#The professor paid the crows and they just continued

[nelkcats]

Crow services

After Danny died he noticed that some animals had become more attached to him while others had moved away. Aggressive or death related animals seemed to react positively to his presence, although friendlier animals such as birds tended to fly away.

Of course, none of this prepared him for the number of crows that landed on his window daily. At first he was scared that they would consider him a corpse and try to eat him but after the third time they brought him a shiny object he assumed they just liked him.

Those crows became very fond of him, they let him pet them, they would perch on his head or shoulders, always present and sometimes even watching over him (A particularly intelligent crow he named Poe would drive his parents away with distractions).

So when he moved to Gotham to complete his studies he prepared for a farewell to his feathered friends; said friends simply ignored him and followed him around the city. Danny assumed he wasn't going to be able to fight them, so he let them be.

This is how the phenomenon called "The Invasion of Crows" began in Gotham, the animals were not aggressive but mostly indifferent, some of them agreed to carry letters as homing pigeons (After Danny asked them for the favor) starting "Crow services"

As long as you had the money or something shiny to pay them the birds would carry messages from one place to another, ironically they would give that payment to Danny, who only sighed and let them pass to his apartment, giving them: some food, shelter and a place to sleep, although he was worried the moment his neighbor would complain about the noise.

At first he let them stay on the streets because they were supposed to be free, but after the sixth time he caught Damian Wayne trying to adopt one he just rolled his eyes and now the little ones were living with him.

So yes, when Jason finally decided to visit his neighbor he didn't expect the red eyed crowd staring at him and judging his actions, one in particular lunged at him and he swore he was about to gouge his eyes out before a voice yelled "Poe, wait! "

Said crow looked at him for a few more seconds before perch on the head of the prettiest boy he had ever seen, who approached to offer him a hand "I'm sorry, they're very overprotective" he muttered worried.

Jason almost fell over laughing when he noticed that this was B's "weird case" about the rise in crows alongside the supposed "new rogue" in town, when all he saw was a college boy with a murder of crows living in his house, maybe creating a new messaging system.

He was going to have so much fun with this, maybe he'd even manage to go on a date with his eyes intact, who knows.

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part III

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The journey to Oxenfurt flew past even as it crawled. The closer he got to his destination, the more he found he was able to shrug off his worries and focus on his reunion with Jaskier. He hadn’t seen the bard in months, and he found his heart quickening in his chest as he finally crested the final hill and looked down upon the city of Oxenfurt.

He’d arrived in the small hours of the morning, just as the sun was starting to peak over the horizon. The water beneath Western Bridge was white gold in the dawn light, small fishing boats making their way down the channel and back to the harbor, ready to sell the first catch of the day. The red shingles of the cramped houses stood out sharply against the grey-green backdrop of the surrounding countryside, layered like some wild confection. To the south, the university sprawled on its own island, its tall towers piercing the early morning mist. Geralt had to push his way through the western gate, fighting for space amongst merchants and traders making their way to the markets that would be opening up in the main square. After so long on the road the smells and sounds of the city bombarded him, but Oxenfurt was nearly as familiar to him now as Kaer Morhen, and he let it all wash over him as he made his way towards one of the cheaper inns.

His intention had been to make his way directly across the southern bridge and into the academy grounds, but he’d arrived earlier than expected and Jaskier tended to be a bit of a late riser when he could be. So instead he got a room and set Roach up in the stables, giving her a good brush down, and packed away his gear. The rest of the morning, he spent restocking his supplies in the market, picking up the herbs he couldn’t easily find on his own and trading some of the goods he’d brought from the north for things he would need over the summer; a new linen shirt, salt for preserving meat, vodka.

Finished with his shopping, he set his mind to breakfast. There was a woman with a stall off of the main market selling baked goods, and Geralt remembered her from when he’d last been to Oxenfurt. He picked up a roll stuffed with warm cabbage and beef, and then doubled back a minute later to buy another, this time swirled through with cinnamon and coated in a sweet honey glaze.

Finally judging the sun high enough in the sky, he headed for the nearest fountain to refill his waterskin, only to be greeted by a familiar voice ringing out through the open courtyard.

Oxenfurt prided itself on its beauty, its history and monuments. The city was a tapestry of rich timber and clean brickwork, of statuary large and small which lined the streets and stately buildings with stunning relief work. The fountains were no exceptions; this one was set against the north side of the square, its semicircular base filling with water from half a dozen spouts set into the mouths of bronze fish. Geralt had no doubt that the entire effect—the square, the fountain, the white stone of the surrounding buildings—was stunning. But his eyes were drawn inexorably towards the sound of lute strings, and the beauty of the masterwork around him couldn’t help but pale in comparison to the man sitting on the raised lip of the fountain.

Jaskier’s hair was shorter than he’d last seen it, not windswept and overlong from months on the Path, and his clothes were cleaner and more lavish than he typically dressed on the road. Though his doublet was scandalously open to his midriff, Geralt had no doubt that it was of the latest fashion. As he approached, he saw Jaskier’s slim fingers fly deftly over the frets of his lute, his voice raised to overlay a bright melody over the simple notes. There was no hat or blanket laid out to catch coins; Jaskier was playing only for himself, it seemed.

Geralt didn’t want to interrupt, but in the end he didn’t have to. Jaskier looked up when he was still halfway across the courtyard, as if he could sense Geralt’s presence. Their eyes met, and Geralt felt relief swim through him as he realized that the bard seemed unchanged from the last time he’d seen him. Jaskier’s face lit up as his shocked expression turned into a grin, and Geralt could see the now ever present crow’s feet deepen around his eyes.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, not bothering to stand. Geralt made his way through the rest of the square, the bundle of rolls held close to his chest as he pushed through the river of people. He stopped when he was no more than a foot away, finding himself smiling down at the bard. “Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier said with a wink, brilliant in the morning sun. Fuck, but Geralt had missed him.

“Was gonna look for you at the university. Glad I found you here,” he said by way of greeting. “So short on coin you’re back to busking?”

Jaskier waved a hand, dismissing Geralt’s teasing. “I just wanted some sun, now that winter has finally deigned to withdraw her icy grasp. I was thinking of perhaps going to find something to eat at the market—”

Geralt held out the sweet roll. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, surprised and clearly pleased. Geralt felt warmth spread through his chest at the look. “Figured I’d find you only just out of bed,” he explained, offering Jaskier a thin smile. “You do need your beauty sleep.”

Jaskier gasped in faux injury even as he accepted the roll from Geralt’s hands, still wrapped in wax paper. Geralt sat down beside him, letting his pack fall to the ground as he unwrapped his own roll. It was still warm, soft from the juices of the meat inside. “As if I have ever been anything less than absolutely resplendent,” Jaskier said through a mouthful of roll. Geralt privately had to agree. Out loud he only hummed, noncommittal.

They spent the morning in unhurried company, Geralt giving Jaskier news of their friends still in the north—“Ciri missed you,” he said, and didn’t say I missed you, too—and Jaskier recounting his winter adventures. Apparently he had been privately tutoring a young lady in a court a few days south of Oxenfurt, the child of an old friend. Geralt bit his cheek to avoid asking if it was just a friend, or if Jaskier had spent the winter in the bed of an old flame. It wasn’t his place to ask those sorts of things.

They didn’t head towards the university immediately—Geralt had already stowed his things at the inn, which Jaskier admonished him for. “You could have stayed with me of course,” he said with a roll of his eyes, and Geralt was breathless with it. Even after all this time, he could never truly wrap his mind around the fact that Jaskier wanted him around, would willingingly open his home to Geralt whenever he settled in one place. But the inn was already paid for and Geralt’s things packed away, so they were neither burdened by supplies as they wandered around the city. Geralt carried Jaskier’s lute on his shoulder, the weight of it settling almost as comfortably familiar as his swords.

He’d been to Oxenfurt dozens of times, but he always enjoyed seeing it through Jaskier’s eyes. The bard noticed things, like the new tailor on the corner of the main square, or that someone new had taken over an old market stall, or the new flowers sitting on someone’s stoop. All things that Geralt would have let wash past him. Everything felt new when Jaskier was with him, more vibrant when painted in his words.

Eventually Jaskier suggested that they head back, so that he could get appropriately dressed for the afternoon. He had planned, apparently, to play at a tavern close to the inn Geralt was staying in, though Geralt suspected that he’d had no such arrangements. It wouldn’t matter; Jaskier was popular enough that all he had to do was show up somewhere and people were begging him to play. Assuming he hadn’t slighted the owners of the establishment somehow. It was only early afternoon, but Jaskier gave him a sheepish grin when Geralt asked about the early retreat.

“I’m not quite packed,” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d be back on the Path until at least three weeks from now. You always seem so reluctant to leave Ciri.”

Geralt could feel his face tingling with the ghost of a blush, and he scrambled for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t feel incriminating. “I, uh. I’m looking into something. Needed to see Triss.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose with interest as he pushed open a side gate in the Oxenfurt walls, leading them onto the campus. Geralt liked it here; it always smelled of rich plant life because of the well kept gardens, and the population was regulated enough that it was generally quieter than the rest of Oxenfurt. All the people smelled of ink and vellum and soft scented oils, and it never failed to remind him of Jaskier. “Is it about Ciri?” Jaskier asked.

“Hmm,” Geralt allowed, thoughts racing. “In… a way.”

Jaskier stopped short, trapping Geralt behind him in the narrow alley they found themselves in. His face was a mask of concern. “Is she alright?” he asked, brow furrowed.

Geralt nodded, waving a hand as if to wipe Jaskier’s worries from the air. “She’s fine, it’s not like that.”

Jaskier huffed out a breath and gave him a stern look before turning to continue down the cobbled path, leading them into the main courtyard of the university. “Don’t do that to me, witcher,” he admonished. “I have a delicate constitution, I can’t handle a scare like I used to.”

“Ah,” Geralt said, pleased with the easy segue. “That’s… sort of the problem.”

Jaskier stopped again, halfway through the doorway that led to the apartments reserved for professors. He blinked at Geralt, once, and said, “Well what in the devil is that supposed to mean?”

Geralt sighed, pushing Jaskier the rest of the way into the building. It was old, as with all of Oxenfurt, wood musty with age and heavy with the scent of the polish that they used on the brass fixtures. The interior was dark and musty, but Geralt’s eyes easily adjusted to the gloom. He forced himself not to chuckle at the way Jaskier’s eyes immediately squinted at him, slower to adapt to the shade after being out in the daylight. “Ciri is… She missed you. She’s—we’re all worried about, well, your.” He stopped, trying to find a word that wouldn’t come off as immediately insulting. “Mortality.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier said, in a tone that suggested Geralt had missed the mark, “are you suggesting that I am old?”

Geralt winced. “Uh. Maybe we should talk about this upstairs.”

“Oh no, I think we should talk about it right here,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his chin. The posture was so familiar it made Geralt’s chest ache even as he knew he was about to get taken to task. “Has Yennefer been on about my crow’s feet again? She’s delusional. My skin is flawless.”

It wasn’t, though. Geralt could see the fine lines spreading from around his eyes and mouth even in the dark, the way his hair was less lustrous than it used to be, thinning at the temples. How slowly he moved, how loudly his knees popped when he stood up after sitting for too long. “You look fine,” was all he said out loud. “But Ciri’s lost enough people already. I’m worried about what it would do to her, to lose someone else.”

Jaskier visibly deflated, sticking his lower lip out to blow his fringe out of the way. After a moment, he said, “I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, Geralt.”

And he knew that, he did, Jaskier probably had decades left to live, but— “She’s probably going to live as long as any witcher. I don’t want her to be alone.” As he said it, Geralt realized the truth of the statement. His desire to slow Jaskier’s aging process was a selfish one, but he wasn’t lying about Ciri. Losing Jaskier would be an intense blow to the girl, after already losing one family. She had so few people left in the world who truly cared for her.

Jaskier smoothed a hand down over his face, shifting so that he was leaning one arm against the railing of the staircase. “She has you, and Yennefer, and all of your brothers,” Jaskier said. His lips were pressed tightly together, and even though his eyes had eased from their squint as they adjusted to the dim light, he was looking away from Geralt. “I imagine I’ll fade away easily enough, after a few years.” He said it softly, almost to himself, and Geralt felt all the breath leave him at once at the statement.

“No,” he said, too quickly, one hand coming up automatically to grip Jaskier’s shoulder. Blue eyes turned back on him, wide with surprise. “You won’t.” He didn’t know what else to say, how to make Jaskier understand his own magnitude in their lives—Ciri’s life—his life, without giving away too much. Words were woefully insignificant.

Jaskier brought one hand up to rest over Geralt’s, his lips relaxing into a smile. “Flattering,” he said, lightly teasing. “But anyways, you know Ciri will always have you and Yen.”

“We lead dangerous lives,” Geralt argued, his hand prickling under Jaskier’s palm. “I can’t stop walking the Path, and neither can my brothers. Any year we might not come back. And Yennefer is… she’s made a lot of enemies over the years. Nothing is set in stone.”

“I know you’re worried about this,” Jaskier said slowly, “but there’s nothing to be done about it. Any of you could die at any time, sure, but that’s life.”

“I need to know you’ll be around,” Geralt insisted. “I need to know that you won’t just… die on us.”

Jaskier huffed, removing his hand from Geralt’s and placing it on his hip. “Well, I don’t know what to say. It’s a reality we’ll all simply have to adjust to, unless you’ve suddenly found the secret to immortality.”

Geralt shifted awkwardly in place. Jaskier stared.

“You are not serious—” Jaskier started as Geralt said, “Listen, just hear me out.” Jaskier continued to talk over him, and Geralt sighed up at the ceiling as the tirade began.

“Hear you out?” Jaskier spluttered, incredulous. “Oh, I’m listening, Geralt, because this had better be a damn good one. You can’t show up after being away all winter and call me old and then tell me you want to make me immortal! I will not be subjected to witcher poisons or mages’ spells just because you’ve suddenly had a realization about the inherent dangers of your occupation.”

“It’s not—I’m not going to poison you, Jaskier,” Geralt said, aghast.

If anything that made Jaskier look even more suspicious. “If this is some curse Yennefer wants to put on me I will not allow it. I have heard plenty of horror stories about the transformation process for mages, and I will not be risking the loss of my critical bits.”

“It’s a ritual—”

“That’s worse!” Jaskier exclaimed. “Geralt, we’ve worked half a dozen different contracts that were botched immortality rituals. It went badly, so very, very badly, every time, and now you want to try it because you’re worried about my wrinkles? I’m not even fifty!” He flung his arms out to the side and dropped them sharply, breathing a little heavily.

“You said you don’t have any wrinkles.”

Jaskier glared at him. Geralt sighed.

“It’s not like that,” he explained, sliding his hand down to take Jaskier’s elbow so he could lead them up the stairs. This conversation would be so much easier over a glass of wine. Or better yet, a few shots of vodka. “It should be safe. The elves used to use it all the time to prolong the lifespans of humans.”

Jaskier allowed himself to be moved, shuffling in an awkward half walk up the stairs as he tried to continue the conversation. Geralt let his hand fall away, and his palm was warm where they’d touched. “If it’s so safe and easy, why doesn’t everyone do it?” Jaskier asked.

“It’s… not common knowledge,” Geralt hedged. “And you have to have someone with a long lifespan willing to take part in the ritual.”

“So how did you find out about it?” Jaskier said, tone accusative. “What’s the ritual, exactly?”

“I went to Triss. It’s—” He stopped, casting about for the right words. How to explain, without giving away too much? “It’s an elven ritual, used to… prolong human life spans. It involves tethering the human to an elf, originally. And then the… connection extends the human’s life to closer to that of an elf.” He opened his mouth again, hesitating on the edge of telling Jaskier exactly what the elves used the ritual for. And then he thought about how Jaskier would smile as he dismissed the issue, unconcerned, and Geralt bit back the words. His stomach rolled at the omission, but he couldn’t work up the courage to place this tender thing in Jaskier’s hands only to be crushed.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Jaskier pushed quickly ahead, towards his own rooms. The hall was dimly lit, the occasional window offering slivers of muddled daylight into the passage. Geralt followed after, his footsteps echoing against the stone.

Jaskier pulled a heavy bronze key out of his pocket, frowning as he fit it into the lock. “I don’t know, Geralt. I’m not saying your heart isn’t in the right place,” he said, not looking up. “I’m honestly flattered you would want me around enough to go through all this trouble. But we both know I’m not worth the risk, and this kind of spell, you know they can be—”

Geralt reached out as Jaskier went to push the door open, catching his wrist. The bones there were so delicate, fragile enough that Geralt knew he could snap them without a thought. His hold was as gentle as he could make it. “Jaskier,” he said softly, imploring.

Finally Jaskier looked at him, lips drawn tight. “I don’t want you to regret something like this,” Jaskier said tightly.

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt said, still holding Jaskier’s wrist like a bird in his hand. “I won’t. Can you just… trust me on this?

Jaskier stopped, giving him an unreadable look for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “If you’re sure,” he said, searching Geralt’s face for something. Geralt couldn’t have said what. His fingers burned. Eventually Jaskier must have found what he was looking for, because he suddenly smiled. “I suppose it would be remiss of me to turn down the opportunity for semi-immortality, as you say it. Imagine the heights of artistic mastery I could reach with another fifty years under my belt!”

Geralt rolled his eyes even as relief swept through him. “Of course you would think of that,” he grumbled.

He released Jaskier’s hand, and the bard pushed open the door to his suite. It looked much the same as Geralt remembered it from previous visits. Two rooms, the door to the bedroom ajar just enough to see the end of the bedpost, which had a doublet hanging from it. The main room functioned as a study and parlor, with a low couch and a desk off to one side. Jaskier tended to be fastidious on the road, both with his things and his own personal hygiene, but when he returned to roost at Oxenfurt Geralt found that he let his tidy habits slip. Books and scrolls covered the desk, the couch, and several low shelves, as well as a few spots on the central rug. A few of them were dangerously close to the fireplace. Empty and half full cups of tea and glasses of wine were scattered about. When Jaskier fell into research or writing he didn’t tend to remember basic things like cleaning or fire hazards.

“Sorry for the mess,” Jaskier said breezily, with the assuredness of someone who knew their companion had seen worse. And it was true; this wasn’t even half as bad as Geralt had found it at times, pushing his way into the suite to retrieve Jaskier from a month-long academic fixation.

Jaskier walked over to a waist high cabinet against the western wall of the room and opened it to reveal a honeycomb structure threaded with wine bottles. He produced what looked to be a bottle of Est Est and turned to Geralt, pulling the cork out with his teeth. As the witcher watched, he poured a sizable amount into a mostly clean glass and threw himself down on an unoccupied space on the couch. “Alright,” he said, after swallowing a mouthful of the wine. “Tell me how this is going to work.”

