i'm not sure if this turned out the way it was supposed to be

atelophobish  asked:

from the apartment plot thing, 4th from "the walls are paper thin" or 5th from "you broke into my apartment" with romione ((these two are s c r e a m i n g romione)) if you want to, please!

“The walls are paper thin and every night I watch jeopardy and I guess you’re really smart because every night you shout out the correct answer and at this point I’m not sure there’s a question you can’t answer?”

A/N: this was supposed to be a small drabble i promise but somewhere along the way it turned into an absolute monster of a fic and now i’m thousands of words deep into a romione university au i never planned to write. it’s a long way from being finished but i didn’t want to leave this ask unanswered any longer so here’s the first scene of what i have so far :)


There are few things more pathetic than drinking cheap beer alone in your apartment on a Friday night, Ron thinks to himself as he takes another sip. Unless, of course, you’re drinking cheap beer alone in your apartment whilst watching jeopardy on a Friday night.

It’s not that he doesn’t have anywhere else to be- he has friends he could hang out with, sure- but campus life is new to him and he hasn’t quite figured out the logistics of college yet.

Harry would probably be amendable to exploring the area with him, Ron’s sure, but Harry had to go and get themself knocked in the head during rugby practice earlier- the bastard- and is under strict instructions to get some rest before the match tomorrow.

Logically, Ron’s next course of action would be to see if Seamus and Dean wanted to hang out- only, he’s pretty certain it’s date night for them, and Ron does not fancy trailing them around like some useless third wheel, thank you very much.

Next on his list is Neville- but Neville is already fretting about falling behind in his classes (it’s been a week!) and as such has already informed Ron that he’ll be spending the night in the library, which is- well. Ron’s never been much of a library guy, to be honest.

Which leaves Ginny. And whilst Ron may be pathetic enough for cheap beer and old jeopardy re-runs, he is not pathetic enough to resort to spending Friday night intruding on his little sister and her friends.

So here he is, alone, drink in hand, trying to guess the next answer before the contestant.

At first, he’d tried to turn it into a sort of drinking game. For every answer he got that the contestant didn’t, he’d take a drink. This fell rapidly, however, when he’d gone five whole rounds without touching the can in front of him, at which he promptly gave up and resorted to shouting out whichever option hadn’t been the answer in a while (a winning strategy, if he does say so himself.)

The answer onscreen (”Harper Lee was a childhood friend of this ‘In Cold Blood’ novelist when they were neighbours in Alabama”) has only just appeared when Ron makes the executive decision that the question is option two- it hasn’t been option two in at least three turns, so he’s pretty confident in himself when he yells “Who is Tony Hillerman!” at the screen.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” yells a voice that is decidedly not Alex Trebek. “It’s- ‘Who is Truman Capote!’”

The voice that speaks sounds verging on exasperated and seems, bizarrely, to be coming from Ron’s wall.

It takes a second for the pieces to click together in his slightly-less-than-sober brain, but once they do, Ron feels like smacking his palm against his forehead for being such an idiot.

His new apartment has unbelievably thin walls (he suspects it’s one of the reasons it was so cheap) and his next door neighbour must have been able to hear his less than dignified yelling from her place.

Overcome with the urge to hide his face behind one of his newly purchased sofa cushions, Ron settles for groaning instead- before abruptly shoving his fist into his mouth when he realises that she’ll be able to hear that too.

“Thanks!” he calls back instead, because it’s only polite, right?

“No problem.” he hears shouted back, and damn him if there isn’t something like a hint of amusement in her tone this time.

Ron smiles.

He briefly entertains the notion of going over to her place. Then he realises the numerous problems with that scenario. Mainly being that he doesn’t even know this girl- he can’t even remember her name (although he’s pretty sure it was something weird, beginning with an H) - and also because he is well on his way to becoming drunk, and Ron may not be that well acquainted with college etiquette yet- but he’s pretty sure most people don’t take too kindly to having half-drunk strangers appear on their doorsteps.

So he watches the rest of jeopardy in silence.

