ★#✘ — angie answers #— celebrations ִ ࣪𖤐 #britain dalton #britain dalton fluff #britain dalton angst #britain dalton imagine #britain dalton x reader #💛 blue banisters #all!reader #gn!reader #male!reader #trans!reader #female!reader #nonbinary!reader #black!reader #latina!reader #asian!reader #plus size!reader

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bridenore · 1 year

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Author rec : Xanthippe74

Xanthippe74 is one of my favorite authors. Here are a few recs, listed in alphabetical order.

The Comfiest Armchair by @xanthippe74 [2k]

In which Harry and Draco won't stop fighting over the best armchair in the Eighth-Year common room, Hermione takes matters into her own hands, and Harry sees a (ahem) side of Draco that he's never seen before.

Crimson Neon by @xanthippe74 [20k]

Winter, 1999. Harry thought going to New York would help him get his head on straight, but all he has to show for it are sore feet and a fridge full of takeaway containers. And now he’s homesick on top of everything else. It doesn’t help that his mysterious neighbour in 2C keeps cooking dishes that remind Harry of home and all the people he lost or left behind.

Follow the Water by @xanthippe74 [38k]

Harry Potter’s life is fine. Maybe a little dull and predictable, but he shouldn’t complain about that, right? When he unexpectedly finds himself at Luna’s house one afternoon, Harry gets invited to join the secret wonderland that she’s creating with a surprising group of friends. Maybe a summer outdoors is just what a former hero needs to bring some zest back into his life.

I Won’t Let You Fall Apart by @xanthippe74 [49k]

Harry has spent the year after the war staying out of the public eye, dodging political battles, and standing firm against pressure from his friends. But he has a secret plan to get away from it all. He just needs to testify at one more Death Eater trial: Draco Malfoy’s.

Little does Harry know what his act of compassion will cost him—and Malfoy.

The Last of What the World Left You by @xanthippe74 [25k]

If the wizarding world won’t give Draco a second chance, he has a plan to survive: live in his Animagus form, a carrion crow, in the Forbidden Forest. Not only does Harry Potter come along and ruin it, he’s radiating a strange aura of power. With nowhere to go and a Life-Debt to his mother that Potter insists on repaying, Draco puts himself into the hands of the reclusive Boy Who Lived. Will the bleak corner of Yorkshire where Potter makes his home be another dead end or an unexpected refuge?

On Your Shore by @xanthippe74 [35k]

Clearing out a remote house full of cursed collectibles in the Outer Hebrides? Not a problem for an experienced curse breaker like Harry Potter. Spending a week with the straight, happily-married man that he’s starting to have feelings for? And sharing a bed with him at night? Surely Harry can handle that, too. But both the house and Draco Malfoy have secrets to uncover, and Harry might be in deeper water than he thought.

Safe As Houses by @xanthippe74 [24k]

After five years abroad, Harry’s thrilled to be home and working at the most prestigious ward-building firm in Britain. But everything gets turned upside down when he’s assigned to work for Draco Malfoy—who somehow grew up to be just the sort of sexy bastard Harry goes for. As if that isn’t enough, Malfoy seems strangely on edge, his wards are a mess, and Harry keeps feeling like he’s being watched in the garden. It’s going to take all of Harry’s ward-crafting skills—and self-restraint—to help Malfoy feel safe in his own home again.

Statues Crumble by @xanthippe74 [13k]

Between one war and the next, Draco has lost his parents, his home, and his menial Ministry job. All he has left is the secret (and anonymous) work he does to help Harry Potter overthrow another government—oh, and that statue he stole from the Ministry Atrium.

This Heart Shut Wide by @xanthippe74 [4k]

It’s New Year’s Eve and Draco refuses to talk to anyone at this wretched party in the Eighth-Year common room. He’s going to ignore Harry Potter and not think about snogging him in the staircase earlier. And he’s definitely not going to let himself fuck up both their lives by continuing the reckless game they’re playing.

As usual, nothing goes according to Draco’s plan.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

#my recs #drarry #drarry recs #author rec

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tellthemeerkatsitsfine · 1 month

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Finished work today. Friday night, get to go home and not immediately start calculating how many hours I have to cook and eat and wash dishes and shower and then get some extra time by myself before I have to go to bed early enough to not be exhausted and miserable the next day. Excited to not have to do that. Get home, my roommate and best friend of 20 years suggests we go have dinner at the pub around the corner. A mutual friend I haven’t seen in months wants to join us later. I am trying to have a social life again and excited about seeing this friend so I go out.

Get to the pub. Eat food. First hour of dinner is spent with my roommate telling me about the meetings he’s been having with the top sports execs in the country this week, to make plans for the athlete from our team who’s trying to qualify for the Olympics. My roommate is flying to Turkey in May to coach her at a qualifier. I am genuinely, incredibly excited for him. And for her. For the team. They’re bringing in the top coaches and athletes from all over the country to work with our team.