~

The wonderful painting above is by @silvertonguelover​! Such an amazing piece that really conveys the feeling I wanted for this chapter. Find the post of the work here!

[lovelylogans]

the warmest hello (to the coldest goodbye)

once a spy, always a spy forever, forever the warmest hello to the coldest goodbye remember, remember -spies are forever, the tin can bros

warnings: undercover spy work, mention of weapons, drugging someone into unconsciousness/giving someone a roofie, essentially the start of an enemies to lovers fanfiction

pairings: virgil/logan, offscreen roman/patton

words: 4,465

notes: this is for day 7 of @analogicalweek! the prompt of the day is “free day” and i have decided to write a combination soulmates and rival spies au! please enjoy!

⁂

Not that Virgil would admit it, but, like literally every other marked person, he's tried to imagine how he might meet his soulmate. He just didn't ever spare any thought on what he'd do if it happened on the job.

His official cover to his friends (which was mostly his cousin Roman and Roman’s husband Patton) was that he was an analyst—he was always vague about what exactly it was he analyzed, but since neither of them were particularly mathematically inclined, and both were maybe a bit too trusting for their own good, they took him at his word.

Even when he was sent off on various unusual "business trips.”

It’s not like Virgil’s mark is very specific about when and where it’ll happen. Virgil knows that variations of "sorry about that” make for a large percentage of common soulmarks. 

There’s protocols in place, of course, but Virgil had never really paid attention to those classes while training to be a spy. The Lewis clause is the kind of thing Virgil didn’t pay as much attention to, because it didn’t seem as useful as understanding the technology or how to make a cover. The Lewis clause is what to do when someone meets a soulmate on the job—there are specifications for if the soulmate is a target, a team member, or an enemy.

Virgil hadn’t really cared at the time. He’d kick himself for that later.

Any number of meetings occurred accidentally—knocking something over, bumping into someone, or, like his cousin Roman's soulmate did, take Roman's coffee thinking it was his own hot chocolate. They got married two winters ago, just so they could serve hot beverages in cold weather.

He thinks the iteration stamped in black along his left inner arm, "I'm very sorry about this," with the addition of "oh no, it's you” tacked on at the end of his makes it likely that whatever he says will, A, likely be first, B, be somewhat unique, or unique enough to be immediately recognizable, and C, be in the aftermath of some kind of accident.

He ends up being partially right. What he says is first and it is somewhat unique. What his soulmate apologizes for is no accident, though.

Virgil does undercover work, sure, but it's very rare for him to enter the James Bond style locale he's at today, and that he’s been working for the past couple months; the marble ballroom he's circling is dripping with gold chandeliers and matching heavy, velvet curtains that accent the floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a string quartet in the corner, barely audible over the chatter of rich socialites. Virgil, deeply uncomfortable in his white-tie attire, is circling the room in an attempt at looking like he attends charity balls all the time.

He sucks at it.

As if on cue, his earpiece crackles to life.

"How the fuck did you ever qualify to be a spy?" Janus, his tech man and eye in the sky, snickers into his ear. "Your acting skills are horrendous. If you auditioned for The Room right now, they wouldn't let you into the cast.”

"Fuck off,” Virgil fake-coughs into his shoulder.

"Christ, at least try to look like you're mingling, not like you've stalked the target here."

Unable to stop himself, he glances toward the target he's meant to be watching.

The target, who is so staggeringly wealthy it could make Virgil, who is trying to pay off his student debt on a spy's salary (not as high as one might think) burst into tears. Or, much more likely, start ranting about the myriad flaws of capitalism. If so inclined, he could honestly probably steal the amount of money necessary from one of her offshore accounts, and it would be as unnoticeable as someone taking a penny from him.

Mary Lee Truman is standing amidst a flock of suited men, like a dove amidst a flock of dour crows; her dress is slinky silk, a shade of champagne that glimmers rose-gold in the right shade of light. She’s standing leaned to one side, her hip popped out and an arm crossed over her stomach, a crystal-cut champagne flute dangling in her fingers as if she was born to hold one.

Her husband, Lee Truman (fuck if that wasn’t confusing, it was really easier to think of them by their codenames) is off by the bar, seemingly getting himself another drink. 

His eyes stray to Mary Lee again; he can tell a couple of the suits are hired muscle, bodyguards, which makes sense, as the Trumans are allegedly a massive crime family, doing their dirty dealings in plain sight. A couple of the suits he recognizes from dossiers; one is a business partner of Lee’s father, who might not even know what the Truman family really gets up to; one absolutely knows what the Truman family gets up to, as Virgil’s read his rap sheet and knows he’s been in and out of jail due to his assignments from the mob.

There’s one suit there that really doesn’t seem to fit the mold of either category.

For one thing, he’s around Virgil’s age; for another, he isn’t rippling with muscle. Not that he doesn’t look fit; his well-tailored suit shows off his broad shoulders, his biceps, his lean waist. He’s dark-haired, and pale, and blue-eyed, and he’s standing next to Mary Lee with a look that Virgil would think of as dour, but now that he’s looking closely, the blue-eyed man looks almost... calculating.

This man wasn’t in the dossier.

Almost everyone at this ball was in the dossier.

Virgil looks away from Mary Lee and the handsome man, and instead decides to start taking up Janus’ advice; he slowly moves through the room.

Well. He's doing it to get closer to Mary Lee, but sure, he can attempt to mingle.

He traverses through the room, his fancy shoes clicking on the marble floor, mindful to not step on any dress hems—he has it easy, as his directive was simply to wear his white tie with his hidden weapons, his ear piece, and his lapel pin that records everything he's seeing. The women in the room provide the only splashes of color outside of the black suits and white shirts of the men, the gleaming marble, the gold- accented glasses and dishware. Even what little art he's seen follows that color theme -- white marble busts, abstract black and white paintings in their gilded frames, a gold statue outside the front steps, as if to greet the partygoers.

But the women of the party aren't beholden to this strict color scheme. Gowns of pink chiffon, red lace, blue taffeta, deep violet velvet, Virgil passes them all, keeping one eye out for rose gold silk.

He ends up instituting himself in a ring of people listening intently to an art history professor talking about the architectural significance of his building—he introduces himself with his cover name, James Walker, to the man next to him, who Virgil already knows is a Truman cousin. He gives a fake first name too—he says his name is Alex, when Virgil knows it’s really Bruce. Okay. Something to take note of.

He listens to the art history professor talk about art deco with just one ear, the other straining to eavesdrop on Mary Lee and her suits.

“Do you think our beneficiary approaches?” Mary Lee murmurs to the blue-eyed one, the one that wasn’t in the dossier.

“Oh, I know he does,” the blue-eyed man says to her. He has a pleasant British accent, the kind of voice that would be right at home on a nature documentary calmly narrating the eating habits of wolverines, or something like that. “According to all my research, our previous beneficiary is no longer within our purview. A new one will have been instilled in hasty time. As a matter of fact, I believe I would be able to point him out to you right now.”

Mary Lee sighs, a little, and the man continues talking about their charity. Virgil’s mind races. He knows the Truman’s “charity work” almost always acts as a sieve to run dirty money through, so what would it mean, that they got a new beneficiary? A new target, maybe? A new directive?

Either way, this is almost definitely some kind of code they’re talking in. He tunes a bit more into the art history professor’s impromptu lecture—he’s taking a brief tangent into talking about Tamara de Lempicka—as he ruminates on that particular conversation between the blue-eyed Brit and Mary Lee.

Then he ends up in conversation with an elderly woman beside him, who wants to know who he is—James Walker, I run a business a state or two over, I’m interested in diversifying my assets—and if he’s been to any art museums in town. Both he and the man he is meant to be have not, but it turns out she’s a curator and has numerous suggestions for him.

He also knows this woman, Ida Kelly, has been paying into the Truman business for quite some time, and has potentially ordered hits using the Truman’s muscle.

“Madam,” a suited waiter shows up at her side, as if on cue, and hands her a small glass full of what looks like a gin-and-tonic.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she says, taking her drink immediately.

The waiter turns to him. There is a singular champagne flute on the tray. “Sir.”

“I didn’t order anything,” Virgil says stupidly, before he realizes that almost everyone here is taking champagne flutes off of trays, and he supposes this waiter just wants to clear his before he has to double back and get more. “Oh, all right.”

He takes it. It’s a delicate, crystal-cut glass. He’s almost a little afraid that if he holds it wrong, it’ll break.

“Really, we’re doing an Impressionism exhibit, and it is positively divine,” she says.

Very suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, emanating warmth through his suit and Virgil jumps, a little—he hopes whoever it is didn’t feel one his knives. Or, God forbid, his gun.

He turns to see no one, when a hand touches his opposite arm, and he turns again. It turns out to be the blue-eyed Brit, who is staring only at Ida, brushing past him, allowing his hand to trail down Virgil’s arm, touching his hand as if to say, please stay there, I do not want to bump into you.

At such a close range, Virgil can smell his absolutely incredible cologne, see his defined jawline, the way his blue eyes gleam.

Ida brightens. “Darling!”

“Ida,” the Brit says warmly. “I visited that display myself, it was simply wonderful.”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” she says, clearly drinking up the praise. Virgil looks between them, feeling even more awkward than he has all night.

“Wait a goddamned minute,” Janus murmurs in his ear, after such a long stretch of silence that it makes Virgil jump again. There’s the sound of rapid typing.

“A victory!” The man says, lifting his glass—it looks to be full of whiskey. “A toast, to your latest triumph.”

“Oh, now,” she says, but when the other surrounding suits start lifting their glasses, Virgil lifts his, as well.

“To Ida Kelly,” the Brit says. “One of the finest artistic minds to walk the earth at our time!”

Virgil takes a sip of his champagne at the same time as everyone else; another woman in a deep green gown with a shawl edged in feathers takes Ida’s arm, rhapsodizing about the Impressionism movement and the latest event that her art gallery had put on.

It takes about a minute for Virgil to notice his vision going blurry in the corners.

It takes him about ten seconds of blinking hard and rubbing his eyes, hoping to clear it, to stumble over his own two feet.

It takes five seconds for Janus’ voice to buzz to life in his earpiece, urgent, “Virgil, get out of there, get away from that man, that’s Lo—”

It takes him about two seconds after that to notice that the blue-eyed Brit is looking at him with an expression clearly lacking remorse.

It takes him about half a second to realize the finger tapping one shoulder, his hand at his hand—the same hand that had been holding his champagne flute. He hadn’t been looking at his drink. The Brit had made him turn away from his drink.

The Brit put something in his drink.

Virgil’s been made.

“Good God, man,” another suited man says, when Virgil stumbles over his own two feet, “had enough of the bubbly, have you?”

Virgil ignores him; even as his vision is growing blurrier and blurrier, his eyes are intent on the Brit, staggering towards him, and he doesn’t even really know why. He’s been made, he should be running, but—

"Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?" Virgil slurs, and his sudden lack of physical control resoundingly answers the question before the Brit can; the arms that catch him before he can full flat on his face are muscular and warm. He’s distantly aware of the crystal-cut grass slipping from his hand and shattering on the marble.

The warm, muscular arms are more pressing than that. And, for a dirty rotten criminal who has probably killed people, the man is quite handsome. His bespectacled face swims in Virgil's vision.

"'I'm very sorry about this," he says smoothly, before his eyes widen in alarm. "Oh no.”

As Virgil is on the verge of unconsciousness, he hears, "It's you."

His last three thoughts before he slips under: did he just fucking say what he thought he said, then, good God his eyes are so blue, then, fuck, I should have paid way more attention to the Lewis clause.

⁂

Virgil is aware of three things as he wakes up: one, he feels like he has a dreadful hangover. Two, he’s pretty sure he’s in a plane or train or car or something moving, which makes him feel motion sick.

Three, he’s been stripped of his earpiece and his weapons.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, squinting; it’s night time, but even the low light is making Virgil’s eyes hurt.

This is a limousine, he can tell that much off the bat; the partition is closed, the glass tinted as dark as it legally can be, the interior leather light-colored, the bar fully stocked with different sodas and crystal-cut decanters full of various liquors, which makes him wince in memory of the champagne.

He feels like shit, but when he looks over and sees the blue-eyed Brit—his soulmate—his soulmate who had fucking drugged him and was working with the mob—it makes him feel even shittier.

“Ah,” his soulmate says. He’s sitting with one ankle resting on his knee, a squat glass of whiskey in hand. He has glasses on now that he hadn’t had on before. Also, his accent is no longer British; he’s got a nice Italian lilt to his voice, now. “Good. You’re awake.”

Virgil stares at him. He doesn’t say a word.

“I’ll admit this,” he gestures between them, “rather put a cinch in my plan on how to deal with you.”

“Would you have killed me?” Virgil asks. His voice comes out a croak. “If we weren’t...”

He trails off.

The man’s eyebrow arches, before he shrugs, and rolls up his sleeve. His soulmark is in the same place as Virgil’s—stamped across his left inner arm, in the spiky handwriting Virgil only uses in his personal notes, not the more uniform one he writes reports with.

Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?!

Undeniably a matching soulmark to his.

“My parents were quite bemused by it, when it showed up,” the Brit—or American?—the blue-eyed—his soulmate says. “I suppose we have our answers now.”

“Do we?” he says. 

The man takes a sip of whiskey. Then, he says, “Your predecessor was FBI. Are you the same?”

Virgil tenses. The man rolls his eyes again.

“Please,” he murmurs. “For an organization meant to be secretive, your lot are quite obvious when you trade moles in and out. One comes in, goes out, and coincidentally someone new is knocking on the door within the week. It’s absurdly simple to pinpoint who’s reporting back to your government. So. FBI, CIA, military...?”

“Who gives a fuck,” Virgil says.

“One should know what one’s soulmate does for a living, shouldn’t they?” he says. “This is a very unique situation. I’m simply trying to find out—”

“What do you do for a living, then?” Virgil snarls. His head is pounding, his mouth is dry and it tastes dreadful, his soulmate is an asshole working for the other side, and he’s being carted off to God knows where. This day is one of the worst of his life. Why couldn’t he have had a nice little café meet-cute, like Roman had had?

The man smiles at him, not particularly kindly. “I diversify.”

Virgil pulls a face, because he knows that’s poking fun at his cover.

“What,” Virgil says, “poison people on Monday, go to Ida Kelly’s resort on Tuesday, with a fun little Friday jaunt of killing people who cross the Trumans?”

“I’ve never actually been to the museum Ida Kelly curates,” the man admits. “It was an easy way to insert myself near you, to put it in your drink. And for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t poison.”

“Roofie. Drug. Whatever.”

The man’s eyebrows pull together, in a rather petulant expression. “I designed that myself, you know.”

“Well, it’s shit,” Virgil snaps. “I feel like I have the worst hangover of my goddamn life.”

“Yes, that was part of the design,” the man says, and offers him a glass of water.

Virgil stares at him. “Seriously.”

“No trust between soulmates?” He says.

“Yeah, well. Fool me once.”

The man shrugs, putting down the glass of water into a cupholder, before digging out a sealed water bottle. Virgil takes it and places it into a cupholder near him. No fucking way he’s accepting any food or drink from this man.

His lips quirk up into a smile.

“Where are you taking me?” Virgil says, ignoring the way that smile makes his heart pound.

“That rather depends,” he admits. 

“On?”

“Well.” He says. He uncrosses his legs, planting both feet on the floor. “I’m assuming that now the man in your little earpiece—he was rather rude—is aware that you have been, what is it you say? Made?”

Virgil nods.

“Well. Now that he, and therefore your employer, knows that you are made, you won’t be poking your nose into Truman business anymore, will you?”

Virgil grits his teeth. “Not undercover.”

The man ignores that. “And I know that no matter which you work for, the Lewis clause has been adopted across every arm of that government, and as such you’ll be prohibited from any mission that might bring you into contact with me.”

God damn it. How does he know the spy lessons better than Virgil does?

And then it occurs to him: Janus knew that man. He warned Virgil to get away from him, to get away from Lo—

He rolls this information around in his head. The Lewis clause isn’t exactly a widely advertised part of being a spy; there was a whole trilogy of novels that got adapted into secret agent movies, years ago, that concerned opposing agent spies coming to face each other again and again, and the secondary soulmate agents teamed up together. Which the Lewis clause would prevent, but the public who went and read those novels or saw those movies wouldn’t know that. 

So either this man—Lo? Lo what?—either knows a lot��about spies, because he’s one of those know your enemy types, or...

Or he sat down and learned about the Lewis clause the same way that Virgil did, except he actually sat down and listened. Maybe he defected, maybe he’s dirty? Or maybe Virgil’s just overthinking it.

Look. Virgil’s got a lot of questions here. Chief among which:

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away,” the man says vaguely, looking at him. “Are you gay?”

Virgil gapes at him.

“I’d be perfectly fine with a platonic soulmate, but for the sake of disclosure, I am gay.”

“For the sake of disclosure,” Virgil repeats disbelievingly, and pinches the bridge of her nose, rubbing it. God, his head hurts terribly. 

“Bisexual, or pansexual, perhaps?” He prompts. “Asexual? Or... you could be straight, I suppose.”

“Ugh,” Virgil says reflexively, then shakes himself. “I’m not—okay. Fine. Yeah, I’m gay too.”

“All right,” the man says, as if noting it. “What’s your name?”

Virgil snorts.

“What?”

“Okay, I don’t—” he gestures to the limousine around them. “Again, you just drugged me. I don’t know where you’re taking me. You probably would have killed me if I hadn’t said those words.”

The man makes a moue of distaste.

“Or had someone kill me, I don’t know,” Virgil amends. “Either way, you’re working with that family, who I’m assuming aren’t pleased at having a spy getting caught trying to work himself into your ranks, so I’d rather you not know all that much about my life, thanks.”

“It’s not like I’m asking for your,” an infinitesimal pause, as if he’s wracking his brain, trying to remember something, “social security number or anything. A name.”

Virgil stares at this man. Lo—. Lo something. Lochlan? Loyd? Or was it a codename?

“Yours first.”

The man pauses.

“You drugged me,” Virgil says.

He smiles at Virgil. “Will you hold this over my head for the rest of our lives?”

The rest of our lives. Yes, that’s meant to be the fairytale ending for soulmates, isn’t it? A nice little meeting, the swell of overdramatic violins in the background, falling into each other’s arms and forming a life together. That’s the popular answer.

More and more recently, though, people have been advocating for choice; that soulmates are not always the best person for you.

Virgil doesn’t know which camp he and this man will fall into, just now.

“Yes,” Virgil says quietly. “Yes, I think I will.” 

The man sets aside his whiskey.

“Logan.” He says at last, and his accent has changed again; it’s vague, almost indecipherable, but if Virgil had to guess he’d say Midwestern American. Virgil wonders if it’s his real one. “My name is Logan.”