(What he definitely is not doing is hoping to hear his neighbour’s voice shouting the answer through the walls again. Nope. Nuh uh. Not at all.)

the week you turn nineteen,
you spend more time choking back
tears than not. the world spins on
and you wonder if growing up
is supposed to feel like
being waterboarded.
the beginning chapter of eighteen
saw a fierce girl
with sparks caught between
her teeth. she had a fight in her
bones and a song on her tongue.
eighteen finds a title, she finds
a home,
even if so many still spit out its name.
she builds a roof over her head and
some days it’s heavy to hold up. some
days the rain leaks through. but
most days, most days it is the only thing
that makes sense.
eighteen finds a world skilled
at throwing punches and she thinks
she’s just as good at taking them
until the world stops fighting fair.
eighteen gives way to nineteen
three rounds past trembling knees. she
passes the mantle on broken legs.
on a heavy chest.
on tear-stained sleeves.
nineteen shows up like the guest
you forgot making plans with. she
knocks on the door and
eighteen says, “it’s not a good time” but
nineteen says, “i don’t feel like celebrating”
and stays anyways.
eighteen didn’t
get out of bed when girls that love like her
are killed on television and nineteen
dry heaves by the side of the road
three days after her community is
massacred in the next state over. nineteen
is afraid of falling asleep and
even more afraid of waking up. sixteen
was searching for god and
fifteen cried while she prayed
but nineteen has stopped looking
for answers that don’t make her
sick to her stomach.
nineteen finds you curled under the covers.
nineteen finds you suffocating.
nineteen finds you grasping
for a way to live that doesn’t make
you a target. nineteen finds you as a
soldier drafted into a war that
shouldn’t have to be fought. some
tell you you’re
brave
and some say every breath you take is a
shot fired
but none of them have ever
had to stand on the front lines.
the way you love comes with a
body count.
a death toll
that keeps climbing.
you sit in the foxhole while your
friends’ blood is all over the news and
you can’t even write home to
mom and dad about the reasons you
feel so small these days.
seventeen was lost and eighteen was
proud but nineteen is just scared.

you tell nineteen that she will relearn
how to feel hopeful.
soft.
strong.
safe.
she will.
she will.

—  nineteen // cc
Keep Your Place

Boys will be boys, and he’s only mean to you because he likes you. Don’t get mad when he catcalls you; don’t you know how to take a compliment? A girl who looks like you should take what she can get. And a girl who looks like that? Well, she’s only getting what she’s asking for. Let me show you how to dress so you don’t look like her. Surely you weren’t planning on actually leaving the house wearing that. Cover your shoulders, darling, that’s far too much skin you’re showing. Your skirt is way too short; why don’t you go put on a nice pair of pants? Oh, wait, not those ones. They’re too tight. No, not that shirt either - too low cut. You’re just asking for it leaving the house like that. But…hold on a minute…jeans and a t-shirt? Girls are supposed to be hot, not look like they just rolled out of bed. Surely you can do better than that. Spice it up a little, honey. You’ll never get a guy looking like that. Oh, here, let me show you how to wear your makeup - how to make yourself beautiful.

Everyone wants a girl who looks like a doll, but no one wants a girl who wears enough makeup to actually look like a perfect porcelain angel. You have to look natural, but never makeup-less. Oh, and don’t forget to style your hair; they can’t see you with even a strand out of place. Wait. Hang on. Is that a new haircut I see? Why so short? God, you’re not gay, are you? Are you trying to get mistaken for a boy? Grow it out. You’re not feminine enough. No boy wants a girl who’s that masculine. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you have a boyfriend by now? If you’re not careful, you’ll end up alone. You don’t want that, do you? Okay, no, stop. I take it back. Now you just look desperate. Everyone knows he has to hit on you first. Don’t you know anything?

Hey now, hold up there, young lady! Just where do you think you’re going so late at night? Go out alone like that and we might never see you again. Haven’t you learned by now that you’re just not safe on your own once the sun goes down? There’s pepper spray hooked on your keyring for a reason. Oh, you’re going to a party? Make sure you never let your drink out of your sight, or it might end up being the last one you ever have. But surely not every guy is like that, right? Surely you won’t be the girl who becomes just another unsolved case - a file shoved into the bottom of a drawer somewhere. Surely you couldn’t possibly be that unlucky. But don’t people say the same thing in a game of Russian Roulette? You don’t call the shots, love, and if you don’t follow these rules, the world might just chew you up and spit you out. You might end up being just another girl who couldn’t learn to stay in line and keep her place.