We finish food and he runs out of stories and orders his third pint and I’m just drinking water, and he asks me what my updates are on my life, and I am suddenly hit with how incredibly depressing it feels that I have no updates. I have a trip to Britain in the summer that is the only thing on my calendar and I am so so looking forward to that but I don’t have anything between now and then. Don’t have anything from this week. Every day I got home from work planning to go for a run and then was too tired from the long hours so I didn’t. He asked me if I’ve seen any comedy nights lately (which he is not remotely interested in – earlier in my comedy obsession I spent more time telling him about the comedy stuff, but I’ve stopped doing that as it is very much not a shared interest, I pretty much made this Tumblr blog to put my comedy thoughts somewhere besides telling him about it), and I replied that a couple of people I like were performing at a nearby pub yesterday and I planned to go see them, but I left for work at 7:30 AM and got home at 7:30 PM and would have had to leave again immediately to get there and was too tired so I didn’t. And I’ve picked a career field where the based case scenario after moving up is more money than I make now but still not enough money to live comfortably, and not a point where it gets easier.

And the difference is that for all these years I always had big goals and big things to look forward to because I was invested in the sport, and I am trying again, I’m planning to go to practice this Sunday for the first time in months. I decided to take this season off to re-evaluate if it’s what I want to do, and what I learned is that when I don’t have it I have no purpose in life so it’s probably worth all the bad things, so now that the season has just ended I’m planning to try again. But I’m still going to be tired all the time. Even if I got back into coaching full time like I used to, I’m never going to have a job that would give me enough flexibility to take off to Turkey. My friend and I spent so many years on the same level coaching together, and now even if I went back I’d be way behind and never catch up.

I was sitting in the pub and apologizing for not having any updates or things to talk about, really, and watching the little bubbles in his beer and thinking of how very very good they looked, and then I mentioned that of course this is all coloured because I’m trying not to drink and that’s making me miserable, so that makes everything seem bleaker than it really is, probably. And he said yes, avoiding drinking does sound miserable, and it doesn’t make you an alcoholic to have a few beers after work on a Friday, so why don’t I just order one. And I said I’m trying not to drink. And he said I don’t have to drink but it would probably make me less miserable and we could get whiskey. And I really really wanted to. And it wouldn’t make me an alcoholic to have a couple of beers on this Friday night.

But then I thought about how next weekend is Easter so I have the Friday and Monday off, and that’ll make it really hard not to drink three nights in a row, and if I don’t have a hard and fast rule against drinking at all that I stick to now, then next weekend I will end up drinking Thursday and Friday and Saturday night.

I have ended up drinking on a few weekends in the last month. The ones when my roommate was out of town coaching tournaments. I end up feeling like it’s a waste of an opportunity if I have the house to myself and don’t drink. Because I’ve spent so many nights getting drunk alone in my room, which I enjoy so much and makes me very happy, but if I know someone else is home, I can never 100% relax and enjoy it to the fullest extent, because I’m self-conscious about making noise. But if I have the place to myself all night, I can play music or videos out loud, not worry about it, I think that’s the only time I ever truly relax. So if I have that opportunity on a night when I don’t have to work the next day, it feels like a waste if I don’t use it.

The main season’s just ended, so my roommate will be home most weekends for a while, which is probably for the best. He and I have also been drinking buddies for many years, so it’s not like him being around will stop me from drinking. But I don’t need to drink around him. He and I have drunk a lot of alcohol over a lot of nights together over the years, but I’ve never felt concerned by that thing people say, that if you need to drink around someone to enjoy their company then they’re not a good friend. He and I have also spent a lot of time together sober and we greatly enjoy that. I mean, tonight was a bad example, we went out and he was drunk and I was sober and I had a shit time. But I was going to have a shit time no matter what. The point is that usually, we have a good time together with or without alcohol. So even though he’s a guy with whom I normally drink, him being home more won’t cause me to drink more because I don’t need alcohol to enjoy his company. I’m much more likely to drink when left alone, because apparently I do need alcohol to enjoy my company.

I didn’t order any alcohol. But I did start to get so depressed about not having any life updates, and so overwhelmed by how loud the pub was, and found it so difficult to be surrounded by alcohol and not allowed to drink, that I nearly started crying at the table, and then got up and walked home before our mutual friend arrived. My roommate stayed there, he and our mutual friend are presumably there now, drinking beer and having fun like normal people. I got home, felt vaguely numb and out of it, sat down, wrote this post. Because I still feel like shit and would like to share something. I don’t do this often, but if anyone’s got a nice picture of a cat or something for cheering up miserable people, and you wanted to share that with me at the moment, I’d appreciate that.

The margin between drinking and not drinking tonight was razor thin, I came very close, and to be 100% honest, I think it would have gone the other way if I hadn’t happened to listen to a particular radio episode on the bus home from work today. John Robins has been reading out his terrible terrible diaries from when he first started stand-up, and they’re really interesting from a comedy nerd perspective, but also, they’re from 2005, when he’d recently quit drinking. The diary entries chronicle him trying to quit cigarettes, failing, realizing that going a day without smoking makes him desperately crave a drink and drink is the lesser of two evils so he started smoking again because he wanted to protect his sobriety from alcohol. Sobriety that we know lasts another year or so until he starts drinking again, but does end up successfully weaning off cigarettes and into vaping, so that’s less bad. And eventually quits drinking again too, but not for many years.