Logan.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Since discovering you’re my soulmate? I haven’t lied to you at all. Not a word.”

“Except for the accent.”

Logan laughs.

“Habit, sorry. It’s a long story that perhaps the man screaming in your earpiece will be able to tell you one day.”

Virgil jolts with surprise. “You know—?”

He cuts himself off before he can say Janus’ name.

“Reputationally,” Logan says, and, as strange as it is, Virgil believes him. In this, at least.

His soulmate’s name is Logan.

“Virgil.”

Logan smiles, his blue eyes glittering. “It’s nice to meet you, Virgil.”

There’s the sound of a soft knock on the partition, and it lowers; Virgil can’t see the driver.

“Sir? We’re here.”

“Right,” Logan murmurs, shaking himself. He reaches into his jacket and withdraws an envelope, offering it for Virgil.

Virgil hesitates.

Logan rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’ve laced it with anything. I’m holding it with my bare hands.”

Virgil huffs, but he takes it, opening it and pulling out a thin piece of paper.

It’s a commercial flight ticket to Washington, D.C.

“Why D.C.?” Virgil says quietly.

“Most of those organizations are based there,” Logan says. “Is it too far a jump to assume that you are, as well?”

It is actually too far a jump; it’s not even remotely close, he lives in an entirely different part of the states. But. To be fully honest, he doesn’t want Logan to know the state he lives in, and therefore the state that Patton and Roman live in, until Virgil knows if he can be trusted or not.

Logan opens the limousine door from inside, revealing they’ve pulled up to the local airport.

“What, no private plane?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t trust that,” Logan says with a shrug. “The Trumans may be powerful, but you know as well as I that manipulating a flight of this nature is well outside their purview.”

Logan’s right, he absolutely wouldn’t have trusted that, but. This limo’s pretty swanky. For the time he wouldn’t have been obsessively running over every crack and seam in a private jet and interrogating the pilot, he probably would have had a pretty swell time.

Virgil swallows, looking up at Logan. “There are programs, you know? If you wanted to be a witness. Be in service to—”

Logan smiles at him in a way that’s almost pitying. “I left that life behind a long time ago.”

Virgil looks to the airport, then back at Logan.

“Will I see you again?”

Logan shrugs again, almost delicately. “Who’s to say?”

Virgil nods, once, and he says firmly, “I’ll see you later.”

Logan grins at him. “Not if I see you first.”

Virgil slips out of the limo, slams the door shut, and, with what feels like Herculean effort, manages to get into the airport without looking back to see if he can see Logan through the tinted glass.

He does exchange the ticket for another that’s an hour and a half later, though. He’s not a total idiot.

He gets through security pretty quick, and sits in one of the incredibly uncomfortable chairs, his brain pounding with his headache, the questions swirling around in his head making it even worse. Virgil puts his head in his hands.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is working for a mob family.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is apparently smart enough to specifically engineer a roofie.

His soulmate, though!

Janus knows his soulmate. Janus recognized his soulmate.

His soulmate knew about the fucking Lewis clause.

Was his soulmate a spy too? Was his soulmate in deep cover? Had he betrayed his organization? Was he a good person, or had the universe seen fit to hitch Virgil to someone awful?

How had Logan gotten entangled with the Trumans in the first place? Why wasn’t he in the dossier? 

Where was Logan even from? Did he like coffee? Hot chocolate? What had he studied in school? What was his favorite food? If they were normal people, would he have asked him on a date and not drugged him and dragged him off in a limo? 

Who was Logan?

Whatever the answers to his questions are, though. Virgil knows himself enough to know that he isn’t about to let this case go. Not the Trumans. Not him.

Lewis clause be damned.

[jonah-aesthetic]

That One Pt.1 I Jonah Marais  

Jonah Marais X Reader / Ivette X Daniel Seavey 

Plot: Since high school Jonah had a thing for y/n but never thought it was time for them. Now in college after a failed dare Jonah can’t help but throw himself into her life.

Word count: 6.4K

Author’s Note: This is nowhere near to finish so I’ve decided put them into parts. It’s has a lot of best friend content. A few POC characters, links to photos, and not much Jonah as I wanted there to be. 

Rating: 16+ 

Part 2

-----------------------------------

The city was bursting with life and colour outside your favourite coffee shop. Vehicles slowly worked through the downtown traffic, many people weaved through the crowed sidewalks. The smell of coffee beans and baked goods was one of your calming scents, like honey or lavender. 

Turning your head. The tall barista clad in a black shirt and a green apron made hos way to you. Holding your iced coffee and cookie in his hands, it was almost like you had a six sense for the beverage. You could feel the happiness start to spread to from your veins as if you could already taste it. You easy got bored on tastes if consumes often enough, but you know you could never get bored of this beverage. 

“One Iced coffee, and a gingerbread cookie.” The barista’s soft brown eyes reached yours as he set both items on the table. “Thank you,” you said clutching both forms of happiness in my grasp. “Can I get you anything?” His question towards your Hispanic best friend sitting across from you. Ivette politely shook her head. “No, one coffee was enough for me. Thank you.” At her response I started at my third coffee. 

“No problem, just give me a shout if you want another one.” you didn’t dare look at him, but you knew his eyes were on you as he said those words. “Don’t worry, she will. This one is a coffee whore.” the words were a playful attack. 

“Ivette!” you warned, 

“Those ones are a good flavour, aren’t they?” The barista, Trey as you read from his black name tag. Says before walking away.you threw a glare at her, “You know I’m studying for the up coming finals. asshole!” 

“Oh come on! It was the perfect time to tease your tense ass. You’ve had that nose of yours in that text book all week end.” She shrugs her shoulders like she did you a favour. 

“I know you don’t understand with that hefty trust fund of yours. But I can’t fail this, my entire future depends on it.” your voice soft when you explained it to her. 

Her dark eyes shifted from yours to the table, her features softening. Silence washed over her bright laughable personality and you could felt the guilt rise. “I-I’m-you could always ask for financial help, we’ve been friends since Kinder.” Her voice softer now, she knew your dad always struggled with his work for years now. Yet sometimes she forgot, it was easy for her. 

“I don’t wan’t to feel like a burden and you to feel like I’m only friends with you because of your family name.” 

“why would I? especially when you’ve only asked for iced coffee and you always paid me back. Not to mention you still wear that apple watch I got you three years ago.” Glancing down at the smart watch circling your left wrist with a clean white band. She was right, Ivette just got you the newest version on your last birthday. 

“This one holds valuable memories, like a relic.” 

Ivette laughs “I’m sure it does, dork.” 

Before you could say something you caught her eyes flick to something behind you. With a small twinkle in her eyes and a twitched of her lips you knew it was rather a somebody. “predator coming this way.” was all she whispered. 

His Cologne wafted over you as you sense a masculine presence loom over you. almost Alpha male like, straight out of a fucking wattpad book you read last night. Finally looking up, your breath caught in your throat. You knew the male who was already staring down at you, a wolfish grin set to you like you were his next prey, his next target. 

“Jonah” You acknowledged him, 

“Y/N? Is it?” his voice deep as he slides in next to Ivette, letting out a yelp as he pushed her with his hip aside. Folded hands setting on the table top, fingers decorated with a couple rings. A leather jacket cover his squared shoulders, silk button down underneath. one or two buttons undone, caramel chest exposed. Bright determined green eyes locked on you, light brown curls framed his face perfectly. 

“We have classes together.” The comment monotone. 

“Right how could I forget.” The smile sly, 

“You asked Marais, now continue.” Not a change in your tone as you stared back at him. Ivette choked out a cough and Jonah sent her an un-pleased glance. 

“Anyways, my boys put a bet down.” His eyes switched behind you, following his gaze you say all four of them watching intensely. Sipping coffee as if this was their only entertainment. 

“Not surprised.” you murmured under your breath, taking a sipping out of your coffee. Most of the sugar and cream washed out the original bitter taste of it. It was definitely an addiction, one you weren’t getting rid of soon as it calmed your nerves in the presence of him. 

“For your number. a little immature if I do say so myself.” This one knew how to play his games, you’ll give me that. But you weren’t naive, never had been. 

“No, thanks for the offer.” You voice condescending towards him. His expression slightly less predatory, You were getting to him.

“Interesting.” His eyes searching for any faltered emotion, 

“The only thing that’s interesting is that you think you’re worth my time.” His wolfish smirk faltered, shock showed with surprised eyebrows. 

“You don’t think I am?” His voice didn’t change. 

“The only reason you interrupted us was because your little boys over there, dared you to get my number. But Knowing your reputation, that’s a waste of my time. Now will you excuse us we should be heading back.” Your voice sharp as you jabbed at him with each word. 

“Damn your bite is brutal.”  Jonah was amazed at the dish you served him. 

“Only to the ones who deserve it.” 

“I’ll see you around Y/N.” He winked , watching him get up you spoke again. “Oh and tell Jack I want his number.” You didn’t want it but you knew that would get under his skin. he only answered his a vicious glare and a growl. 

Your eyes flicked back to Ivette, a proud smile upon her red lips. “That’s my girl, but dang that one is hot as hell. I would’ve caved, even if it’s just a quick fuck.” You laughed, she wasn’t entirely wrong.

---------------------------

Your focus set on the lecture in front of you, taking in all the information your professor was giving you. Tapping in notes on your beloved laptop, another gift from Ivette. Another one you had tried giving back multiple times, yet she had avoid you like the damn plague. Only making you fall into current and take yet another generous gift  

Advanced English was one of your top classes, you’d let yourself lack every now and again. Not for too long but a big enough break to let yourself relax and light a candle. 

The creaking sound boomed through the room as someone pushed open the door. Mr. Delton was use to the average late comer, not giving his attention as he taught the lecture in depth details on the subject at hand. 

focus. focus.

Yet your eye caught a glimpse of milk chocolate curls, bouncing as he half jogged up the steps, light shift inside them making them lighter. He held his jet black mac book and an English text book in his arm. Wearing a white t-shirt rolled up at the sleeves a few inches. Revealing all the ink that scattered across his skin. Black jeans and browning converse at his feet. He was perfect save the acceptation of a purple bruise blossoming on his cheek right below his eye. And a red split through his bottom lip, Both going to get worse as the week continued. 

Bruises that hadn’t been before. 

Staring for a little too long he felt your prying eyes, his wolfish green eyes connected with yours. a flash of a smirk, you swore you saw him tear his cut before you forced your attention back on Mr. Delton. 

You heard his every step from behind you, coming closer and closer. Now right behind you, hearing him take a seat. Dread entered your blood stream and you wished your heart to stop thumbing so fucking loud. Feeling embarrassed as if the student next to you could hear it. 

a small hum from your phone arouse, you debated on it. The hovering presence of Jonah lurked stronger, yet you still fished it out. 

Trey:Hey! was wondering if you wanted to get coffee after class?

Trey the barista from the cafe, the image of him popped into your mind. Dark chestnut skin, a beautiful contrast against your own skin tone. Mahogany coils framed his face, chocolate brown eyes. And those god blessed features. 

You remembered how abruptly he stopped you as you and Ivette started for the exit. Giggling as he walked straight into a table and shattered a coffee mug in the process. He asked for your number, with a pink blush upon his cheeks. Genuinely surprised at the offer you gave it too him while you gave Jonah a glance. Green eyes threatening. 

“The barista boy?” his breath fanning against your neck, making goosebumps rises and a shiver run down your spine. You’ve forgotten about that one with the slight distraction of Trey. Your phone slipped from your finger tips as you let out a loud yelp. Mr. Delton halts his lecture and the thud of your phone echos through the entire lecture hall. 

Embarrassment flows through you again, sinking into your chair as every single person glares down at you. Swallowing hard as you felt your throat began to tighten. You knew you looked like a deer in headlight. 

“She’s not feeling good, I told you to stay in your dorm today, Babe.” His voice loud enough for others to pry in. Bound to talk about you and Jonah later on, torturous gossip. you could already here it. You’d bite back and decline his words if you weren’t for this unfortunate situation. 

Jumping over the chairs he helps you gather your things ushering you out. Everything in his arms both your belongings and his. You were beyond grateful that lecture was the reaching the end. As soon as the heavy door clicked your spun towards him, “What. The. Fuck!” Anger rippled from you in waves. 

“What no thank you Jonah for saving me from embarrassment?” His tone mocking towards you, God! you swore you could slap that dumb smirking of his fucking face. Adding to his bruising face, he deserved it. 

“You are so infuriating!” You yell, feeling it vibrate harshly against your throat. 

“What can I say. I like playing with my food.” Fuck those green eyes. Fuck that stupid smirk. 

“Fuck you!” was all you managed to say as if you could feel the stream burning off you. whirling away from him you continued down the wide hall of the university. If you stared at his taunting expression any longer you’d hit him. 

“Come on! I’m not that bad.” Fake pouting like a child. Remembering he had a hold on your notes. You sighed whirling back around, heading back for him. Glaring Jonah down as you dragged the fire behind you, not a flicker in his demeanour. You swore his smirk grew as if he found amusement in your anger. 

“You are, not to mention you put a target on my back. So thanks.” You say with a humorous smile on your lips. head slightly tilting as he furrowed his eyebrows, perplexed. You rolled your eyes at him, “You called me ‘babe’ as if we’re together..” you mimicking the motion of puking your breakfast out. He shook his head and chuckles. “..And if you haven’t notice you’re Jonah Marais, girls fall at your feet. Now they’re be slicing my head off.” You crossed your arms over your chest. 

“Yet you don’t” His eyes trailing from you head to toe trying to read your body language. The anger stopped abruptly as if his words were like a bucket of water. 

“You’re hot..” His green eyes darken at the confession, his teeth biting his bottom lip. “.. but you treat girls like conquests and you just a waste of my time, Jonah.”  Dark green becoming dull green, He watched as you reached from your laptop, supplies, and phone. Letting them slip from his grip as they fall into yours. 

“If that’s what you think,” Were wrong about him? Or was he trying to bait you? Honesty with the genuine expression you didn’t know what you believed now. 

“Bye, Jonah.” You say softly before leaving him there,

“I’ll see you around, babe.” Taunting again,

“Fuck you.”  You raise your left are and flip him off, 

“Only if you want too.” You roll your eyes at his response. 

----------------------------------

With the pass few days your mind was drowning in piles of work. Still studying for those finals, they were coming faster then you had the time for. You were comfortable with the the amount of information cramped inside. Yet you still felt the need to be confident with the facts, as if you could teach the damn course yourself. There was no time for mistakes, not now.  

Jonah Marais 

There you were in the quad, sitting at a table far from everyone else. textbooks and random pages with notes on them splayed over the top. Not an inch on blue table insight. Phone on air plane mode as you listened to your trusted early 2000s playlist. vaguely bopping your head to the beat of the songs, mouthing the words, your foot tapping the cement. 

Jack nudged Jonah with a tatted elbow, head whipped down to him. a noticeable scowl written on his face, not too happy to have his thought wonder from you. “What do you think shes listening to?” Words catching in his throat as he coughed “Who are you talking about?” 

“The girl you’ve been staring at for the last ten minutes, I’m kinda shocked she hasn't felt you stalking her.” Jack’s brown eyes gleamed honey in the sunlight, a joking smirk upon his lips as he watched Jonah stutter, “I-I wasn’t.” He tried sounding convincing, but the taunting look on his best friend’s face told him otherwise. 

“I’ve never seen a girl get under his skin the way Y/L/N does,” Daniel pipes in taking a seat in the grass with his beloved guitar. 

“I’ve never seen him get humiliated like that. Was a treat watching you get rejected in a cafe.” Little Zach chimed in, cackling like a hyena. 

“Enough!” Jonah barked out, turning a few prying eyes.

“Awe is Jonah getting mad that we’re teasing him about the girl he’s been pining after of years? Poor thing.” Corbyn’s voice is very condescending towards him. Sending All the guys into a full blown laughing fit. Jonah only glared at his band mates, of course they knew about y/n. The only girl who has never fell at his feet.

They went to high school together, never colliding groups through the years. Back then Jonah had every girl he wanted. Until one day in junior year he saw her, Actually saw her. At the time he didn’t know your name, she wasn’t one who cheered at band gigs. Wasn’t one to catch him in the halls and ask if he had any plans for the night. Jonah would remember a face like that, trust me. 

He admired you through the art room’s door, open ajar. An old paint brush in your hand, chipping black paint on the handle of it, years of use wearing down on it. A palette of colours resting in your other as your focus was deeply upon the canvas. A lion roaring with immense detail laid upon it. Anyone looking at it could tell that lion wasn’t roaring out of fear or grief, but pride. The roar of the king, he was memorised by how in depth her detailing was. 

Sliding through the door like a mouse, his attention went to the board. Spirit animal was written for this weeks assignment. Jonah was intrigued by you and your spirit animal. You had to think of yourself as a lion for a reason and he wanted to find it.That lion. 

Glancing towards you he drank you in, from your soft hair to your wore in vans. Lost in the painting, you never felt his hovering presence. Taking a step towards you he halting, this wasn’t the time for her. he could feel himself saying deep down. She’s a lion, you’re not ready for her not yet. With that he slipped back out into the hallway. 

He started noticing her more as if she was a ghost before spotting the lion. Never talking to her but watching from afar. 

“Let’s rehearse, that’s what we came her for.” Jack says, Jonah felt relieved at that taking his seat in the grass. He was playing a dangerous game with his heart. Jonah knew that but he wanted her, but he didn't know how to make y/n his. A struggle he wasn’t familiar with, she was something else entirely. 

“Let’s start with Lotus In.” Daniel says, starting with one of their newer songs. Attention on the guitar in his lap he began, fingers dancing with strings like they belonged there. Jack took in a breath before letting the lyrics flow from his lips. 

Y/N

Jonah glanced over towards to you again, wondering when Ivette and her pack of Richies swarmed you. A ghost of a smile on your lips as you continued your conversation with her. 

“Tell me you’re coming to the party this weekend.” Ivette’s voice drowning in sugar, knowing  there was a high chance you were going to decline. “I just have a lot of things to do, like study and cram in some sleep.” You whined at her as if you were a injured puppy. 

“Come on girl! you’ve been studying your soul away.” Julie, one of Ivette’s friends spoke up. Her voice soft as silk when talking to you like you were some seven year old. you fought the urge to roll your eyes an sigh at her, all of Ivette’s more fortunate friend treated you in this manner. You never brought it up because you knew she loved the company of them. 

“There’s this dress in my closet I don’t wear anyone, it’s last season.” Julie offers, Irritating boils in your blood as you saw the pity ooze out of her like you were some charity case. 

“ I was thinking about going shopping for one instead.” The words spill out of your mouth before you could think. You didn’t have the money to splurge on a dress at the moment. But you felt the need to prove yourself to her, to prove you were one of them. One who could spent a grand or two in a day without trouble. But you Weren’t one of them. 

