He was not at ninety-four. Ninety-four was the whispered words, “Thank you. You were amazing.” They echoed inside Andrew’s head over and over, like they were an offering, a prayer, a goodbye, like they were pushed out of his body with his dying breath. It was irritating and he was going to bring it up on the bus. He was going to spell it out nice and slow how Neil needed to stop living like he was dying and start living like the exy junkie he was.
Ninety-five was turning around and seeing nothing. Not nothing in the sense that Neil was nothing, but nothing in the sense of panic, of worry, of standing on the edge of the rooftop looking down thinking “Would it hurt if I fell?” The space where Neil should have been filled with emotions that Andrew swore he would never feel again.
Ninety-six was finding his bag. It wasn’t the bag that held his entire life, that was locked away in the Fox Tower, safe. It was the bag that held his future. A future he knew Neil wanted in the way he clutched the key he gave him back in August. A key that was left in the God forsaken bag with Neil nowhere in sight.
For ninety-seven, Kevin was there. The other foxes were there too but the words Kevin formed with his breath passing over his voice box and the movements of his tongue and jaw, were the only things that mattered. Kevin’s mouth moved, sound traveled in vibrations through the air, hit Andrew’s eardrums, and then his hands were around Kevin’s neck. There were lies and half-truths and Andrew hated those. Again not in the sense he hated Neil but in the sense that he hated the word ‘please’ and ‘misunderstanding’. He hated how he didn’t hate Neil because of all the lies. And for that, ninety-seven.
Ninety-eight was the phone call that Neil had been found.
Ninety-nine was walking through the hotel door and seeing him crumple in agony. It was the hissed “Don’t” as he did his best sooth away the pain. It was the eyes that were Nathaniel’s with hints of Neil peeking out behind his irises. It was the look of a man staring helplessly as the executioner readied the guillotine. It was the words “I’m sorry” like he had something to be sorry for. It was his attitude that no matter how beat up he got, remained impeccably intact. And it was the question he still had the gall to ask: “Am I at ninety-four yet?”
i’m just… so tired of reading posts complaining about problems that only exist because people won’t read romance novels… it is a huge genre there are books about werewolf dukes, there are books about black revolutionary war soldiers, there are books about south asian doms who care about enthusiastic consent, there are books about shape-shifting cowboys who turn into bears, there are books about lady scientists learning how to trust that their boundaries will be respected, there are books about alien barbarian warriors, there are books about genies, there are books about women of color in victorian london, there are books about polyamorous earls, there are fake marriages and marriages of convenience and basically every fanfic trope that people lose it for exists as a book with original characters but some of the same people who complain about how books no longer satisfy them turn a blind eye to a whole genre because it never occurs to them to read a ~bodice-ripper~ when they could read romantic fanfic of a more respectable genre instead
Whenever I visit a stranger’s house, I like to play a game where I try to find out everything I can about that person without asking. Most people call this “snooping”. My dad calls it “I should not have read you so many teen detective books when you were a kid”.
My friends are house sitting for a rich couple for a few days and are throwing a party at their log cabin. I’m Garden Girl’s designated driver, so I’ve been amusing myself by exploring. No one minds, so long as I’m not too overt about it. They have young children - at least three, judging by the shoe sizes. Two boys, at least one girl - the eldest is about 9, the youngest about 3. Another child - a son - was stillborn (4 years ago?) and they are still grieving over him. One of the parents, probably the mother, has hypothyroidism and believes in aromatherapy and homeopathy. The father golfs occasionally, both kayak, one bikes. They primarily read books on child rearing and bestseller novels. They are not overtly religious but are likely culturally Christian and dabble in some New Age spirituality. The mother plays piano, and the parents encourage visual art in their children but have no talent of their own. They’re white. The mother has long red hair. They entertain a lot of guests and keep chickens. The boys play violin.
if there are only dementors and prisoners in azkaban then who makes the food??? is there a dementor in the prison kitchen wearing a kiss the cook apron and making pancakes for the inmates? jkr explain yourself
I made an X-Files picture book to give myself closure after watching the show for the first time. Then they officially announced the revival. I should have known there would be no escape from all the feelings.
It might just be
me, but I always get Harry Potter nostalgia during the Christmas holidays. Listening
to audiobooks is not the same, but at least I can do two things at once and in
turn made this Harry :)