I started at the pint on the table and thought about John Robins in 2005 talking about how miserable it was to try to stay away from an addiction, these really stark and familiar descriptions of just feeling terrible all the time and thinking you can’t do that, but even in that he knew that drinking was the greater evil and it’s worth the misery to protect yourself from it, and those diaries show that that guy was a fucking idiot (seriously, they’re horrifying) but even he knew that much, and managed to stay away from it successfully (for about a year but eventually did it again), and that pretty much tipped the balance in the razor thin margin of whether to order a beer and stay out with my friend and meet my other friend and probably end up having fun tonight, or get up and walk home and sit in the house by myself feeling terrible. I picked the latter, and am currently having trouble remembering why that was in fact the better idea. But it helped that I could remember other people have found this as difficult as I do and still managed to make the smarter choice.

I should really go for a run again. That’s one of the few things that gives me a feeling like drinking does, if I push really really hard and run until I’m absolutely burned out, and for a little while can’t feel anything and feel like I’ve pushed my brain out of its usual position and everything’s okay until that wears off. It’s temporary after a run, it only feels like that until I recover, which is about ten minutes after I stop running. As opposed to drinking, where the feeling lasts for as many hours as I decide to keep drinking. But still, it’s something, I need to do more of that.

I wrote so many of these over-sharing personal posts earlier in the year when I first tried to stay away from alcohol, then I started hating myself for posting so much personal stuff so I tried to stop, but it’s a bad night so I’m doing it again. I'm not sure what I'm doing with my life but I'm hoping I'll at least hate myself less tomorrow morning than I would have hated myself if I'd stayed out and ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey and just had a good time like I used to.

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olympeline · 3 months

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A few headcanons for Hetalia Scotland:

Is Alisdair a canon name? If it’s not, idc. It’s a good one 👍 If all the brothers are Kirkland then I like to think it was Scot’s surname first. England (and Wales by extension) took it when the Scottish James I became king of England and so formed the United Kingdom. That all his little(?) brothers took his name is definitely a feather in Scot’s cap.

No one knows if he or Wales is the oldest brother, including Scotland and Wales themselves. The first time they happened to cross paths during their wandering around Great Britain, they each saw another boy who looked the same age. Scotland insists he is the elder brother, Wales disagrees but more quietly.

Scotland has a favourite city out of Glasgow and Edinburgh. But he’s not going to start a civil war in his country by telling anyone which it is! (Psst, it’s Glasgow)

The Auld Alliance was a fiery, passionate affair between Scotland and France. The kind that was pure, mutual lust at first sight and got physical very quickly. Like, “we just met for the first time while our bosses hammer out details and now we’re banging against the wall in the antechamber” quickly. Sexy, sophisticated, continental France vs. wilder, rougher Scotland was just what the doctor ordered for both of them. Unfortunately, it didn’t really last. That kind of white hot, burning hunger never does. It didn’t help that a significant chunk of the non-physical part of their bond was built on their mutual hatred of England. You can’t build a long term love on something like that. Once Scotland’s relationship with his little brother started to improve, his affair with France simultaneously cooled. These days they’re better off as friends. Scot recalls their relationship more fondly and feels more wistful than France does.

And yes, that Scotland was eventually replaced by England as France’s soulmate does make his complicated feelings towards England even more strained. Thank ye for asking *Sound of Scottie teeth grinding*

Scotland holds his liquor best out of all his brothers and can drink most of Europe under the table. Only true heavyweights like Russia and the Balkans give him a run for his money

Like all the UK bros, Scotland has magic and can see magical creatures. Vistors to his country are often surprised to learn that Scot’s favourite isn’t the famous Nessie (though he is very fond of her) but rather his herd of unicorns. Hunted nearly to extinction in the rest of the UK, the unicorn’s last stronghold is up in Scotland. During one of their many wars, England slew Scotland’s oldest and most beloved unicorn (“The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown…”) and took its alicorn back to London. Even after the unification and a regretful England returning it, Scotland is still bitter.

Yes, Scotland does play the bagpipes. Yes, he’s very good at it. When he plays and Wales sings, it’s really something to behold…er, listen to

What’s Scotland’s least favourite thing about his home? The rain? The cold? No, you fool! The midges. Dear GOD the midges. Eat you alive in summer they will!

Scotland’s cooking makes the rest of his brothers look almost competent by comparison. He has the dubious honour of making both some of the most unappetising food (haggis!) and also the most unhealthy. Everything battered, deep fried, and washed down with fifty cans of drink so stiff with sugar it would make America blush. What’s not to love? Diabetes. Diabetes is not to love. Scot’s bosses have been on a health kick lately but their nation is as stubborn as any of the UK bros and it’s not easy persuading him to change his ways

Scotland wears his kilt like a true Scot: nothing below and god help ye if there’s a headwind 🍆

Kitain (Britain cat) was born in Scotland but doesn’t like spending much time there because of the climate. He still comes to visit Scotland in the summer, though. His favourite place to sleep is on Scotland’s feet. Keeping his toes warm like a living heater

Scotland is very proud that he was able to hold off Grandpa Rome and stop the Romans ever getting a real foothold on his turf. Though that pride is complicated by feelings of guilt that he couldn’t protect his little brothers. Even if they were enemies at the time, it still chafes Scot that part of their isle was occupied for hundreds of years. Seeing England and, to a lesser extent, Wales under Grandpa Rome’s boot and watching them be Romanised was painful