“I got you a gift, Actually.”  Ivette cuts through the conversation like a knife. Placing a chunky box atop the table over your textbooks and notes. You look at her seeing a knowing glint in her eyes, she knew. She knew that you struggled in her world with her parents and her friends. 

“You didn’t have to.” You say to her, 

“Stop being so modest, open it.” Julie urges you, it took everything in you to not reach over the table and smack her. Engaging in a conversation with her was like talking to a chihuahua. A Beverly Hills Chihuahua. 

A small reassurance from Ivette you began to remove the lid of the black box. Revealing crisp white tissue paper, spotting a vague green colour underneath. Picking various pieces out your eyes gazed upon a gorgeous forest green silk dress. Grasping it in your fingers you were mesmerised by it, lifting it up you saw it in all it’s glory.  

“Wow, I think I’m in love with it.” You spoke, 

“Me too, where did you get it?” Julie pipes in, gazing at the dress as if it was hers.  It was a split between casual and formal, short and body-con-like. an open back with the straps criss crossing over and tying in the front. 

“You wouldn’t of heard of it, it’s main stream.” Was all Ivette said watching you adore the dress in your hands, 

“Are you coming to the party now?” Julie’s voice still sickly sweet, 

“With a gift like this? yes absolutely.” A smirk etched onto your lips still in love with the dress. Ivette scanned Julie’s expression an noticeable sneer reaching towards you. She tried covering it with a grim smile, attempting to keep the jealousy at bay.  

“Jonah is going to love that dress.” Ivette squeals, you drop it at the mention of his name. You praised to the gods you kept your emotions in check. Wanting to play along with Ivette and her game with Julie, “I’m sure he will. It’ll match his eyes perfectly.” you chime in finally, glancing over at Julie who could no longer keep her expressions at bay. 

---------

Ivette began to slid the key into her door. Click. Turning the knob she opened the door revealing her generous apartment. Guiding you in, your hands holding the box that contained the dress she gifted you. A life saver against Julie and her lifestyle. 

She throw her keys on the counter and they landed on the floor with a clang. “I saw the way Julie got under your skin, you had this uncomfortable look settle in your face.” Ivette says, jumping onto her couch with an exaggerated sigh. Taking it in like she hasn’t been there in five whole days. 

“I’m-it’s just Julie talks to me like I’m some little kid, or your younger sister.” I say sitting on her wooden coffee to face her, connecting eyes she looks lost. Like you said your dog ran away. You don’t have a dog. 

“Where’s all this coming from?” Propping herself on her elbow, concern etching her features. You shrug looking away at your feet, “Forget it, um. Where did you actually get the dress?” You ask not ready to say what you wanted to, knowing Ivette she’d run to the ends of the earth for you. God knows what she’d do to Julie and Julie was her friend. 

“Okay, we’ll set it aside.Talk about it late.” Her voice soft and calming. you were grateful for her understanding, she never pushed and waited till you were ready. 

Looking at her with gratitude, reaching her hand for yours she squeezed. Comforting warm pressure against your skin. Growing up with no siblings and only having Ivette as your best friend almost felt like having a sister. 

“It’s thrifted fifteen dollars,” Ivette beams, 

“Okay I’ll take it.” You say in return, 

“I know how you hate my expensive gifts. Even though I’ve been giving them for years. I love gifting them to you because you appreciate everything I give you, you even try to give them back.” Ivette lets a giggle slip past her lips, 

You hug her, arms wrapping around her neck like your life depended on it. Instantly she did the same taking you into her embrace. “I Just don’t want to feel like a burden.” You whisper into her shoulder, 

“You’re not and you’ll never be, You’re my best friend.” She hugs you tighter to her body.

“I love you Ivette.” A warm smile spreads across your lips, 

“I love you too, now lets get you into that dress before you make me cry.” Her voice strained knowing she felt the same, “Okay.” You say before both of you started giggling. 

Letting go you hopped off the couch grasping the box in your hands. “I’m really grateful for the dress.” You say looking down at her, smiles reaching your ears. 

“Stop, just stop. Go put on the dress and I’ll pick out a pair of heels.” She shushes your constant, pushing you towards her bathroom. 

The dress was gorgeous by itself, but on you it was phenomenal. Silky green fabric pooling around your upper thighs, hugging your body in all the right places.The lacing in the back was complicated but you eventually got the hang of it. Tying it in the front, at least that’s how you thought it was suppose to go. If it wasn’t it still managed to look better this way. 

Walking out of the bathroom you heard an intake of breath. “God that dress is a girls dream.” Ivette beamed at you with the brightest smile. Feeling a blush creep up your neck you spotted a pair of heels in her hand. As well as a gold necklace dangle between her finger tips. 

“I’m in love with it.” You admit with a dreamy sigh.

“Jonah will love it as well.” She teases, handing me the shoes and a few pieces of jewellery. Grasping them you sigh, “Can you just let that go, it happened almost a week ago. Plus I asked Trey to meet me at the party.”  You inform her, taking a seat on her bed and began to fasten the heels’ strap onto your ankle.

The heels were black and velvet with a chunky heel, barely having any foot coverage. Only having a thick band over your black toe nails and a strap around your ankle. You didn’t dare ask where they were from in risk of giving them back. You were working on that right now. 

“The hot barista with Delicious chocolate skin?” Ivette basically melted speaking about him, letting out a giggle you nodded. “God you’re so lucky, he’s fine as fuck.” 

“I know I saw him,” you said pride embedded in my tone, collecting the dainty butterfly necklace in my hands. Struggling to get in to clasp, a few tries before I got it. Matching dangle gold earrings, which were easy enough to not mess up. 

-------------------------------

Ivette’s car was wrapped in rose gold crome and was apparently a bitch to keep crisp and clean. Pulling open the passenger’s door you slid in, wasn't too long before the vehicle roar to life. Music pounding into your back with the windows rolled down. This was a party not a wedding so you both never bothered with intense makeup, leaving your hair like it was. 

“I told Julie we weren’t going cause you came down with the chicken pox.” Ivette said turning the music down, you whipped your head towards her. “You do realised we just saw her less then five hours ago right?” A laugh vibrates in your throat. 

“She fucked with my best friend, you think I’m just going to stand by? Absolutely not!”  

“She’ll be there.” I stated looking at her, raven black hair tangling in her silver hoops. A devious smirk spreads on her red lips, “Oh I know,” You shake your head and roll your eyes playfully at her. She only laughs in response. 

-------------

The stench of alcohol, nicotine and sweat has entered your nose almost making you sneeze. Party in full swing, music so loud you swore you saw the floor boards lift up. Taking a step back you thought of hailing a cab and studying for the night. Hand grabbing your arm, you look to Ivette. “It’s time you enjoy yourself, those books aren’t going anywhere.” She speaks into your ear making sure you heard every word. You sigh in defeat she was right, you let her drag you into the night you will definitely regret.

Dragging you through sweaty an intoxicated people, mustering up apologies along the way. Reaching one colossal of a kitchen, a massive house like this was mostly definitely a fraternity house. There was always this pristine a polished look of them, but this one was familiar. One you’ve been to many times before for weekend parties. 

It belonged to Jonah’s band, they liked to call themselves Why Don’t We. As in why don’t we just start a band, you’ve heard the story many times. Ivette had an on and off relationship with their drummer Daniel Seavey.  You had nothing against him, Daniel was a rare stallion with the heart of a golden retriever. Ivette was always the one to pull away from him scared of giving her entire self to him. He was a drummer after all. 

“Babes what beverage is to your calling tonight?” Her voice soft against the shell of your ear. Glancing at the island prepared with every alcoholic drink you could think of. “Surprise me.” You respond with a soft smile on your lips, “The moment I’ve waiting for.” She teases separating from you to craft your drinks. Giving you the prefect opportunity to check if you received a text from Trey. 

You hadn’t. 

Anxiety starting to arise, where was he? 

“Where’s your boy at?” Ivette brushed into you holding that playfulness towards you. Shrugging you shoved your phone into your dainty purse, “I don’t think he’s coming.” voice crumbling, well you didn’t know for sure if he was coming or not. But it was well over an hour when you were suppose to meet. And there was not a single message from him. 

“Here mama drink up.” Ivette places a lime green cup into your hand, the colour coding for single. Tapping cups together in a cheers she counted down “1..2...10″ you rolled my eyes as Ivette skipped eight full numbers. Pulling the pink cup to her lips, taken. Which usually meant she was talking to Daniel again. She chugged the contents. 

You followed, it was bitter. Burning along your throat as you gulped every last drop of it. The percentage was most likely 60 vodka and 40 coca cola. Your alcohol tolerance wasn’t weak but it definitely wasn't strong either. Taking the cup from your lips you coughed. “How was it?” Ivette asks with hopeful puppy dog eyes. You shook your head at her, “I’m never letting you pick again.” 

“Perfect! now it’s time to dance.”

You barely had time to put the plastic cup down, before she was yanking you to the massive den. Into the heart of the party where the music was the loudest and most of the people had been. Cluttering together as if there wasn’t enough space for everyone. 

Your mindset switched as soon you had a taste of the liquor, enjoying every moment as if you did this often. Hand in hand with Ivette as you danced together, bodies close together Feeling the music flow through you as if it was in your blood. Singing the lyrics of an older 2000s song that you knew like the back of your hand. 

Jonah Marais

Music vibrated the walls almost shaking the frames off. Jonah leaned against the railing on the upper level of the house. Having full view of y/n tangled in Ivette Daniel’s girl. Sweat gleamed over her chest as red, blue, purple. yellow, and green lights flashed throughout the house. A blissful smile on her lips and hair plastering her skin. Unquestionably intoxicated by the alcohol she was given. He rarely got to see her like this and began to enjoy the sight of such a gorgeous girl. 

Feeling the presence of a feminine shadow he never took his eye off her. Pressing into him he sighed looking at her, hazel eyes sizing him up. “Hey Jo.” She purred, “Jasmine.” He greeted her in a bored tone she never detected. 

Jasmine was one of the many girls he got lost in through his time here. Jonah knew her body as if he saw it every day. He knew what pleased her and what didn’t, her save words and breaking points. But he didn’t know Jasmine not the way he wanted to know y/n. All Jonah knew was her body and he was getting bored of it. 

“You said you’d be mine for the night.” He voice seductive and slightly pleading, 

“I say a lot of things.” Tone still bored hoping to brush her off. 

“Yes you do.” She hums and begins to press her body into his, feeling every curve of her. Breasts, stomach, hips, and the pulse of her core. Didn’t take too long before her kiss reached his neck. Soft and slow thinking this would release the beast within. Hold her against the wall, bodies pressed together. Instead Jonah shivered in disgust as her hands reached for his belt teasingly. 

“Jasmine, this is a party not your sex chamber.” Daniel’s voice dripping in authority causing her pull away as if Jonah burned her. Relieve washed over him, eyes still on y/n as she grinds against Ivette. Her hands firmly holding her waist, acrylic nails embedded in the green dress. He began to wonder what that view would look like on him instead. 

“Cock block often?” Jasmine scowled at Daniel, 

“Think of it more as a rescue.” Daniel’s voice plain also bored with the girl in front of him. 

“It’s okay to be jealous.” Jasmine purrs again. Can this chick take a hint? Or do I have to form words to make her leave? 

“Not tonight, if you’ll excuse us we have some band issues to discuss.”  It was a quick excuse to get rid of her. It worked as she said a quick bye to Jonah who ignored Jasmine. Hearing her storm down the hall in her heels that clicked behind her. 

“I have no idea why you keep that one around.” Daniel sighs taking the abandoned spot beside Jonah. Elbow leaning against the banister supporting the rest of his body. “I don’t, she crawls back like a wounded deer.” Jonah replies not caring the way he talked about her. 

“Yet here you are still fucking her.” Daniel bites at him not liking the way Jonah drowned himself when things got hard. 

“On occasion.” 

“That’s even worse,”

Jonah looked at his drummer, between the twinkle in his icy blue eyes and Ivette’s blush pink cup. He knew they were talking again, she had this effect on him that no other girl did. “I have a plan and I need your help.” I devious smirk plays onto Jonah’s lips.  

Y/N

Your skin glistening with sweat, the adrenaline in your veins overlapping the pain in the core of your feet. Friction of the straps began to form open wounds, yet you didn’t notice in the bliss of the night. Smiling like an idiot as your body danced with Ivette’s, your best friend. 

“We should take a break.” Her voice strained, 

You nod, not wanting to sound like a dying cat with your sore throat. 

“Okay good, because i’m exhausted, I don’t know how you do it!” She shouts taking your hand in hers, guiding you away from the crowed bunch. 

“The alcohol seeping through my bloodstream.” Your tone in a duh manner like it was the most obvious thing in the worlds. Feeling the way the liquor took effect on your mindset, little hazy yet blissful and happy. 

“Lets get some water in you. okay?” Ivette’s voice holding concern, brushing your hair back like an older sister. “Yes mom.” you sigh sarcastically, with that both of you are off to the kitchen. 

Littering with a couple people not as much as the den. Talking and laughing, enjoying each other’s company. Making the memories they’ll have keep until they don’t want to. 

Again Ivette hands you a lime green cup, but this time the substance in side wasn’t brown. But transparent with no wrenched stench this time, water.  “Drink up, babes.” Ivette says, bringing her own pink cup to her lips. Hers contain the fizz sound of her favourite pop, Root Beer. 

“What would I do without you?” You ask feeling the adrenaline fade from your body. The feeling of complete blissful ecstasy drain to a more content happiness.

“You’d most def--” 

“Ivette.” Her name rolled off his tongue like a purr, like it was meant for his lips. Cutting or conversation quick she whirled around at the sound of his voice. Her breath shuttering at the sight of him. 

Daniel stood in from of her in all his proud glory, his blue eyes fixed on her and only her. They smiled at one another, his cupid’s bow extending. “Daniel.” She acknowledged him. Glancing at me she widened her eyes for quick second trying to keep herself together. Blue eyes shifting he tilted his head at you, “Hope you were having a good time.” 

“I was, thank you Daniel.” you say to him before finally taking a sip of your water. Cold sliding down your throat the perfect refreshment after the hour in the den.

“Always, y/n.” his voice smooth as he averts his attention back on Ivette. “Got time to spare me a dance?” Daniel extends his hand towards her, waiting for the acceptation.

 “Sorry, Daniel but I’m y/n’s ride.” Both flicked to you at the excuse she put on the table. You gave he a tight lipped smile not saying a word but you knew she got the message you wanted to get across. 

“I know that’s why I have Jonah, he’ll drive y/n when she’s ready.” Daniel threw a thumb behind him. Looking past Daniel you spotted him, Jonah leaned against the counter across the kitchen. Wolfish grin on his lips as he was sipping out of a lime green cup. It couldn’t of been Corbyn could it? No, cause that would be to much to ask for. 

Connecting eyes with Ivette, you saw pleased in the browns of her eyes. Not for you to let Daniel take her but to say you didn’t feel comfortable with Jonah. You remembered the times she was completely and utterly happy with him. Saying that he was it, he was home. He was this amazing person for her but she was fucking scared. 

You mentally apologised to her before saying anything, “She’s yours, I’ll be fine. Daniel trusts him, I trust him.” You forced the words to sound normal for his sake. Deep down you wanted to puke for saying those words, but it was for Ivette. “He’s a good person, he’ll get you home in one piece.” Daniel says before whisking your best friend from sight. 

“I’ll get you back of this.” You swore you heard Ivette seethe, nonetheless you smiled after them. Wasn’t too long before you felt his presence loom behind you. Great here we go, it was a risk worth taking at least that’s what you told yourself. 

“Hey, Babe.” 

----------------------------------------

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this piece. 

Which was your favourite part? 

Don’t be afraid to message me if anything offended you with my POC characters. This is a safe space for everyone and I want to make it right!

Taglist:  @jonahlovescoffee​

[masieofthevalley]

All I Really Want is You (Spideypool) - Chapter Thirteen

Find the Masterlist for this fic here! Read this fic on AO3! Check out my Ko-Fi if you would like a commission!

Summary: “Who are you, the big bad wolf?” She snarked. She mentally congratulated herself that her voice hadn’t betrayed the fluttering in her gut.

“Why don’t you come a little closer and find out?”

Peter Parker is an exhausted and overworked student in her senior year of college. Sleep-deprived and running on coffee and fumes, Peter really just wants to get through this semester. On a rare coffee run to ensure that she doesn't fall asleep on patrol or in her textbooks again, she quite literally stumbles upon Deadpool. Try as she might, she just can't stay away from him, and along the way, she finds herself in the middle of a nefarious plot between HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D.

A/N: Hello, everyone! Today’s chapter is Chapter Thirteen: Accidentally in Love. This chapter is named after the song Accidentally in Love by Counting Crows. 

I tried to look up a page of phrases you should say to order in Italian, but it didn’t go very well, so I’m very sorry about that. I used Google Translate when Wade was speaking with Italian, so please forgive me for that!

As always, there is a playlist for this fic, and you can find it on YouTube and Spotify. Spotify won’t play in order unless you have Spotify Premium. You don’t need to listen to it in order, but each chapter has a specific song associated with it. There is also a song associated with the entire fic, which is She Looks So Perfect by 5 Seconds of Summer.

This chapter does include NSFW content, and it’s toward the end of the chapter!

If you liked this chapter, like, share, and reblog, and please leave comments! They make my day, and I will gladly respond. You can also head over to my AO3 and comment there, and I will also respond there! Enjoy!

Chapter Thirteen: Accidentally in Love

Chapter Summary: Peter and Wade’s date ends in a surprise visit to a skatepark, and Peter makes a startling revelation. 

“Right this way, Bambi. Best seats in the house,” Wade proclaimed with a sweep of his arm, indicating that Peter should climb into the booth. They were at a tiny, hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant; Peter wasn’t sure how far away they were from Sister Margaret’s because she had been distracted during their walk by the chatter coming out of Wade’s mouth, but it couldn’t have been that far from the bar. There were two tiny windows on either side of the restaurant’s door, but they were blacked out, creating a suspicious-looking building, at least from the outside. Until the moment they had walked in the door, Peter was worried that Wade had taken them to the wrong place. But, no, they were in the smallest restaurant that Peter had ever been in, and it was very warm and smelled like garlic and parmesan cheese. 

Peter climbed into the booth and put her coat down beside her. Compared to the frigid temperatures outside, the restaurant was a tropical paradise. Wade showed no sign of discomfort from the heat, however, as he sat down opposite her on the other side of the table. Peter noted that not only had he chosen the only table in a corner, but he had also sat on the side of the table that would grant him the view of the entire restaurant. She wondered if that was leftover ingrained training from his time in the Special Forces, or maybe it was a part of his mercenary training instead? Knowing the layout of a room seemed like an essential skill for someone with Wade’s job. Bad Peter, focus on Wade, not his job. 

And like that, she was zeroing in on Wade, who was squirming around in his seat while looking at a handwritten menu made out of cardstock. Peter picked hers up, and after realizing that she couldn’t read any of it but the names of a few types of noodles since it was written in Italian, she quickly set it back down. Wade perked his head up, and his mask raised an eyebrow. 

“Need some help there, Bambi?” Peter shook her head and played with one of the napkins that were on the table. Her cheeks still had yet to recover from their almost kiss back at Sister Margaret’s, and the heat in the restaurant was doing nothing to calm the redness in her face. 

“Order anything you want, Baby Girl. Tonight’s on me,” Wade cheerfully announced, setting his menu down too. 

“I have money, Wade. I can pay for me if not both of us,” Peter argued, frowning at him. Irritatingly, Wade just laughed in response. 

“No can do, Baby Girl. If I let you pay, you’d be bankrupt into next year. You don’t know how much pasta I can put away yet, but you will pretty soon,” Wade chuckled, mimicking wiping a tear away from his eye lenses. Peter scowled; it seemed that Wade didn’t know exactly how much pasta she could put away either. 

“I mean it, I just got paid. I’m good!” Peter promised, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Wade stopped laughing and tilted his head. Not for the first time, Peter wondered what he was thinking. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Honey, or offend you,” Wade said softly, one hand coming up and across the table to cup Peter’s cheek. She desperately wanted to lean into it, to feel his fingers tangle in her hair, but she also wanted to stand her ground. 

“I’ve just got a lot of money laying around that I never spend, and I’d rather you spend your paycheck on things you actually need like groceries or something. And I eat a lot, Sweetheart, I’m afraid I’d put you out on the street,” Wade continued, his thumb running back and forth over Peter’s cheek. It was so close to her bottom lip, she could almost taste the leather. 

“I know you make a lot of money, it’s just, I can take care of myself too,” Peter muttered, wholly distracted by Wade’s hand. He pulled it away, setting it down on the table between them, and Peter had to restrain herself from letting loose the most desperate whimper known to man. However, she must have done a horrible job at disguising her desires because Wade barked out a laugh. 

“Fine, you brat, here, take it back,” Wade conceded quietly, settling his hand back on Peter’s cheek. Peter allowed herself one sigh, and she held onto Wade’s hand for a few seconds with her own before she put both of them down on the table. Sheepishly, she looked back up at Wade. The smile stretching his mask was blinding. 

“I’m not denying you can take care of yourself, Peter,” Wade finally said, rapping the knuckles of his free hand on the table. “But I did pick the restaurant after all, and I’d just like to spoil you a little. Let me? Next time, you can pay, cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!” 

“M’not sure that’s how that goes,” Peter shook her head with a small smile before straightening as she realized what Wade had said. “Next time?” 

“Well, if tonight goes well, which so far, it is,” Wade smirks with a pointed look at their clasped hands. Peter’s blush burned brighter. “I’d like there to be a ‘next time,’ Bambi.” 

“Me too,” Peter confessed, her voice barely audible. Their quiet moment was interrupted by a waitress coming up to their table. They had been talking while they waited for at least half an hour, but the restaurant was completely full. 

“Cosa vorrebbe ordinare?” she asked, leaning her hip against the table. Peter, now feeling self-conscious, hastily tried to let go of Wade’s hand, but his grip was steel tight, and he refused to let her go. 

“Una grande ciotola di spaghetti per favore,” Wade said confidently, and Peter was pretty sure he butchered every word of that sentence. It sounded like Wade had just spoken directly from Google Translate. Like she agreed with Peter’s thoughts, the waitress rolled her eyes and turned to Peter, raising an eyebrow as she waited for him to speak. 

“Grande lasagna,” Peter said with a straight face, knowing good, damn, and well that she sounded like an American tourist. It looked like the waitress was fighting a grin, but she just nodded with another roll of her eyes and left. She came back almost immediately with two cups of water and plopped those on the table. 

“Where’d you learn Italian?” Peter asked Wade as she drained half of her glass, suddenly nervous that she was left alone with him again. What the fuck was wrong with her? 

“Google Translate,” Wade deadpanned, and Peter nearly choked on her drink. She coughed a few times and took one more sip before putting her cup down. 

“No wonder it sounded so bad,” Peter snarked. “I never said Italian was my specialty, you brat,” Wade squawked, “I took Spanish in high school, if you must know.”

“Oh, so what can you say in Spanish?” Peter played along, eyebrows raised in questioning. 

“¿Donde esta la biblioteca?” Deadpool asked with a shit-eating grin on his mask. Peter burst into laughter, snatching her hand back so she could clutch at her stomach with both hands. Her face hurt from the smile stretched across her face. She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed this much. 

“Holy shit, Petey-Pie, keep on smiling. Baby Girl, it’s gotta be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Wade marveled, his own smile gentle and warm. Peter continued to giggle softly until her amusement was gone, leaving her with a pleasant and tender feeling in her chest. 

“Oh, please teach me your ways, Professor Wilson,” Peter teased, batting her eyelashes coquettishly. Even though she wasn’t looking at Wade, Peter could feel that the air between them was stretched thin with tension. 

“Oh, Baby Girl,” Wade growled, and Peter immediately felt her insides twist together in a knot. “There are so many things I’ll teach you, just you wait.” 

Peter swallowed, and against her wishes, the smallest of whines left her throat. Wade closed his eyes in what looked like restraint and groaned quietly, shifting in his seat. Before either one of them could say another word, their waitress was back, sliding large pasta bowls in front of each of them. The smell of fresh tomato sauce and mozzarella broke through the fog covering Peter’s brain, and her stomach gurgled. 

“Grazie!” Wade chirped, tucking a napkin into the neck of his suit. The waitress rolled her eyes with a laugh and a smile in Peter’s direction before walking off again. 

Peter grabbed her fork and dug into her plate. She moaned at the first bite; it was the first proper meal that she’d had in weeks. Her paychecks had been small the last few months; Triple J hadn’t been giving her nearly as many assignments as usual, and that meant ramen noodles for every meal except breakfast. Breakfast was always one cup of - usually, instant - scalding hot coffee with entirely too much sugar. God, she hadn’t even had Starbucks since that first week after she met Wade. What she wouldn’t give for another cappuccino. 

Peter looked up, trying to distance herself from her longing thoughts of Starbucks, and noticed that Wade hadn’t started eating yet. His mask still covered his entire face, and he appeared to be making no effort to remove it. 

“Wade? Aren’t you hungry?” Peter asked, wiping away the sauce that was probably all over her mouth. She tilted her head to the side as the expression on Wade’s mask remained the same. 

“No, you go ahead, Baby Girl, I’m fine,” Wade said, his voice almost sounding authentic, but Peter knew better. She could hear the false notes in his tone, and his posture was too stiff to be relaxed. 

“Look, if it’s the mask, it’s no big deal, it’s fine, really!” Peter promised, her hands gripping onto the edge of the table. Wade shook his head. 

“No, Honey, honest, just go ahead and eat-”

“Look, I’ll put on my beanie.” Peter stuck her hand in her coat pocket, grateful that she had brought her hat after all. “And I’ll just keep my eyes down, and you can just eat like normal, it’ll be fine!”

“God, I do not deserve any of this, don’t deserve you,” Wade whispered, and if Peter hadn’t had gotten enhanced hearing from the Spider Bite™, she never would have heard it. 

“Keep your hat off, Sweetheart. You shouldn’t have to cover up your lovely face just so my ugly mug can eat. Just don’t want you to lose your appetite is all,” Wade insisted, putting a hand over Peter’s. She cautiously dropped it onto the table with a raised eyebrow and looked down at her food anyway when Wade started to roll up his mask. 

“You can look. Just make sure you lean over when you blow chunks,” Wade muttered, and he picked up his fork and started to poke around at his spaghetti. Peter looked up in a cursory glance, and her next bite of lasagna never made it into her mouth. Instead, her hand stopped dead in its tracks and just kind of dangled there in front of her face. 

Wade had only rolled his mask up to the bridge of his nose, but Peter could still tell that he was gorgeous. His jawline was sharper than it looked through his mask, and Peter wanted to cut herself on it and watch the blood drip down his neck. Wade’s skin was pale pink and covered and crisscrossed with scars that were just slightly darker in color, and each of them appeared to be different. There wasn’t any pattern or rhythm in them that Peter could make out. Wade’s nose was slim, and Peter’s eyes were finally drawn to his lips. They were full and flesh-colored, covered in the same scars that made up the rest of Wade’s skin, but Peter didn’t care. Peter’s mind went blank with want, the urge to kiss Wade so strong and present, and she had to restrain herself from crawling across the table and plopping herself down in his lap. 

“Well, you don’t look like you’re going to projective vomit everywhere,” Wade commented, shoving another bite of spaghetti in his mouth. He was eating at a pace that rivaled Peter’s, and the only thing that made Peter even slightly squeamish was the fact that he had talked with his mouth full. 

“Huh?” Peter asked, still looking at Wade’s lips. 

“Earth to Petey-Pie, I”m up here,” Wade said, chuckling a little at the end. He waved his hand a few times in front of Peter’s face, and she shook her head as she broke herself from her trance. 

“M’sorry, didn’t mean to stare,” Peter muttered as she picked up her fork again. When had she dropped it? She managed to eat two more bites before the thoughts floating around in her head left her mouth. 

“Just really pretty,” Peter whispered, cheeks burning hot. “Your lips are like wow, and your jaw is like woah, and your chin is really pretty and your dimples, s’nice.” God, she wished she could stop talking. Why couldn’t she stop talking? She used to do this shit with Gwen too, and she would just laugh and kiss Peter to shut her up. Would Wade do that? She wanted him to do that. 

“You are just a dream come true, Baby Girl. Never gonna let you go,” Wade murmured, a soft look coming over his face. His face was so much more expressive - how was that even possible? - without his mask, and Peter nearly swooned. She bit back her response, hiding it under her tongue. Even though his comment had been a little extreme, especially for a first date, Peter had a feeling that “Yes, please,” wasn’t the right response. At least, not yet. 

They made idle chit-chat through the rest of their meal, and Peter was extremely pleased that Wade didn’t roll his mask back down when they finished. While getting ready to leave, Wade asked what was wrong, and Peter was forced to own up to the grumpy expression on her face. 

“Don’t wanna go home yet,” Peter confessed, tugging on the ends of her coat. A big smile coated with mischief crossed Wade’s face. 

“I know just the place, Sweetheart,” he said, scooping up her skateboard from the floor. He offered it to her, and she carried it out of the restaurant in her freehand. 

Full and content, Peter left the restaurant, happy to let Wade guide them to wherever he had decided they needed to go. They walked for about fifteen minutes, going up one street, across another, and then making a left onto one final street. Their destination appeared to be a skatepark, and at almost 11 PM at the end of October, it was entirely empty. 

“Figured you could skate off dinner if you wanted,” Wade said with a shrug, nodding his head to Peter’s board. “Y’know, ‘he was a skater boy, she said see you later boy,’ and all that shit.” 

Peter laughed and shook her head. “Yeah, that’s cool with me. You want me to show you a few tricks?” 

“If you want,” Wade agreed, leading them into the abandoned skatepark. Once inside, he fell back, so Peter took the reigns to guide them further into the park. She’d been here once or twice before, so she took him over to one of the half-pipes and gestured that he should sit. Peter shrugged out of her coat, much to Wade’s protests, and she threw it at him with a grin over her shoulder. 

“Keep it warm for me!” She shouted as she took off down the half-pipe. The coat was too thick to skate with comfortably, and she’d get too hot too quickly to have any kind of fun. When she looked back at Wade, he was snuggled up beneath the fabric, and she laughed. It looked like doll clothes spread out over his lap like that. 

“Yeah, keep laughing, Short-Stuff! I’ve got the best view in the house right here lookin’ at you, Honey-Buns!” She was wondering when Wade was going to make his first ass comment of the night. 

Peter spent a few moments getting her momentum, just going up and down on the half-pipe. She hadn’t been to a skatepark in a while, and she was a little rusty as far as tricks went. She did a few basic ones for Wade, pausing between each one to smile at his clapping and cheering before moving on to some of the more complicated ones. She skated around the park a few times before making her way back to Wade. She set her board down gently in front of her. 

“How’d I do?” she asked, shaking her fringe out of her face. Wade stood up with a leer, and Peter gulped. Wade moved toward her, and she backed up, matching him step for step. He moved gracefully, like a predator, and Peter’s blood started to race as she realized that this was the first time since she became Spider-Woman that she was the hunted instead of the hunter. She liked it, liked feeling like prey when it was Wade who was the predator. 

“It’s a 10 from me, Sweetheart,” Wade crooned, stepping even closer. Peter looked from side to side, trying to figure out if there was somewhere for her to go. She took a few steps to the right, and Wade matched her pace, pushing himself even closer. She had a thought of making a break for it, Wade chasing after her, his hot breath panting down her neck. That made her insides warm even further. She’d save that for another day. 

“Did you like performing for me, Bambi?” Wade asked, pressing himself flush against Peter. Her back was pushed up against the chain-link fence, and Peter tangled her fingers in the links on either side of her, trying to resist from reaching out and touching Wade. 

“Asked you a question,” he reminded, gently, his voice firm but still warm. Peter opened her mouth to respond but nothing came out. She just nodded, her body on fire from Wade’s touch. 

“Saw you looking to the side, looking around like you were gonna run, Petey-Pie,” Wade continued, running his nose down the side of Peter’s face. She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed at the feeling of his skin just barely brushing against hers. 

“You wanna run, Baby? Want me to chase after you?” Wade’s lips were at Peter’s ear, and she shivered, the metal from the fence digging into her fingers. One of Wade’s hands reached out and gently grasped onto her hands one at a time, freeing them from the cold fence. He gathered them both in his hand and held them against his chest, letting go when Peter tangled her fingers in the straps of his suit. 

“You’d like it, running around with nowhere to go,” Wade whispered, licking a wet, hot stripe up Peter’s neck. It contrasted with the biting cold of the wind, and the whimper that left Peter’s throat was strangled and torn apart. She couldn’t remember ever making a noise that sounded like that.

“You might be fast, Bunny, but I’m faster,” Wade suddenly growled, biting down at the junction between Peter’s neck and shoulder. She cried out, head falling back against the fence. It bent beneath her weight, but she didn’t care. 

“Please, Wade, please, please,” she begged, but she didn’t know what she was begging for. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to bite him, she wanted to touch him. 

“M’here, Sweetheart, I have you,” Wade assured her, his lips caressing her jaw. She whined. His mouth was so close and yet so far from where she wanted it.

“Mm, please? Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Peter gasped when Wade’s kisses turned sharp and biting on her neck, sucking so hard it was bound to bruise. Good, she wanted the marks, wanted the reminder when she looked in the mirror. 

“Gotcha, Honey, I gotcha, don’t worry,” Wade murmured, bringing his lips up to Peter’s. Much to her displeasure, he didn’t immediately kiss her. Peter whined as he brushed their lips together. He was tall, Wade was so tall, so when Peter tried to rise up on her toes to chase after him, he easily broke apart from her. He waited until she settled back against the fence, and then he was on her again, body pressed against hers as close as possible. Peter arched her back and whimpered, trying to press closer, trying to get his mouth back on hers. 

“Spoiled, spoiled, little Petey-Pie,” Wade chuckled, taking his lips away again. Peter growled in irritation; he was just being mean now, and he knew exactly what he was doing. 

“You’re being mean!” she snarled, pulling down on the straps of his suit so that he was leaning over her again. Wade smirked and held himself just a few inches out of reach, and Peter stretched up on the balls of her feet while simultaneously pulling Wade toward her. Finally, he was within reach, and she bit down on the free, beautiful skin of his neck. It wasn’t gentle. 

“Fuck! That hurt, you brat!” Wade growled playfully, caging Peter in against the fence. She bared her teeth at him right back, and even though she couldn’t see something in his eyes, she swore she could see something change in them. Before she could try to think about what that something could be, Wade finally kissed her. 

Peter had only kissed approximately three people in her entire life: Mary Jane, Harry Osbon, and Gwen. She and Mary Jane had ended long ago, as had her and Harry, so her last experiences with anyone had been with Gwen. Gwen had been sweet and gentle, and the furthest they had gone was the furthest Peter had ever gone with anyone: exploring each other’s tonsils and playing footsie under the table. Gwen was sweet and warm and gentle, and Peter would never, ever forget her. 

But this, Wade, was hot and harsh and unyielding. It was everything that Peter had ever wanted but had never been able to have. Wade’s mouth was rough, skin uneven from the scars that she had longed to taste, but he tasted of marinara sauce and home. He tasted like hope and electricity. 

Peter didn’t have a good track record with relationships, with keeping people, but her heart whispered Wade’s name over and over again as they kissed, and she thought maybe this time, maybe she could keep this one, this time. 

Peter wrenched her head back with a gasp, unhappy to part from Wade but needing to breathe. He seemed inclined to agree as his mouth just moved to her jaw, sucking what she was sure was going to be another bruise in a few hours. Peter fell into a fit of soft whimpers, trying to get him to suck, bite, harder. Any marks that Wade made would just disappear before tomorrow, and she wanted them to remain as long as possible, so she could remind herself tomorrow that this was real, that Wade was real. 

“Have you ever done this kind of thing before, Baby Girl?” Wade murmured against her skin, lips moving back up to her own. She caught his hand before it could tangle in her hair, and she tapped on his glove in a questioning manner, hoping he would get the memo and take them off. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin, needed the relief that skin-to-skin contact would bring. 

“N-not really, no,” Peter whispered, surging upwards to kiss Wade again. “Want this, want you.” 

“Are you sure, Sweetheart? You tell me to stop, we stop. Push me away now, tell me red, tell me anything but yes, and I’ll stop right now. We can just go home, and it’ll be fine,” Wade said firmly, lips gently resting against hers. Peter nodded and whined. 

“Yes, I want you, Wade. Yes, please, yes-” Peter’s cries were cut off as Wade took her lips in another kiss. She didn’t think she was a very good kisser, and she didn’t really know what she was doing, but she mostly just tried to copy what Wade was doing. Tentatively, she slid her tongue along his, darting back into the safety of her own mouth when he chased after her. Peter whimpered at the taste of Wade, sharp, salty, almost metallic, and Wade growled in response, pressing her back against the fence. It bent further, but neither of them seemed to care. 