And yes, let’s talk about that elephant lion in the room: England. England, England, England. The golden child of the UK bros that Scotland can’t get away from or ignore no matter how hard he tries. To say Scot’s feelings towards his baby bro are complicated is an understatement. He’s so proud of what they achieved together, but wishes he could claim more of the credit. He feels guilt for not driving the Romans out of Britain, but a small, hateful part still gloats that only he could stop the invaders in their tracks. He’s glad they’re on better terms these days, but resents that the unification has eclipsed him so much in the eyes of the world. He knows in his heart of hearts that his relationship with France was never meant to last, but seeing France with England hurts him even so. Scotland was the older brother, not England. It should have been him. It all should have been him

Scottie has a lot of Nordic in him and gets on well with the Scandis. He could probably make a good case for being one of them, but nothing’s come of it yet. Estonia is very jelly

His favourite food is scotch eggs. His favourite drink is irn bru in the day and good old Scotch whisky at night

#hetalia #aph scotland #hws scotland #aph england #hws england #hws uk bros #hws wales #aph wales #hws northern ireland #aph northern ireland #fruk #scotfra #my posts #aph france #hws france

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academicdisasterfic · 2 years

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will you tell us all your head canons about harry and food?

and was there really a sourdough starter named betsy?

oh god. maybe not all bc i have so many. but here are a few:

- i swing between a harry that would love cooking and food because of how little he had it as a child, and a harry that would have issues with it for the same reason. but mostly, because i tend towards joy, i think he’d learn to love it.

- harry uses food to connect with his heritage; he finds a whole cupboard of cookbooks that fleamont and euphemia passed down to james at godric’s hollow. they’re mostly handwritten, family recipes; i love desi harry, so i imagine a whole cupboard of punjabi recipes.

- luna is the first person he cooks for because he knows she’ll be honest. she tells him that he needs to use more chilli but otherwise the chana masala is very good and she appreciates that he made her something vegetarian (harry forgot she was vegetarian but he does not tell her this)

- he makes the cake for ron and hermione’s wedding, and it changes flavour with every bite; chocolate and orange on one bite for ron, bergamot and lemon on the next bite for hermione

- harry discovers he really likes working with his hands; he takes up gardening, starts growing his own produce, lots of fresh herbs and cucumbers and potatoes and carrots and squash, and he gets so excited harvesting his produce to cook with every night

- for their first date, harry tries to take draco out to a fancy restaurant to impress him, but realises he could make it better at home anyway, and so they leave after the entree and harry makes them spicy pasta and chocolate soufflés at home, and draco knows right then that he’ll marry him

- draco buys harry spices from india because harry insists they taste different than the same spices bought in britain, and harry tells him he should really stop because it’s so extravagant, but he gets so happy cooking with them that draco never does

- food makes harry feel useful post-war. he feels like he creates rather than destroys through cooking. he loves providing for the people he loves. so he makes bulk meals for ron and hermione after rose is born so they don’t have to worry, he sends banh mi to neville when he’s working through lunch, he makes vegan ice cream for luna. the only exception is sunday lunch at the burrow, where he’s never allowed to help, and it annoys him but molly’s so insistent and endearing that he always gives in.

- harry and draco’s wedding is lovely but very overwhelming. they sneak away to eat raspberries and chocolate and gulab jamun in the gardens and harry thinks he’s so happy he might die.

- harry is a stay at home dad. his kids always have the best lunches at primary school. their friends beg for sleepovers. harry and draco love it because it makes them feel like Cool Dads.

- they have a family holiday to a new country every summer, and they make sure to try all the food of that country they possibly can. this year, they’re taking the kids to egypt.

p.s. i’ve never had a starter, but i’ve always aspired to have one. if i did, she’d be called betsy

#rooney answers #drarry

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ricardian-werewolf · 6 days

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propaganda under the cut. (Spoilers for KOS and ROW). Nikolai info taken from the grishaverse wiki.

Threads:

Threads is a 1984 British-Australian apocalyptic war drama television film jointly produced by the BBC, Nine Network and Western-World Television Inc. Written by Barry Hines and directed and produced by Mick Jackson, it is a dramatic account of nuclear war and its effects in Britain, specifically on the city of Sheffield in Northern England. The plot centres on two families as a confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union erupts. As the nuclear exchange between NATO and the Warsaw Pact begins, the film depicts the medical, economic, social and environmental consequences of nuclear war.[2]

Nikolai Lantsov is a former King of Ravka. He is the second son of Alexander III (though later revealed to be the biological son of Magnus Opjer). He spent many years undercover, taking on a variety of jobs and hobbies.

Personality and traits

As Sturmhond, he appears to be cocky and brash, always "using ten words when two would have sufficed." He is rather mysterious; no one is able to tell where he is from or what his real name is. Sturmhond is said to have the respect of his crew, not their fear; he is able to retain their loyalty without resorting to threats of power plays that Alina has seen the Darkling employ, and it is said that he "does things his own way," implying that he abides by his own rules rather than conventional ones.

He is shown to be proficient with a number of weapons and is always seen to be bearing an assortment of weapons, including a brace of pistols, several knives, and a sword. He seems to have a particular fondness for the sword, even being willing to instruct Mal in the use of it. Usually, Sturmhond is observed wearing a bright teal frock coat with gaudy gold buttons and huge cuffs that Alina thinks would be more at home in a ballroom than on a ship's deck. When Alina and Mal dine with him, he shows a preference for fine cooking – the ship's crew includes a chef employed for this purpose. In conversation, he is jovial and intentionally lighthearted; though, when he is challenged, he betrays a much harder edge.

Alina and Mal are impressed by Nikolai's ability to appeal to the people around them and present them with a persona that they want to see. During this time, he shows himself to be extremely socially intelligent and willing to do whatever he can to manipulate the public into supporting him. He is really fair and just and cannot stand the mistreatment of innocent people. Nikolai is very intelligent and is said to excel at practically anything he tries. Nikolai suffers from being told he is ‘Nikolai Nothing’ by his brother and comments about his parentage but he hides his insecurities and does his best to satisfy everyone. He is adored by the public.

Skills and abilities.

Nikolai is a gifted fighter, swordsman, and marksman having learned to fight in street brawls as a child and serving in the First Army.

Nikolai is a natural leader, diplomat, and strategist.

Nikolai is a master actor able to pass off as Sturmhond which helps him be very manipulative and persuasive with his natural charisma.

Nikolai can juggle.

In King of Scars and Rule of Wolves, Nikolai is able to use his monster form while remaining conscious. He can fly and use his fangs/claws.

Nikolai can pilot airships and fighter planes, dating back to his experiments with his ship the Hummingbird.

Nikolai is a gifted inventor, when he was a child he turned a priceless Lantsov clock into a bizarre contraption.

#nikolai lantsov #threads 1984 #shadow and bone #tw nuclear war

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letstrythisout4 · 10 days

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Chapter 2- Harry Potter and the Necromancer

Masterlist

“I can’t believe you just said you hate me.”

“I didn’t say I hated you, I said you’re transferring schools.”

“Same thing.”

Miracle Blake was comfortable. Well…comfortable enough. She was used to change, she had learned to accept them, but she was feeling particularly stubborn about this one. She adapted to attending muggle elementary school after being raised by her adopted grandmother. She adapted to attending Ilvermorny and interacting with the Wizarding World beyond her grandmother. She adapted to the stares, comments and ignorant misconceptions; allowing all of it to roll down her back. She had gotten comfortable.

And now she was being uprooted again. All the other changes she was warned about. She knew eventually she’d attend school with kids her age and that she’d have to not make comments about the voices she was hearing and the people she was seeing. She knew she would go to a school where magic was accepted, all magic except hers. She knew she’d be ostracized.

She did not know that she was going to be shipped off to fucking Britain.

“Remind me again why you’re getting rid of me after all these years? Sounds counterproductive.” she asked, leaning on the kitchen counter, watching the woman before her cook.

“Because your attitude is too much for me to deal with.” the old witch stated, looking over her shoulder.

“Ha ha ha” Miracle mocked back, causing the woman to laugh.

“I already told you why, Milagro.”

Milagro, her original name. Legally she was Milagro Blake, but apparently Milagro is too difficult for people to pronounce, therefore she was Miracle. “One dream is enough for you to get rid of me?”

“Several visions are enough to get rid of you. I ignored the others because they were ambiguous enough for me not to feel it was urgent. The latest one though” -she shook her head- “ yeah, you’ve gotta go, baby.”

Ah yes, the vision. The vision she refused to explain despite it being the reason why she was leaving her only home. The house they lived in was black and brick, nicely secluded in the woods. The locals called it creepy, but Miracle always felt at home amongst the dark furniture and architecture. Ilvermorny was… annoying but she was used to it, all that mattered was that she came home. Would that even be an option with Hogwarts? She decided to voice her question.

“Yes, baby. A good friend of mine works at Hogwarts and she’s helped me set it up so that you’ll be able to come home for holidays, don’t worry.”

Ok that’s not that bad. Bare minimum but not that bad. Miracle thought to herself.

“But you will be visiting Hogwarts, almost daily, starting tomorrow.” The old woman said avoiding eye contact, as she plated the food.

“Huh?!”

“You need to meet your teachers and get used to the layout of the school. Plus you need to get used to the crypt on the grounds that you’ll work in.” she explained “My friend also said it was best for you to begin tutoring with the teachers, just to ensure you are covered to join classes with the other third years.”

“Grandma, I need you to be serious. I-”

“I am being serious.” her grandmother said cutting her off. “You may not like it but you will be going to Hogwarts. You will be meeting your teachers for lessons. And you will keep your opinions on the subject between you and me, complaining will get you nowhere.” she stated, looking at Miracle as if challenging her to argue.

Miracle knew better.

“Yes, Grandma.”

The next day, they floo’d to Hogwarts directly into an office. “Martha! How wonderful to see you.” a stern looking woman greeted them, standing from behind her desk to hug Miracle’s grandmother.

“Minerva, it has been far too long. I’m so grateful the gods and ancestors have brought us back together.” her grandmother said.

Ah yes, the gods and ancestors. Miracle thought to herself. Her mother was a polytheist. She believed in several different deities and worshiped them along with her ancestors. She frequently asked them for blessings during her rituals. Miracle believed in these deities and ancestors- strongly. Hard not to when death based gods and goddesses liked to drop in during her work.