“Gonna take care of you, Sweetheart, don’t you worry,” Wade promised, sliding one hand up her stomach and under her shirt toward her breasts. Peter groaned as he reached her bra, hand slipping underneath to stroke and gently pinch her nipples. Her body was on fire, and she was on edge, suddenly rocking forward against Wade’s thigh. He moaned, his voice muffled from where his head was pressed against her shoulder, and shoved his thick leg between hers, tensing as she squeezed her thighs on either side of his leg. Wade was so much, shoulders so wide and muscles so big, that Peter felt dainty and small in his arms even though she knew that they probably weighed around the same amount. Her legs would dwarf a normal person’s, but Wade’s, full of thick, corded muscle, gave her a run for her money. She arched her back again and ground against Wade’s thigh, letting him know just how much she appreciated his size. 

“So big,” Peter gasped out, head falling back as Wade continued to toy with her nipples. It was like he knew exactly where to touch her, exactly where to pull and push. He pinched one of nipples and flicked the other one, earning himself a high-pitched whine of his name. His other hand tangled in Peter’s hair, pulling her toward him, and Peter bit his lip when he kissed her again. That earned her a growl. 

“S’good, fuck, right there, Wade! So right, want you, more, please?” Peter begged. Wade obliged her, and Peter lost all of the air in her lungs when his hand slipped in her pants. Peter cried out as Wade’s fingers swiped against her, warm, thick fingers moving quickly over her underwear. 

“Christ, you’re fucking soaking wet, Baby Girl,” Wade groaned, nosing at her temple. Peter cried out as his fingers moved faster, circling her clit. “This all for me, Honey?” 

“Just you, Wade.” Peter could barely breathe. “More, more, please, fuck, right there.” 

“The mouth on you, little Bunny,” Wade growled, his voice sounding more animalistic than before. His body was tense and firm against hers, and Peter couldn’t help humping against his leg and fingers. It felt good, too good, she never wanted this to stop, oh why hadn’t they done this sooner, it was so good. 

“Almost there, Petey-Pie? Gonna be a good girl and come for me, hmm?” Wade’s voice was feral, and Peter could feel his interest, hot and hard against her hip. He ground his hips against her, moving his fingers across her clit and nipples in a rhythm that Peter couldn’t follow. 

“Please, please, can I, Wade, more, please,” Peter begged, catching Wade’s lips. “Please, let me, c’mon, wanna come, wanna come on your fingers, please, please.” 

“Be good and come for me, Sweetheart, c’mon, c’mon, Baby Girl. Come for me,” Wade urged, fingers moving at the same pace, and Peter had no choice but to obey. 

Peter’s body shivered and locked up as she fell over the edge. As she came and collapsed against Wade’s chest, she felt like she was laying outside on the grass on a summer day. She could feel the warm, comforting rays of the sun on her skin, and her whole body tingled from the pleasure coursing through her veins. She vaguely realized that Wade’s fingers hadn’t stopped moving on her body, and she shivered as the direct stimulation on her clit became too much. Usually, when she used either her hands or the toys in her bedside drawer, she stopped touching herself almost immediately after her orgasm. She was almost always too sensitive for another orgasm immediately, and her hands would fly away from herself as she fell over the peak. Wade, however, continued to touch her until she squirmed and whined and begged him not to. 

“Too much, too much, Wade,” Peter panted, even as she continued to rock her hips against him. Wade, she realized, was panting too, and he slowly stopped moving his hands over her body, slipping them from beneath her clothes. Peter tried to straighten up, but her knees were weak, so she continued to slump against Wade as she righted her clothing. Wade chuckled and kissed her, lips moving almost lazily against hers now. 

“So good, Baby Girl, so sweet, absolutely perfect,” Wade said, his voice almost a purr from how low it was. 

“Was it good for you? It was, oh my god, it was absolutely perfect for me, but, you, was it good for you?” she asked, suddenly worried because she hadn’t touched him at all. God, she still wanted to touch him. “Did you, ya know.” God, the gesture she was making toward his dick was so stupid. “Oh, did I,” Wade laughed, pulling Peter against him with a soft groan. “I came when you did, Sweetheart. That look on your face when you came will haunt all of my wet dreams for eternity. It’s enough spank bank material to last me until I’m old and gray.” 

“Wade!” Peter laughed, hitting his chest playfully. Wade joined in her laughter, and they rested against each other and the fence, a soft smile on Peter’s lips as she waited for her heart rate to calm back down. 

And right there in a vacant skatepark, just a few minutes past midnight, Peter realized she was in love. Oh, fuck.

[meowmerson]

A tomione time travel but she’s just pissing off Tom because she keeps sending roosters to the Chamber of Secrets to kill his basilisk. I’m just saying

Initially, she laid low.

It seemed like the sensible thing to do. Stranded in an unfamiliar world and desperate to get home before her very existence brought about horrific consequences with only an old man (younger now) who she barely trusted as an ally, it made sense for her to just keep her head down and focus on getting through each day until she could go home.

For six months, she did. Six fucking months.

She knew what happened here in 1943. Every time she felt the urge to intervene she reminded herself what was at stake. When she saw a young girl in Ravenclaw robes wiping at her eyes after something a cruel group of girls had said she bit her tongue, and when she saw a handsome, unassuming boy with Slytherin robes and perfect hair and a disgusting, vile, evil soul, she dug her nails into her thigh until she drew blood and told herself that if she couldn’t do anything now she would be able to do it later, when she was home.

Myrtle died, and Hermione–though she never knew the younger girl–felt her loss like a hole in her heart. 

And then she couldn’t go home.

Dumbledore didn’t understand her reaction when he told her that it was increasingly unlikely they would ever find a way to send her home. He kept saying things like ‘you can make a new home here,’ and ‘you’ll see your friends again, if its meant to be,’ and ‘open yourself up, you can have a life here,’ and she couldn’t make him understand that it wasn’t true. She couldn’t make him understand all the reasons she could never have a home here, and when she opened her mouth, thinking what’s the point if I can’t go home, I may as well just tell him everything, but the words got caught in her throat, and all she could keep thinking was Myrtle died for nothing, I could have saved her and it wouldn’t have made any difference but I let her die anyway.

It ate her up inside.

So she retaliated in the only way she could think of short of murdering Tom Riddle in his sleep.

She flooded the whole fucking school with roosters. 

She wasn’t sure the basilisk would still be awake, and even if it was, she wasn’t sure it would be anywhere within hearing distance of the roosters. But it wasn’t really for the basilisk, she did it to see the look on Tom Riddle’s face as he stormed through the hallways filled with roosters, slapped one off of the Slytherin table with an expression on his face like he was in physical pain. 

Dumbledore saught her out almost immediately, a rooster sat upon his head, and calmly asked her to join him in his office for a chat.

“Miss Granger,” He began, his voice soft, “It is unclear to me what the purpose of this was.”

“I’m not clear on the purpose either,” She said, plucking a rooster off the floor and holding it in her arms. “I’m also not clear on why you think I would know what the purpose is.”

“Miss Granger,” Albus repeated.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione replied.

They stared at each other for a long moment, nothing but the soft coos of the cockerels filling the room.

“Miss Granger,” The old man repeated, “Closely following our last conversation about the…permanence of your situation, our school was inexplicably filled to the brim with Roosters.” 

“Yes, it was.” Hermione confirmed. 

“I have every reason to believe–” He was briefly interrupted by the Rooster in Hermione’s arms suddenly crowing, “I have every reason to believe,” He repeated, still sounding very calm, Hermione was always impressed by his ability to remain calm in all situations, “That the person who has somehow managed to pull this off, is you.”

“Interesting conclusion, Professor.” Hermione said, and refused to say anything else. 

The truth is she was angry. She was angry that she was here in this time, she was angry that Dumbledore was so quick to give up, that he refused to understand why she didn’t want to be here. She was angry that the rules of using a time turner had been ingrained so strongly into her that she was afraid to say anything, to tell him about the monster disguised as a boy, to warn him about the impending war. 

She was angry that she didn’t know what to do. So she just did something that would be satisfying for a moment. 

She wouldn’t think on it too much for fear of upsetting herself, but she did have the brief realization that she had never related to the twins more. 

But Dumbledore did not pull her into his office to speak about the Roosters, not exactly, and this became explicitly clear when he continued, “I wonder, and I hope you will indulge an old man’s curiosities when I ask you,” Hermione watched the rooster on his head, instead of meeting his twinkling eyes, “If this has anything to do with our most recent tragedy, and if you know what, or even who, is responsible.”

She did know. And she ached to tell him, to take him by the hand and walk him right up to Tom Riddle and say it’s him, that’s the monster you’ve been looking for, bring Hagrid back and give him his wand, put this man in Azkaban for a thousand lifetimes and don’t ask any more questions. 

She still watched the rooster. It cocked its head at her, beady little eyes staring back at her. “I have not yet decided,” She said quietly, because she lacked the strength currently to raise her voice, “If it is wise to tell you.”

Albus understood, as he always did. He nodded silently, and the Rooster did a funny little dance on his head to keep his balance. “Time is a funny thing,” He answered, “It is worth considering, perhaps, that if you are stuck here, you might as well do all you can to make your life here a happy one.”

It did not escape Hermione’s considerations that Dumbledore’s insistence that she was stuck here may have less to do with the possibilities of time travel and more to do with his desire to pry information out of her. She didn’t precisely resent him for it, but it did make her angry, and the way he continued to imply that she could ever be happy here away from everyone she ever loved upset her just as much as it always did. 

“Is that what you think?” She asked.

“It is.” He answered

She was teary-eyed, and still watched the rooster who stared back at her with black, beady little eyes, and she said, “Then you are a fucking fool.”

The door flew open, and the roosters in front of it crowed and flew away. Hermione turned, rooster still cradled in her arms, to see Slughorn and Tom Riddle in the doorway. Slughorn was rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, looking extremely stressed. Tom Riddle was stone-faced and stiff-shouldered, and he looked straight at her. 

They hadn’t spoken, not once. She noticed when she first arrived, he paid some attention to the new transfer student, but after some time lost interest when she proved to be ordinary. She made friends within her house, sat quietly in class, achieved average marks. Soon his observations of her became less frequent until eventually, he lost interest altogether. So seeing his attention fully fixed on her once more was more than a bit jarring. 

“I apologize, Albus!” Slughorn said, sounding out of breath, “I didn’t know you were with a student! How do you do, uhh…” He looked at her, and remained there with his mouth open for some time. 

He forgot her name. Hilarious.

“Granger,” She confirmed, and turned back to Dumbledore. “Case in point,” She said, referring to her previous statement and pointedly nodding to what was clearly an unlocked door. She stood, let the rooster flap out of her arms and land on Dumbledore’s desk. 

“Albus, we simply must do something about these Roosters!” Slughorn said as Hermione picked up her bag, “Tom has graciously offered to help.”

Of course he has, Hermione thought. 

“Perhaps Miss Granger would also like to help?” Dumbledore offered.

“Not particularly,” Hermione answered, “But good luck to all of you.”

“Perhaps we can continue our conversation later,” Dumbledore said, and Hermione really wished he would stop singling her out right in front of Tom Riddle. 

“No need,” She said, “Thank you for meeting with me, but I have everything I need now.”

She thought Dumbledore might’ve noticed how she pointedly made it sound like she had arranged for this meeting herself, if the way he glanced toward Tom Riddle said anything. She didn’t want to let on that she was suspicious of Riddle though, not yet, let Dumbledore craft his own suspicions, but she refused to make any major changes yet. 

“Of course,” Dumbledore said. 

Hermione knew she shouldn’t do it, but when she noticed a dainty little hen sat amongst Dumbledor’s books on his shelf, she couldn’t stop herself from plucking it up and walking toward to door. 

She deposited it into Tom Riddle’s arms just to see his microexpression of disgust, “This one is a hen, better keep her separate.”

“Thank you, Miss–!” Slughorn began. 

He forgot her name again. Lovely. 

She left them like that, Dumbledore with his twinkling eyes, Slughorn looking flustered, and Tom Riddle looking distinctly uncomfortable with a hen cooing in his arms. 

–

“Miss Granger!” A voice called from behind her in the corridor, and she tried to contain her disgust. 

It had been two weeks since the incident, and Abraxas Malfoy had taken to checking in on her. He spoke to her nearly every day despite her obvious disinterest and was somehow more annoying than his grandson, and she didn’t think that was possible. 

She knew it was for Tom. He had taken to quietly observing her again, but she couldn’t say for sure if he had decided he would keep an eye on her before or after she thrust a hen into his arms. But if she could shake his interest once, she could do it again, so she didn’t allow herself to worry. 

“Malfoy.” She greeted as pleasantly as she was able, but she didn’t stop to wait for him, so he was forced to jog to catch up with her until he could match her strides. 

“You walk frightfully fast for a woman.” He commented.

“I’m not sure what that means.” She answered evenly. 

“Well, the way women walk is always slow, and sweet, and delicate.” He answered. She sped up her pace just a hair, just to be difficult. 

“I have never heard of anyone walking sweetly.” She said. 

“Ah well–” He continued, nonplussed, “Not a surprise, considering your upbringing.”

She ignored that comment. She had to ignore that comment because if she was going to avoid attention she couldn’t be righteously defending her muggle-born status. It was obvious with her name that she wasn’t pureblood, but she wouldn’t turn herself into an activist, not when she still had plans to leave this time relatively unscathed (the rooster incident notwithstanding) and return home.

“How can I help you Malfoy?” She asked. 

“I was hoping you might accompany me to Hogsmead this weekend.” He answered promptly.

Peculiar, she thought, but not altogether unexpected. “No, thank you,” She answered politely, “I’m going with some of my friends.”

Malfoy laughed, a cutting sound, one that grated on her ears, “Your friends?” He repeated, “What, the chatty one who’s balding at 15 and keeps worms? Or the one who smells like eggs?”

“Alfred is not balding and he only kept worms once and it was for the plants he keeps in his bedroom,” Hermione curtly replied, “And I’m not sure who you are referring to with that second comment–” Yes she did, she only had 2 friends, “–But none of my friends smell like eggs.”

“Miss Granger,” Malfoy said firmly, cutting in front of her so she was forced to stop walking, “I am simply suggesting that…perhaps you need a little help deciding who is the…wrong sort.”

It runs in the family, she thought. But then she already knew that. She thought of Harry, and felt a horrible pain in her heart, “I think I can decide the wrong sort for myself, thank you.”

He blinked, seemingly unsure of what to say, then laughed a bit hesitantly and said, “I am trying to look out for you, Miss Granger.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Hermione said, and feeling as if she might be a bit too abrupt, added, “But thank you very much for trying.”

She tried to move around him, but he stopped her with a hand on his arm. 

“Hermione,” He said quietly, and she wished he wouldn’t use her name, wouldn’t touch her like they were friends, they were not friends and they never would be. “I really do suggest–”

“Get your hand off of my arm, immediately.” She spoke lowly, wouldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. She could handle his irritating attempts to befriend her, speak to her, learn about her in order to report to Tom, but she absolutely would not let a monster put this hands on her without her consent. 

He laughed, which completely erased any small bit of patience she had left, and then he said her name again, “Hermione,” He said, and just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, he continued, “You must know the way people think about mudbloods, but I really do believe that you–”

It was that word, spoken so casually, as if it meant nothing at all, that finally sent her over the edge. She thought of Draco Malfoy, the vitriol with which he spoke, spat slurs and insults at her every day for no reason other than that she existed. That horrible, disgusting word, thrown around like it wasn’t used as justification for wars, torture, genocide–

She grabbed his wrist tight, wrenched herself out of his grasp, and pinned his wrist to his chest. She stared him right in the eye as he kept glancing between her hold on his wrist and her face. “If I tell you to get your hand off of my arm,” She said severely, “Then you take your hand off of my fucking arm.”

She let go of him, and he took a large step away from her, looking caught between offended, outraged, and shocked. 

She shouldered past him and he said nothing to her.

–

Hermione sat outside before the Hogsmead trip staring at the place where the Whomping Willow would eventually sit. She knew she shouldn’t have shown her anger with Malfoy, but she hoped it wouldn’t raise too much suspicion. Surely it was normal if she became angry when she heard a slur, but then it didn’t quite match up with the mellow, ordinary, unbothered persona she had crafted since she arrived. The anger was one thing, wrenching his wrist off her arm, swearing at him, and practically threatening him was another. 

She couldn’t help but feel like things were unraveling. 

“Miss Granger.” 

Shit.

She looked up from the field to see Tom Riddle standing a couple meters away. 

“What are you doing out here all alone?” He asked. 

She couldn’t breathe, she tried to be sure her face was schooled into something pleasant, unsuspicious, unreadable, but she couldn’t be sure she succeeded. “Just finding a moment of quiet, it can be difficult sometimes to find time on one’s own.”

He smiled, looking unfairly beautiful, and said, “It’s not as if you are surrounded by friends demanding your attention, though, is it?”

She was sure that was meant to rile her. It didn’t. 

“No, I suppose you’re right.” She said. She didn’t make a move to leave, if she tried to leave now he might change tactics and try to anger her like Malfoy did, and if Tom Riddle touched her she would punch him in his sodding face, she swore to Merlin. 

“Do you mind if I join you, then?” He asked politely. The early morning light suited him, it fell on his hair and made it shine shades of brown and brass, it shone on the highest point of his cheek. Harry was right, Tom Riddle was handsome. 

The thought of Harry hurt her heart. She looked away from Tom and back to the empty field where the Whomping Willow should be. 

“You can if you wish,” She said, still staring out at the field, “Don’t you have many friends fighting for your attention?”

“None quite so interesting as you.” He parried, and sat beside her at a respectable distance. She didn’t like that answer, it felt flirtatious, and she didn’t know why he would be flirting with her. It felt like a strange tactic.

She glanced toward him, tried to keep her expression mild, but he could clearly read the confusion on it. 

“Does that surprise you?” He asked, “That I would prefer your company?”

“Yes,” She admitted, and she didn’t think that would raise a brow, she felt that was a perfectly ordinary thing to express. 

He smiled a quiet, private sort of smile. One that felt like it was reserved for you. She knew it was an act, but she couldn’t figure out what the act was, or why he was playing it. “I must admit, you escaped my notice for quite a while,” She didn’t like his use of the word ‘escaped,’ but found it fitting nonetheless. He didn’t elaborate, and she tried to search for something nondescript to say. 

“Well, I…” She faltered, looked back at the field so she didn’t have to see him staring at her, but she still felt his gaze on her like a physical weight. She had no idea what to say. 

“Miss Granger,” Tom said, quietly, his voice carried over to her only by the grace of the wind, “I was disappointed when Abraxas said you wouldn’t be joining us in Hogsmead.”

Some part of her knew that when Abraxas asked for her to join him in Hogsmead, that extended to Tom and possibly more of his followers, but Abraxas had never mentioned it, and she had no reason to know that, so she asked, “I didn’t realize he was asking me to join the both of you.”

“A group of us,” Tom confirmed, and then with a tinge of genuine confusion in his tone, he asked, “Did you think he was asking the two of you to go…alone?”