“And this must be Milagro?” McGonagall asked.

“Call me Miracle.” she replied, shaking the woman's hand. McGonagall was someone her grandmother spoke highly about, apparently they were friends when McGonagall used to travel with her husband.

“Miracle, then. I am Minerva McGonagall, in public I must ask you to refrain from calling me anything other than Professor McGongall. I will be your Transfiguration professor. Shall we go meet the others?”

They spent the rest of the day meeting the staff. She quite liked Professor Flitwick; he was one of the only ones to not flinch when he heard her name. Strangely the same couldn’t be said for Snape; she expected different from a former Death Eater. ( A name she hated as a necromancer). Though her second favorite was a man named Remus Lupin, the other who didn’t flinch. She could immediately tell he was a werewolf though, her abilities told her when dark creatures were near. She couldn't tell if it was for her safety or for her to develop alliances. She felt quite sad when she realized the kind man before her was in pain a majority of his life, both physically and mentally.

Eventually, they made their way to the Headmaster’s office. “Ah, Miss Blake, I was wondering if Minerva had forgotten me.” said an old man, petting a phoenix.

So this is the great Albus Dumbledore...doesn't seem all that great to me. Judge, jury and executioner of dark wizards, witches and creatures. The witches and wizards who practice the Dark Arts were actively engaging in twisted practices for their own gain. There were very very few reasons as to why someone should be involved in the Dark Arts. Sometimes it was necessary, to save someone's life sometimes…out of desperation people… turned. But Dark witches and wizards actively make the choice day-in and day-out, and it was deplorable.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” She said, manners that were all but beaten into her, shining through.

“Albus.” her grandmother said plainly. Manners not shining through. She liked to tell Miracle that she was “too old” to pretend to like people.

“Martha, a pleasure as always.” he responded as if he couldn’t hear the clear disinterest in her words. “I’m very pleased that you have trusted the staff and myself with your granddaughter. Though I will say I’m surprised you never told me you were the one taking her in.”

Miracle sighed under her breath. This man was not related to her, he wasn’t a part of the heads of MACUSA, there was no reason for him to know. The fact that he had the audacity to ask why he wasn’t just given important information as to where the only necromancer in history was, told Miracle everything she needed to know about the wizard in front of her.

“There was no reason to tell you, Albus.” her grandmother stated, shutting him down.

Even he couldn’t ignore that, “Let’s go to set up your space, Miss Blake.” he said. They made their way into what they called the Forbidden Forest, walking deep inside till they reached a crypt. “Before the forest was as large as it is now, the town of Hogsmeade had a cemetery here; hence the crypt.” The crypt was nice nice. In its prime it must have been bright white marble, nice and clean. Now though, dirt was in its crevices and its edges were softened from withstanding the elements. It was still in good condition, no risk of collapse (it was still made of stone after all.) The pillars at the entrance were covered in vines that seemed to grow from its base. She could feel the bodies that were contained in the building and was surprised to sense just how many there were. And how far out the energy of the dead extended, at least a few acres. She’d have to reach out to the souls and ask for their stories; if she were going to occupy their final resting place she should at least attempt to reach out.

It was perfect.

“I love it.” Miracle practically cried as she raced up the steps - completely missing the disturbed looks that McGonagall and Dumbledore were trying to contain - and threw open the heavy doors. The inside was dusty, with a stone counter in the middle (likely meant to prepare a body and a casket), and several archways outlining halls where caskets were embedded into the stone walls.

While Miracle didn’t spend a lot of time with “normal” people, she spent enough to know the relief she felt being surrounded by the dead wasn't “normal”.

Oh well.

“I’m glad that you are…satisfied. But there are a few matters we must discuss. First being, you are not alone in this forest. At all. There are several creatures of varying levels of intelligence and aggression. Usually I wouldn’t allow a human to reside in the Forest for a significant period of time - like you will be - but, as I’m sure you know, creatures steer clear of dark magic as much as physically possible.”

Accurate. Creatures did not like Miracle, at all. They could sense the death magic that came off of her and were scared. The only ones that she has been accepted by were Grims and Thestrals, they eagerly searched her out. The omen of death and the creatures that only appear to those who have seen death. Fitting.

“That’s fine. Beyond the fear of dark magic, Miracle can take care of herself.” her grandmother said, rather smugly.

“I’m sure she can. The second matter is that of a very specific creature, there will be a werewolf in the woods. Professor Lupin is that werewolf. I tell you this not because I believe he could hurt you, again I have no doubt you will protect yourself, but I hope that unless absolutely necessary you will not hurt him. He will take wolfsbane potion, he will maintain his sense of self so long as he takes it. And as you know, since you’ve met him, he is a good man. So if you are to reside here, I must ask you to only hurt him in the unlikely case he will attack.”

Miracle just stared at the wizard. While she completely agreed with what he was saying, the way he said it didn’t seem entirely innocent. Yes, he wanted to protect Lupin. But she wasn’t convinced it was simply because he cared for the man. “Of course, I will. I could tell he was a wolf, I wanted to give him his privacy.”

“His secret is safe with us. And we will tell him as much next time we see him.” her grandmother stated. “Is there anything else she should know?”

“No, that was all. Of course, we are putting a lot of faith that your magic will be… safe.”

Miracle tilted her head, replying innocently. “I will ensure it to be.” Only her grandmother seemed to pick up on her tone. Her magic was as safe as Dark Magic could be….so long as she wasn’t hurt, or angered, or startled, or threatened, or intentionally trying to hurt someone. Or lost control, or-

It’ll be fine. she thought to herself as the walked away from the crypt. She made mental plans of how to best clean up the crypt to show respect for the spirits, and began to ward the acres impacted by them. She made sure to make it so that nothing and nobody could come in without explicit permission from herself and that if anything did try to enter she would be immediately notified.

Her days all of August were spent taking various tests, lessons and practice sessions with the various staff, only coming home to eat dinner and sleep. She enjoyed her time for the most part. She actually knew more than was necessary, her knowledge similar to a seventh year rather than a third. The same applied back in Ilvermorny and her muggle school, her grandmother taught her everything and anything so that she was never at a disadvantage. Her grandmother was incredibly experienced though being a Louisiana raised Black woman, has led her to focusing on Hoodoo as that was what her family was brought up in. They were all Hoodoo practitioners, hence why they were so willing to take in Miracle; or at least that was her theory.

Because of her advanced knowledge, her sessions were less of catching up and more of advanced tutoring and aiding the professors in setting up for the next year. Flitwick and McGonagall began teaching her Mastery levels of Charms and Transfiguration (which wasn’t even taught during the average seven years of Hogwarts). Lupin asked for her opinions on the lessons he had prepared; she loved all of them. Snape at first tested her on every ingredient and potion he had ever come across, he eventually gave up and began forcing her to stock his inventory; he’d even let her brew some potions that he was running low on. Sprout needed help in the greenhouse, Sinistra had her make charts of the solar system to line the walls of the Astronomy tower and Hagrid used her as a beacon for the thestrals and a ward against all other creatures.

All Miracle cared was that they weren’t forcing her to do first year nonsense.

September first came, everyone had agreed that it was best if she just floo’d to McGonagall’s office and waited until she was collected by Filch when it was time for her to be sorted. Something she was grateful for since it allowed her to avoid her peers for as much time as possible. The sorting was uneventful. The conversation with the Hat was frustrating.

Don’t care where you put me, so long as it isn’t Slytherin.

But Slytherin would be perfect for you.

It would also be a pain in the ass, nobody would leave me alone. Which means I’d have to make them and my grandmother would be incredibly disappointed if I got myself expelled.

Not Slytherin, hmmm, then it must be-

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Miracle went and took her seat, ignoring the terror on some of the students' faces. She ate her meal quietly, shocked when the red-headed boy next to her turned and introduced himself, “Percy Weasley, Head Boy.” he stated with his hand out.

She shook it, “Miracle Blake, nice to meet you.” it wasn’t normal for someone to choose to speak to her, and while she could tell his confidence was fake, she appreciated the effort.

“Pleasure. As Head Boy, it’s my duty to instruct the prefects and look out for the students. That includes you. So, if you need anything -anything at all- please don’t hesitate to find me.”

That’s nice. She could practically taste the self-importance that rolled off of him, but wasn't about to lose an ally so quickly. “Thank you, Percy.”

“Of course.”

The meal ended and they were herded off to bed. She could tell the girls of her year were uncomfortable but she didn’t have the patience to introduce herself without being rude. She changed as swiftly as possible, did her skin care routine, put on her bonnet and climbed into her bed.

Only to realize her bed comforter and curtains were red. I could just leave it….nah. she thought to herself, before charming everything to black. She warded her bed so that she couldn’t hear outside of the curtains (she refused to deal with snoring), it stayed cold (it was better to sleep like that) and that nobody could enter (she was paranoid).

Please gods, goddesses and ancestors let this year go smoothly. She prayed before falling asleep.

Author's notes: much much longer than the first chapter but I wanted to set a good basis for the future. thanks for reading

#harry potter #harry james potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter x oc #hermione granger #ron weasley #minerva mcgonagall #severus snape #albus dumbledore #remus lupin

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justforbooks · 1 year

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Although he was acclaimed as a travel writer, Jonathan Raban, who has died aged 80, disliked the term. He agreed with his fellow writer Bruce Chatwin, who famously turned down the Thomas Cook award, that the term was too limiting. He said he found it an “open form”, which was perfect for him because “I write between genres anyway”. When asked why, unlike Chatwin, he accepted the Cook award twice, he said: “I was hungry for prizes.”

He was also hungry to travel, to get away from his roots. The leaving of Britain formed a crucial part of much of his writing, even as he sailed around the island in Coasting (1986). The heart of his work was set on water; his writing mirrors the movement of the sea, its calm with turmoil always lurking beneath, taking you along with it, hiding and revealing. He mixes literary sources and knowledge with the people and places encountered on his journey; he’s less exotic than Chatwin, less caustic than Paul Theroux, but all of it comes in service to his real journey, within himself, escaping into travel. “Wherever I was, I felt like an outsider,” he said, and it is a feeling that permeates his writing, though he was drawn to America, a land of immigrants: the freedom of adjusting to this new world, and its contrasts with his old, became a major theme.