Hermione turned back to look at him. She didn’t understand why that would be so unheard of - there was the obvious that Abraxas Malfoy would sooner die than ask her on a date, but she didn’t necessarily think it was so incredibly strange for a girl to assume it means ‘alone’ when a boy asked her to accompany him and mentioned no one else. 

“Don’t you think that would be inappropriate?” Tom asked. 

She blinked. Of course, it would be. this wasn’t the 90s anymore. She grappled for a response, and finally settled on, “He called me a mudblood. I don’t exactly have a lot of confidence in his manners and deocrum.”

That seemed to settle Tom, he lost the edge to his features that Hermione was coming to associate with suspicion. “Yes,” He said, “Abraxas told me that you were…upset.” She looked away again. “He was quite shaken himself.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Hermione responded. 

“He said he had never seen a woman look at him like that before.” Tom pressed. She didn’t look at him, kept staring at the empty field. 

“I find it difficult to believe he has never had a woman look at him with disdain,” Hermoine said.

“Disdain, perhaps.” Tom agreed, “Were you looking at him with disdain?”

A strange question. A strange tone. Hermione had a feeling she had made a wrong decision at some point of this conversation, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out where she went wrong. She didn’t want to look at him, she truly didn’t, but she did anyway, she turned and met his gaze and realized he had shifted closer. She didn’t like it, having him near her made her feel on edge, it made her feel twitchy and afraid, and the way he was looking at her was too invasive, like he was trying to read her. She tried not to look afraid, but she knew she was failing, and the only way she ever knew to cover up fear was through anger. 

“I’m not sure what the point of this conversation is,” She snapped, “Abraxas called me a mudblood and I reacted in kind. If you have something you want to say to me, I would appreciate it if you just said it.”

“I have nothing to say,” Tom said quickly, shaking his head, his eyebrows raised and he blinked once, his lips had the slightest downward turn. The perfect picture of innocence. “Nothing except I find it an admirable trait in a woman when she can strike the fear of god straight into a man’s heart.”

It was a joke, she realized. He was joking with her. He had lightened his tone to one of a teasing nature, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. She thought of every interaction she had with anyone in this time period so far and tried to find a reason for the way he was looking at her now, and could find none. 

“If you have nothing to say,” Hermione settled on, “Then I will take my leave.”

She pushed herself to her feet, and he did a peculiar thing then. He quickly raised to his feet as well, and without asking, without warning her, reached for her arm to help her stand. It was too quick, and too sudden, and as soon as his fingers wrapped around her arm she found herself reacting in a way that was entirely out of her own control. 

She wrenched her arm out of his grip, turned, and slammed the heel of her pal straight into his sternum in order to shove him away. It was a brief, hard strike, and he was pushed away. It only lasted a second, he caught himself by taking a quick step back, and there was space between them again. 

He stared at her with a strange look. Suspicious, surprised, perhaps a bit angry. But he also tilted his head the way a cat does when it locks in on its prey, and Hermione didn’t like the look of that at all. 

“I apologize,” She said, and she was out of breath, the fear of feeling this monster’s hand wrap around her arm was so sudden and so fierce that she found herself breathless and couldn’t right herself in time. “I don’t like to be touched.” 

“Of course,” He nodded, and his eyebrow quirked briefly before he righted his expression, as if he didn’t believe her. “I will be sure to relay that to Abraxas as well, it may settle his mind as to why you reacted the way you did.”

Hermione knew that she had complete, irrevocably fucked everything up. 

“Thank you,” She said, and she had control of her voice again, but that only seemed to intrigue him further, “And thank you for sharing your time with me. I’m going to go find my friends.”

“Of course,” Tom Riddle said, and his voice was quiet again, so so quiet, “Have a lovely time in Hogsmead, Miss Granger.”

She wanted to go home. She wanted to leave this time and see her friends and family, but the more time she spent here the more she so desperately wanted to make him pay for everything he would do. She hated him so much, she felt so much anger within herself and she hoped to Merlin it didn’t show on her face, she hoped beyond hoping that she could find some way to get him to stop staring at her like she was some marvelous discovery. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Riddle.” She said, and she walked around him, ignored the way he watched her leave. 

She would need to do something, anything, to get his eyes off of her. She just didn’t know what yet, or if she could even distract him anymore. 

[pastpatientlywaitingforimagines]

Dragonology Miniseries (1) | Charlie Weasley x femHufflepuff!Reader

A/N: So I had a bunch of ideas for drabbles in this universe while I was writing the original series. The first two were supposed to be done before now, but life happens so please enjoy this fall aesthetic fic and know that a Christmas fic is hopefully on the way soon. If you want to be added to the Dragonology tag list let me know! 

You can read the main series here.

DRAGONOLOGY FAQ

Late fall was quite possibly your favorite time of the year. Late fall meant candles, warm sweaters, hot tea, and cold weather cuddles with your impossibly handsome red-headed boyfriend.

You were in your sixth year at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry and though your studies were rigorous, you couldn’t be happier as you and Charlie sat shoulder to shoulder under a yellowing tree working on homework one Saturday afternoon.

“Can I just copy the end of your Charms essay?” he asked you, poking the feathery end of his quill into your ear. You brushed the quill away with a grin.

“No, you can’t. It’s only a foot and a half long essay, you’re almost done,” you reminded him as you glanced at his parchment.

“It’s just taking too long, if I copy yours I’ll be done faster. There are much better things I could be doing with my time than writing an essay on nonverbal spells,” he complained.

“What could possibly be more important than bettering our education?” your question was overly dramatic, and Charlie could tell. Sliding closer to you, he pressed a warm kiss to your cool cheek.

“We could go down to the forest and see what creatures are around,” he suggested with a grin, “unless you’re working on something more important.”

Your eyes fell to the parchment in front of you, covered in doodles of different dragon wing shapes.

“Lead the way,” you offered your hand to him, stuffing the parchment into one of your pockets and tucking your quill behind your ear. You walked the familiar path through the grounds towards the dark forest, taking the long way there in order to step on as many crunchy leaves as possible. Charlie’s hand was securely in yours the whole way.

When you reached the forest, you both started scanning the area for anything interesting. Charlie spotted the first creature, a bowtruckle tucked on a branch. After oogling over him for a while, you turned back to the forest. You saw some tell-tale signs that an animal was near, but you could not see the beast itself.

“Rumor has it there are unicorns in here,” Charlie said as you followed the trail deeper into the forest.

“Wouldn’t we have seen one by now if there were?”

“They’re pretty elusive, and there’s a lot of forest we haven’t explored. There could be all sorts of creatures here we haven’t found yet-”

“Like a dragon?” you cut him off playfully.

“Yes! It would be fantastic if we found a dragon,” Charlie exclaimed, sending the crows in the trees above you flying off in a hurry.

You laughed, shushing him as you made it to a clearing.

“I wonder if we’ll ever be able to see them,” Charlie said quietly, having procured an apple slice from his pocket which he held out to the emptiness. You watched as it moved, then disappeared with a huff. You held your own empty hand out, palm down, and waited until you felt flesh underneath it.

“As amazing as thestrals are, I hope we don’t ever see them. I don’t want to watch anybody die,” you pondered.

“There’s another trail here,” Charlie brought to your attention the broken twigs that led deeper into the forest. Leaving the thestrals, you followed the trail to another area where the trees thinned out. You made quiet eye contact with Charlie, in awe of the sight in front of you.

There were at least twenty hippogriffs in the area, some were basking in the sun, others laying in the grass. If they noticed you and Charlie, they paid you no mind. You perched on a nearby rock, pulling out the parchment and quill that you had stuffed in your pocket and starting a sketch of the beasts. Charlie sat on the ground in front of you, snacking on what was left of his apple and quietly observing.

When you finished your observations, you slid down the rock to join Charlie on the ground. You rested your head on his shoulder, peacefully watching the animals in front of you. When you woke up the sun was almost gone and the forest was mostly dark. The hippogriffs in front of you had all bedded down in the long grass, and Charlie was still next to you with his eyes closed.

“Charlie,” you hissed, elbowing him in the side.

“What?” he mumbled.

“We fell asleep, we have to go back to the castle,” you started standing up, brushing the dirt off of your pants and offering him your hand. He took it, pulling himself up against your weight. Intertwining his fingers with yours, Charlie lit his wand with a quiet “lumos” and started heading back towards the castle.

You weren’t frightened of being in the forest at night. Most of the creatures on this side of the forest knew who you were and that you wouldn’t hurt them. You were most concerned about being caught out of the castle after hours. You safely navigated back onto school grounds and were briskly making your way back to the illuminated castle when you saw a cat run across your path.

“Mrs. Norris,” you and Charlie groaned at the same time. The cat’s caretaker was not far behind her, and you knew there was no way you were getting off the hook.

“Students out of bed! Roaming the grounds at night! A prefect! Out of bed, must bring you to the headmaster…” Filch grumbled to himself as he ushered you back to the castle and up to Dumbledore’s office.

“Professor Dumbledore, these students were out on the grounds, coming from the forest no doubt.”

“Thank you, Argus,” Dumbledore looked up from his spot at his desk, “you can continue your business now, I’ll send them to bed when we’re finished.”

Filch sulked off, murmuring to himself about finding more students out of bed.

“Acid pop?” Dumbledore asked you and Charlie as you sat down in the chairs next to his desk. As you helped yourself to the candy, the older man spoke.

“I take it you were out exploring the Forbidden forest?”

“Yes Sir,” Charlie answered.

“Find anything interesting? Some of the best creatures are out in the afternoons.”

You pulled the parchment out of your pocket, sliding your sketches onto Dumbledore’s desk, “a herd of hippogriffs. They were beautiful; healthy looking too.”

“Ah, I met a very handsome hippogriff while I was at the Ministry once. These are wonderful drawings, (y/n). You two will make fine magizoologists when you’re done here at Hogwarts. Charlie, I’m sure you’ll see to it that (y/n) makes it back to the Hufflepuff common room safely?”

You and Charlie exchanged a glance.

“Of course, sir.”

“Well then, you best be on your way. While our nighttime chats are informative and I do love hearing what you two are discovering, let’s try not to chat about it so late at night, hm?”

Dumbledore’s office was filled with your quiet mumbles of “yes, Professor,” and “of course, Professor,” and “goodnight, Professor,” as you and Charlie rose and moved towards the door.

“That never goes how I think it’s going to,” Charlie mused once you were walking down the hall towards the Hufflepuff common room.

“He is a special old man, that’s for sure.”

You and Charlie walked in comfortable silence the rest of the way downstairs. When you got to the pile of barrels in the basement, Charlie pulled you in for a tight hug.

“See you in the morning?”

“Of course I will. I heard Slytherin has a new keeper who’s really talented,” you told him, looking up at his freckled face.

“I heard Gryffindor’s seeker is really talented, attractive too,” he quipped.

“Butterbeer on me if Gryffindor wins?” Charlie answered by pressing his lips to yours.

“You have yourself a deal.”

“Goodnight, Charlie,” you said, stepping away from him and tapping on a barrel to reveal the tunnel to your common room.

“Goodnight, (y/n),” he said with a wink. He watched you leave until the door was closed, then began his journey upstairs to Gryffindor tower.

You were not expecting to see anyone in the common room, so you were a bit surprised when you were confronted with someone rising from an armchair. However, when your eyes landed on their brightly colored hair you couldn’t keep yourself from sighing.

“You were out late,” Tonks said smugly.

“It was an accident, and then we got caught by Filch and then had to see Dumbledore,” you recounted, heading towards the door that led to your dormitory. Tonks followed you, her face set in determination.

“We?” You didn’t have to turn around to know your friend was wiggling her eyebrows.

“Who do you think?”

“Sneaking around after hours with Prefect Charlie Weasley. I didn’t know you had it in you to be naughty, (y/n).”

You rolled your eyes as you started getting dressed for bed.

“We were just out on the grounds and lost track of time, there was no sneaking involved,” you told her as you curled up in bed with your worn copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them in hand.

“Don’t lie to me, (y/n), I know you were in the forest, where we’re not allowed to go.”

“How do you know?”

“You have leaves in your hair,” your roommate smirked from her bed across the room. Your hand flew to your head, combing through your locks until you found the small leaves she was talking about.

“I can’t believe Charlie didn’t tell me. I had a whole conversation with Dumbledore like this,” you were exasperated.

“Charlie probably thinks it’s hot or something,” Tonks laid back onto her pillows.

“He probably just didn’t notice. We tend to be outside together a lot, it’s not the first time I’ve had leaves in my hair,” you slid your book onto your nightstand, giving up any hope of reading.

“Are you going to the quidditch match tomorrow?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss a match Charlie’s playing in even if there was a dragon hanging out on the grounds.”

“Bullocks, even Charlie would miss a match he was supposed to be playing in if there was a dragon around. You two would be oogling over it.”

Tonks was right, and you knew it.

“Ok, ok, you’re right. Anyways, yes I’m going to be at the match tomorrow. Are you going to come with me?”

“As your date? Don’t tell Charlie, he might get jealous that our love is stronger than his,” she teased.

“Sure, you can be my date,” you rolled your eyes. You heard Tonks sigh happily from the other side of the room. For a moment she was quiet, and you knew exactly where her mind was.

“You’ll find a real date to go to quidditch matches with soon,” you said.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re Tonks. When you know what you want you go and get it. You’re going to find someone who makes you stop and think for a second, and then you’re going to jump in with two feet like you always do. It’ll happen.”

“I just thought it might happen here, like it did with you and Charlie.”

“Charlie and I getting together was a fluke. There’s a whole world of people out there. The person you end up with could be ten years older than us, there’s no way of knowing until we’re really out there.”

“How are you so good at this?”

“Good at what?” Tonks paused for a moment, forming her words.

“Knowing what people need to hear and having everything all figured out.”

“Spend a lot of time observing, I guess. People aren’t much different than magical creatures.”

“If I were a magical creature I’d be a demiguise.” Tonks’ voice was soft in the darkness of the room.

“If I were a magical creature I’d be a-“

“A dragon, I know,” your roommate cut you off, “goodnight, (y/n).”

“Goodnight,” you sing-songed back to her, a sleepy grin tugging at your lips as you settled into your pillow.

Tags: @siriuslysirius1107

[twohearts-hs]

‘Unfair Love II’ - Harry Styles

Words: 3.5k

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: She loved him so much, yet he whispered the words she never wanted to hear, “I don’t love you anymore”. She later learns out he loved someone else and she decides to be selfish and take something from him, just like how she took him from her and how he took everything from Y/N. So, she didn’t tell him about the child in her stomach. Years later, he finds out and he begins to question who he really wants…his wife or her.

|| Masterlist in bio ||

-

Y/N walked into the office, a smile brought to her broken features as she takes the clipboard.

“Morning, Mrs Styles,” she mutters, sitting down on the stool. She looked up and saw Harry standing next to his wife while she was on the medical bed. He smiled towards her, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as his hands are behind his back, the couple very far apart.

Y/N paid no attention as she wrote something down on her clipboard before clearing her throat and beginning the appointment.

-

She took the rubber gloves off, saying a simple goodbye as she dumped them in the garbage and continued to walk off with the chart on Aubrey. Y/N hummed a tune as she handed it off to a nurse at the nurse’s station. A heavy sigh left her lips as she looked to her right, hand leaning on the counter and met with someone she really doesn’t want to meet.

“Harry,” she mumbled, annoyance laced in her voice. He gave her a smile and placed his hands into his dress pants pockets.

“Hey,” he began, “I just wanna thank you for your help with Aubrey. It truly means a lot,” she smiled, seeing her intern standing impatiently behind him. She moved a little and grabbed the chart from him and looked at it, refusing to continue to look into Harry’s eyes.

“Anytime, it's my job,” she told him as she wrote a few things down.

“Anyway,” he was moving back and forth, so awkward, “I want to swing by and see my son today,” he told her, trying to get her attention.

Y/N looked up instantly and glared at him, “Ah, no. We talked about this, Harry. Otis isn’t good with new things. When Jamie came into my life-”

“Who’s Jamie?” he instantly snapped, green eyes changing dramatically to a darker colour as jealousy flooded in.

“My boyfriend,” she mumbled, “You have Aubrey and I have Jamie. Who cares, we are both happy?” she mumbled, trying her best to end this conversation.

“Why haven’t you mentioned him before?”

“Because it hasn’t come up, Harry. We’ve been together for two and a half years. The only reason we haven’t moved in is because of Otis. He isn’t good with new situations, very mature for his age, more mature than me, but he isn’t good with change. So, if I deliver you to him and say, ‘Look, Otis, it's your real daddy’, he’d have an anxiety attack,” she snapped, rolling her eyes and moving past her ex-lover.

“Y/N come back,” Harry followed after her.

“No, I can’t believe you can turn up and try to ruin me and take away everything and pretend that I am yours. No, you are married. I am with Jamie. We are just old friends. We are the past,” she told him, glaring at him in the hallway of the hospital. 

“I want my son to be in my life, kitten,” he mumbled, taking a step closer to her.

“Y/N,” she turned on the balls of her feet and met with someone she loved so much. Harry’s hand fell from trying to touch her feet as she made a way to whom he believed was Jamie.

“Hi!” she said, walking away from Harry as she leaned in close to this man.

-

Harry sat on the couch in his mansion. Aubrey was out with her girlfriends...book club or something. He watched the shitty telly as he emailed back and forth with his lawyer. At this state, he’d probably do something he’d regret, but he was always a selfish man. He liked things to be his. So, he tried to talk to his lawyer about custody, but it seemed near impossible with the way things are going. Y/N was an extremely fit parent, there wasn’t a thing to make her seem like she isn’t. He remembers the past, how everyone loved her the minute they met her. She was just so goddamn perfect, but after today, that man, the boyfriend. His kitten isn’t by herself, not for a while. And he knew he really screwed up. The idea of someone else touching her, talking to her, claiming her, he couldn’t bear the thought and he hated himself for thinking that.

Like every curious ex, he googled the new lover. He was a professor at the local university. No socials, but he stalked Y/N’s and found him across it. He thinks he so special with his muscles and curly light brown hair and little stubble. But, at the same time, his jealousy faded because they look so meant to be. 

His hand fumbled for his phone, making out the name as he called her. A few dials and a man’s voice came.

“Hello?” Harry instantly sobered up, moved a little on the couch to be comfier.

“Hi, is Y/N there?” he asked, taking a sip from the whiskey bottle and staring at the muted TV. The man responded and he heard movement on the other line then her beautiful, honey voice filled it. “Hey, you!” he said. 

He’s been drinking, she instantly knew. “Hey, I was going to call Aubrey, but you called me so might as well tell you,” she said, “I am changing you to a different doctor.”

Harry froze, “You’re the best though.”