What he was escaping was the English world into which he was born, in Hempton, Norfolk. He was three when he first met his father, the Rev Canon J Peter CP Raban, an army captain returning from the second world war. He grew up in various parish postings, and his father came to represent “the Conservative party, the army, the church, the public school system in person”. It was his mother, Monica (nee Sandison), who “taught me to read, which was my one proficiency”.

He despised boarding school, to which he was sent at five, and eventually studied English at Hull University, where he organised a library committee in order to meet Philip Larkin, notoriously adept at avoiding students. They discussed novels and jazz, but never poetry. He married a fellow student, Bridget Johnson, in 1964. After graduating he taught English and American literature at Aberystwyth, then at East Anglia; he was captivated by American writers, particularly Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud and Philip Roth, and published a study of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn.

In 1969, he moved to London as a freelance writer, on the recommendation of Malcolm Bradbury, falling into the last hurrah of the Grub Street era, reviewing while living in the basement of the house shared by the poet Robert Lowell and the writer Lady Caroline Blackwood, after his marriage ended. His experience of Larkin and Lowell led to another book of literary criticism, The Society of the Poem. He joined the circle that emerged around the New Review magazine, in Soho’s Pillars of Hercules pub, and in 1974 published Soft City, a mix of personal memoir and London observation that became an early example of “psychogeography”.

His first travel book, Arabia Through the Looking Glass (1979), took a modern orientalist view of the area reminiscent of Charles Doughty’s Travels in Arabia Deserta and other classic travel writing on the Middle East. Old Glory (1981) was his first book set in the US, taking a skiff down the Mississippi River from Minneapolis to New Orleans. It recalls his study of Huckleberry Finn, blending the approaching age of Ronald Reagan into his inward experiences with America’s own eccentricities, and was a success on both sides of the Atlantic. Jan Morris called it “the best book of travel ever written by an Englishman about the United States”.

His first novel, Foreign Land (1985), follows an eccentric expat Englishman, George Grey, who leaves the Caribbean to return home, much to the consternation of his daughter, and sail a just-bought boat around Britain. Raban recapitulated the story himself in Coasting, in which he sails around the country, which, as the Falklands war erupts, seems an increasingly insular island nation. The book marks the perfecting of his classic English voice, that of the friendly faux-bumbler whose self-deprecation is itself a form of humble-brag, which has served British humour from Arthur Marshall to Bill Bryson; it made him a neutral sort of observer to Americans he met.

After publishing a memoir, For Love & Money: A Writing Life, he moved to the US, his journey across the Atlantic in a container ship told in Hunting Mister Heartbreak: A Discovery of America (1990), and, crucially, a poignant leaving scene that reflects the end of his second marriage, to the London art dealer Caroline Cuthbert.

He settled in Seattle, where in 1992 he married his third wife, Jean Lenihan; their daughter, Julia, was born in 1993. He continued travelling – Bad Land: An American Romance was set in Montana, dealing with the difficult dreams of immigrants to the beautiful but harsh Big Sky country. But his next book was perhaps his finest. Passage to Juneau (1996) is nominally another boat trip, on Alaska’s Inside Passage, a man leaving his wife and daughter for his travel. But midway through the trip, he returns to England, where his father is dying and his family has gathered. It is a travelogue of the writer’s mid-life implosion; he returns to finish his journey only to be greeted by his wife announcing she and his daughter are leaving him.

He remained in Seattle to concentrate on the joint care of his daughter. His 2003 novel, Waxwings, takes its butterfly title from Nabokov’s Pale Fire: “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain / By the false azure of the window pane.” Drawing on Bad Land, it is the story of an expat Hungarian-British man, in the dot.com boomtown that is Seattle, with an American wife, and an illegal Chinese immigrant worker who begins reconstructing his house. Raban was a distant relative of Evelyn Waugh, and the book recalls Waugh’s Men at Arms, where the social whirl does not stop for the newly launched war. My Holy War (2006), about the 9/11 attack and the US invasion of Iraq, was almost a companion piece.

In 2006 he published his third novel, Surveillance, in which a journalist tracks down a reclusive writer who has been kept hidden by his publisher lest he destroy the credibility of his Holocaust memoir. Its prime concern is the many-faceted ambiguity of liberty in the war on terror. “The world changed,” he said. “It didn’t change with 9/11. It changed with the Patriot Act, with the homeland security measures and the war on terror.”

His 2010 collection, Driving Home, is an eccentric mix of literary criticism, tales of great sea voyages, the state of the US in the 21st century and the mix of people he meets along the way, even as he remained in Seattle. A 2011 essay in the New York Times, The Getaway Car, detailed a drive down the Pacific coast to take Julia, now 18, to university at Stanford, outside San Francisco. Later that year, Raban suffered a massive stroke, which left one side of his body paralysed and confined him to a wheelchair. He continued writing, primarily for the New York Review of Books. It seemed an ironic fate for a writer who saw his journeys as “a means of escape, freedom and solitude, I could be happy … in a way I couldn’t be at home”. Yet he had always travelled through literature, and through his writing. And now he had a different sort of freedom in his daughter, which perhaps allowed him to address his own escape in his last book, to be published this autumn, a memoir titled Father and Son.

Julia survives him.

🔔 Jonathan Raban, writer, born 14 June 1942; died 17 January 2023

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