“I..its best for us, Harry; conflict of interest, you know?” he nodded, pursing his lips and just holding tears. “The lady who is taking you, she’s amazing. I trained her, she is great—”

“You trained her! Y/N I hired you, not your student! For fuck sake’s, kitten. You are the best—”

“Harry, I am going to hang up now.”

“No! I just wanted to ask if we can take Otis out for ice cream or something tomorrow? I just want to get to know my son and eventually, like, have some custody,” Y/N raised her eyebrows and bit her lip.

“Let’s not talk about custody, for now, Harry. I am working tomorrow, but Jamie can meet you and I can meet up with you at three,” Harry didn’t like that idea. He didn’t like the fact of his kitten with another man, who is also raising his son.

“Umm, sure. I’ll meet them tomorrow at one...the place on fifth?” She replied and the line went quiet. 

A few hours later, he got a message from Aubrey who told him that she is staying at a friend’s house. It was a little past midnight and he was bored. So, being his stupid self, he made a mistake again

“Harry, it is 2 a.m.,” she replied, but it wasn’t Harry who called.

“Hi, ma’am, this is Matthew at Crow’s Pub. I have a very drunk man here and told me that you’re his wife, can you come and pick him up?” Y/N was gobsmacked, getting up from Jamie’s grasp and heading to grab her coat.

“Ok.”

She has no idea why she was doing this, she has no idea why she was falling for his commands once again. But, the two have history and she still will forever love him. Y/N just couldn’t believe that he told the bartender that she was his wife. He was so stupid, so idiotic and unbelievable. But, she also had mixed feelings as she was going to pick him up and take care of him.

“Hi! I have a man..” the bartender pointed to Harry who held a glass of water. She shook her head and went to him, touching his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his head. “Let’s get you home,” he looked up and a drunken smile came to him.

“Kitten!” she laughed as he got up and grabbed her hand to try and head to her Range Rover outside. 

“Alright, you, let’s get you home,” she moved his arm to wrap around her neck and she placed a fifty on the counter as she tried to manoeuvre a grown man out to her car on the streets of London.

“You are so pretty,” he mumbled into her ear as she tried to walk in the rain.

“And you’re drunk, where’s your real wife?” he laughed.

“Ah shit, I did call you my wife. I think I just wished I married you and not that bitch. Like, she’s really bad at like... giving head, kitten,” she was gobsmacked by his drunken words, “Like you use to get right into it, licking, sucking, and—”

“Alright, Harry,” she laid him against the car as she tried to open it. 

A few tries later, his tall, lanky body made it into the designer vehicle. His heavy breathing filled the car as he mumbled random sentences about her being beautiful and that Aubrey was a bitch.

“Like I don’t want a baby with her. I don’t want a smaller bitch who’s fuel is Chanel and eyelash appointments,” Y/N frowned her eyebrows and looked at him during the stoplight. 

“What do you mean?” he laughed, pulling his hair a little.

“She only married me for money. If I divorce her, she gets a big payout. A baby, I found out recently, is her way to keep me a little longer so she gets a bigger payment. But, she’s like infertile,” he mumbled, not meeting Y/N’s eyes.

“Why’d you cheat on me?” he stayed quiet.

“Because I needed an excuse to leave you,” he finally replied between broken words and drunken slurs. She smashed on the brakes and looked at him.

“You fucking asshole,” he looked at her, sadness in his eyes.

“I can’t be with you. You are perfect and everything and a man like me can’t be with a woman like you,” she shook her head, pulling into his rich-ass neighbourhood.

“So you fucking cheated on me. Not only that but with a gold digger, good job, Harry,” she said, placing the car in park. “Give me your phone,” he shook his head, “Now, Harry!”

He handed her the device as she called the woman he truly with. “Hi, Aubrey, this is Y/N. Yes, I understand you’re busy, but please can you come home to your asshole of a husband, because he is extremely drunk and not mine to deal with. I have a boyfriend and a five-year-old at home to deal with. He left me for you, so you deal with him,” she said, hanging up and unlocking the car door. “Get the fuck out of my car, Harry. Your wife will be home soon, go complain to her, not me. You can’t come here and ruin my happiness.”

-

Y/N walked back into the room and looked at her boyfriend reading a book. She smiled, taking off his flannel and crawling into bed.

“He’s an asshole. Don’t meet him tomorrow. I don’t want anything to do with him,” she said, giving him a kiss and getting under the covers.

“I just don’t understand why you accepted him for a minute in your life, love,” his Scottish accent filled the room.

“I don’t know either.” 

-

A few weeks she hasn’t heard from Harry, absolutely not a peak. Indeed, Y/N had to see Aubrey with her son, but the woman didn’t bat an eye and told Otis to come to the carpet. It was awkward, but she toughed through it and went along with her life just as Harry did. Potentially, Aubrey might’ve known the ordeal with her Harry on that drunken night or maybe not. Possibly, she could be ashamed of herself after everything or maybe she wanted to create a distance between herself and Y/N due to the conflict. But, it was awkward. She decided to be the higher person in this situation though, the tension between them all was getting too much and even Otis picked up on it. She had to call it off. 

Otis came home one day talking about Aubrey not really listening to him and telling him to “go away”. Y/N was quite curious by this and decided to do some digging, which is why she ended up on the porch of Mrs and Mr Styles.

Her hand came to the door, knocking hard and long until she heard the rumble of feet. Words were thought over and over in her head on what to say, but she knew the problem.

“Your wife hates my kid,” she spat out the moment Harry opened the door. Harry stared at her in shock and closed the door behind him, coming out to see her.

“Our kid, Y/N, our kid,” he mumbled quietly, she rolled her eyes and scoffed.

“Besides the point. Your wife hates my kid, she is refusing to help him and constantly telling him to leave her alone when he comes up for help. I am pulling my son out of that school. Tell her she sucks at being a teacher and lets personal problems get in the way,” she told him, pointing and accusing. 

Harry stared at her and couldn’t figure the words to say. “Ok, let’s send him to another school then,” he simply said, opening the door and inviting her to come in. “I know I’ve been an ass lately, that doesn’t give me an excuse for the things I have said, but I want to be in this decision with you and Jamie. I think that is only fair.”

She nodded, as he kept himself busy in the kitchen while she sat watching him. “Ok,” she mumbled, as he handed her a cup of tea.

Hands pressed firmly to the counter, he watched the floor, trying his best to form the words next.

“The doctor you gave us, she is amazing, but we pulled away,” he told her, locking eyes. Y/N gave a puzzling feature and raised her eyebrows. “I am getting a divorce,” he told her, sternly, no emotion present in his words. 

“Ok,” is all she can form and Harry looked up, anger in his eyes.

“Just ‘ok’. Y/N, I am leaving my wife because she is an awful person. I have to give her a buy-out fee, that is almost ten million dollars, but all I got from you is ‘ok’?” he told her.

“What do you want me to say…’oh, Harry, we can run away together now and be together and be a family’? I am in a relationship with a man I am in love with, I practically raised a son with him, I love my work, I am not giving that up over some childish love I once felt,” she replied. Harry glared at her. “You and I are not happening, Harry. Honestly, I am just realising how much of an ass you truly are and I am here as a parent of our child, not as your ex-girlfriend.”

He nodded, taking a spot next to her. “Fair enough,” he mumbled.

“I am sorry about what Aubrey did to you, that is not fair. But, you did awful things to me and I think this is karma paying you back,” she told him and all he could do was a nod.

“You know I am very sorry, anything to do to make it up for you, kitten. I will give you the world,” she shook her head.

“If we were together, I’d simply ask you to give yourself. Now, I have some brochures for schools, let’s get our child out of that hell hole.”

-

He is so hot and cold. Y/N sat down for a few hours two weeks ago to talk about moving Otis to a new school. Harry wanted a tuition school, where Otis will have to wear a uniform and all, but Y/N didn’t want her son to grow up in that posh community. Finally, after a few hours, they decided on a school that is between both parties and he got accepted right away. 

But, she messaged Harry, telling him he is invited to walk Otis up to his new chapter, but he hasn’t replied. That was two weeks ago.

“He’s so stupid,” she growled, handing a dish to Jamie and began cleaning the next. “I text and text, telling him he is welcomed into our son’s life and he hasn’t replied. He complained about the lack of presence and all, but he isn’t responding. I am done, I am so done with that man, Jamie,” she told him.

Jamie looked at his partner with a smile, curly hair in his face and a little beard. “I know, love,” his Scottish accent said. She just stood, looking out her window to the backyard and just sighed.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she mumbled, placing a kiss on his cheek and grabbing her car keys. “I am going to see if this man is actually alive,” she replied, looking at her boyfriend and raising her hands up. 

“Give me a kiss at least,” she laughed, walking back up and pressing a quick kiss on his lips.

“Watch Otis, please and thank you,” she said, pressing a kiss once again. “Hopefully I won’t walk into a crime scene,” she chuckled and went to her car.

Three bangs to the white-painted home and no answer. Y/N groaned and ringed the doorbell again, hitting harder and calling out. It took a second and she heard movement. Impatiently, she knocked again in which the door opened and Harry looked at her.

“Explain,” she spat, he took a breather and opened the door up. Y/N looked at him, dirty clothes, messy hair, bags under his eyes, she began to worry.

“Come in, kitten,” she sighed, looking at how defeated he looked.

“What happened?” she stood her ground and glared at him.

“Not here, kitten, please come inside,” she nodded, following him into his now empty house. No wedding pictures, no decorations, just plain white walls and furniture.

“Aubrey went back to America, kitten,” she looked at him, eyes widened and his hands ran through his hair as he tried to form his words. They were sitting, far away from another on the couch as Harry spilt his guts. “I had to go to America for a while, kitten, couldn’t reach ya, had to deal with court, police, lawsuit, etc.” she raised her eyebrows. He looked at her, “Aubrey filed an abuse report, saying I have beaten her. Love, please, I’d never touch her, you-you have to understand that—”

“I believe you,” she muttered, biting her lip, “you may be an asshole, but you’re not violent.”

His anxiety calmed down as a little smile broke through his broken state, “I had to pay a lot of money to her, paps, etc. Gotta keep this story down and all—”

“I told him,” she interrupted, scooching closer to him. Harry looked at her with a puzzled face. “I had a talk with Otis. He knows you are his father and he wants to bond with you and he is really excited. I understand your situation, Harry, but what do I tell a five-year-old that daddy is too busy to answer the phone to play. You need to communicate, it is called parenting. You are a father now, Harry,” she told him and she has never seen such a giant smile before. “Deal with this and we will do a one week on and one week off custody.”

-

She waved at Otis as he left her arms, walking down the steps to the black Range Rover. This was Y/N’s normal, the way things turned out and she was happy now. Her boyfriend next to her as she watched her baby heading to his dad’s for a week.

“I’ll drop him off on Sunday around after dinner. Mum wants us to stay for a roast, you know the normal and all,” Harry told her, she nodded, leaning into Jamie as she agreed.

“Sounds good. I haven’t seen Anne in ages, tell her ‘hi’ for me,” Y/N told him and Harry nodded as Jamie said his goodbyes and went off to his car.

Her boyfriend, her son and her ex-lover were leaving her, but that was ok. Jamie would be back by four and she had to head into work for the day.

“You know I am still fighting for you, kitten. Your bub will always fight for his kitten,” she leaned against her door, arms crossed, past anger all gone.

“I know you will, Harry, you always get what you want, but let me fall apart from him by myself, not with you interfering. If we are meant to be, just watch, it’ll happen, otherwise, I am happy. You are happy, I am happy, Otis is happy, we are a family.”

-

Tag list - DM, Inbox or comment to be added/removed :)

@alinashawn @mendesnecessary @claredolphinbear24 @notunlimited @ashwarren32 @harrysahottie @iimagineloves @i-am-bisexual-and-a-girl @purple-cream-cheese @particularlymendes @lilya-petrichor @laggyphone @winchesterwife27 @neverlandqueen15 @kissme-hs @mutuallynotmutual @why-are-all-the-teens-gay @min-amani @a-classy-asian @bandsandanimefreak

[mosylufanfic]

5 Times They Ate Alone (and one time they didn't)

A giftfic for @thatkillervibe, because she turned in her thesis! Wooooooo!

5 Times They Ate Alone (and one time they didn't)

1. Friday Night

His phone pinged with a text and Cisco looked up, blinking, from his video game. He pulled it out of his pocket, went to open the text, and accidentally answered a call that started coming in that moment. Wincing, because nobody called except telemarketers, he said, "Yes?"

"Cisco Ramon?" said a brisk female voice.

Gearing himself up to turn down an extended car warranty or something, he said, "Yes, but - "

"Hi, this is the front desk of Star House," the female voice went on. "You have a food delivery."

"I - a what?"

"A food delivery," she said. "Please come get it."

"Uh, yeah, I'm on my way."

She hung up and left him blinking at the screen. He tapped the text and confirmed that his burrito was on the premises, which left him even more confused.

First of all, Kevin usually had the evening shift at the front desk, and second of all, he'd never called even once for a food delivery. Usually he lifted a lazy hand and said "'Sup," as Cisco came to meet the delivery people, if he looked away from his tablet at all. 

Shaking his head, Cisco headed down to the lobby to collect his food. 

"Cisco?" the delivery guy said, unzipping his insulated bag. "Carne asada burrito, chips and guac, and an orange Fanta?"

"Yep," he said, taking the fragrant paper bag and the sweating cup from him. "Thanks."

"Have a good day," the delivery guy said, and disappeared to his next quest to bring deliciousness to people who didn't want to leave their house. 

Cisco set his food on the desk and paused to look at the attendant. She was a cute white girl with a reddish-chestnut ponytail and a giant chemistry book spread out in front of her. She looked vaguely familiar.

She sensed his gaze and looked up. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"You're not Kevin," he said.

"No," she said. "He went home for the long weekend. I picked up his shifts. And some others."

His mood brightened. Everyone he knew had gone home until Monday or Tuesday. Definitely everyone on his floor. Somehow this was the holiday weekend every freshman went home for. "So you're staying on campus the whole weekend, too?" 

"Yes," she said. 

"Cisco," he said, offering his hand. 

"I know," she said, not taking it.

He cocked his head. "And your name is?"

She tapped her name tag. It read Caitlin.

"Cool," he said. "Nice to know I'm not going to be all alone in this mausoleum."

"You're not," she said. "There are at least five other people still here."

In a dorm with six floors, that actually wasn't that many. "Well, I haven't seen them," he said, peering at her book. "Hey, is that the Chem 201 book? Who do you have?"

"Professor McGee," she said, "and so do you. You're in my lecture."

"I am?" No wonder she looked familiar. Although it was a giant lecture, at least three hundred students. "Huh, no way. What are you working on?"

"Studying for the test."

He went rigid with alarm - test oh shit what test - but whipped out his phone and checked his calendar. "Geez," he said, wilting against the desk. "Don't freak me out like that. The test isn't until Friday."

"I know," she said. "I really need to study."

"Uh, that's a literal week away. Like, today is Friday, and the test is in seven whole entire days. You don't need to be studying on a holiday weekend."

"I do if I don't want to get a B," she said. 

From her tone, a B was apocalyptic. The end of the world. Dishonor on her, dishonor on her cow. 

"Um," he said. "Ever heard how C's get degrees?"

"They don't get me into med school."

Damn, this chick was hard-core. 

"Okay," he said. "I'm just saying maybe you could afford to relax a little, in the first semester of freshman year."

Very pointedly, she turned a page and started writing out an equation. 

"Right," he said. "Studying. Got it."

On his way back up, he wondered if she'd had any dinner. He ate a chip and shook his head. She was fine, probably.

2. Saturday Afternoon

But the solitude got to him again by lunchtime the next day. Even though he was happy not to have to battle anybody for the showers, the empty halls were more than a little eerie. In his short time at CCU, he'd gotten used to voices and laughter and yelling outside his door. Texting people and getting random, scattershot answers as they all replied in between whatever fun things they were doing at home really wasn't a substitute for human contact.

His roommate had predicted this when he'd announced his intention of staying, but Cisco had laughed and waved it off.

"Video games and takeout all day and night," he crowed. 

Yeah, that had seemed like fun at the time. 

When his phone rang, he grabbed it. “Hey!”

“This is the front - “

“Hi, Caitlin. My food here?”

“Yes, please come -“

“On my way.” He loped down the hall. Even though Caitlin seemed to hate him for no reason, she was at least another human face.

The pizza guy was trying to flirt with her, if the way he was leaning on the desk was any indication. She had her head bent over her textbook again, scowling. Cisco felt his mood lift. Clearly it wasn't personal, she just didn't like anybody.

He stood there for a good thirty seconds before pointedly clearing his throat. “Pepperoni and mushroom?” he said loudly.

"Oh," the pizza guy said, looking around. "Oh, yeah. And a two-liter of Cherry Coke." He handed it over, the credit card slip on top, and leaned on the desk again with a smooth smile. "Hey, you know, there's always free pies at work. I could go and get one and bring it back. What do you like?"

Dude, Cisco thought as he signed the slip, seriously? That was some lame-ass flirting.

"I'm really very busy," Caitlin said. 

"Oh, yeah, you look busy. You should take a break. Rest your brain." He grinned again. 

Caitlin stared at her textbook. Now that Cisco was really looking, he noticed her eyes weren't moving and her pen was still. She was just waiting for the guy to go away. 

If waiting was even the right word. More like enduring. Suffering.

The pizza guy didn't seem to want to move. When his eyes flickered over and a frown crossed his forehead, Cisco realized he was waiting, too - for him to leave. So he could continue with his awful, unwelcome flirting.

Well, all right then.

Cisco set his pizza box down on the counter and opened it all the way up. Then he opened the two-liter and waited for the fizz to die down before lifting it to his lips and swigging straight from the bottle, eyes directly on Pizza Creep.

Who turned away and said, "I get a lot of perks from this gig. It's pretty sweet. One time I delivered a bunch of pies and they paid me a hundred dollars to go pick up a keg. I'm twenty-one, so I can do that. You want me to pick you up something? Wine coolers?"

"There's no drinking in this dorm," Caitlin said. 

Cisco almost choked on his second swig of Coke. If she believed that, she either didn't live here or she never looked up from her chem book. 

Her eyes flicked over to him, with something almost like a smile in them. Then she glanced back at the pizza guy and looked fixedly down at her book.

"I'm off at six," Pizza Creep said. "We should go out."

Cisco picked up a slice of pizza, folded it in half, and stuck it in his mouth. "Mmmmmm," he said, loud and obnoxious through his mouthful. "Goo' pi'a."

Pizza Creep looked up. "Dude? Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Cisco said, and took another bite. "You go right ahead." He swigged again, carbonation buzzing in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down as hard as he could and took another swig.

Pizza Creep looked away. "Anyway, I could come back here, pick you up . . . We could go to a club. What do you think?" He reached over the desk to trail his finger over her wrist. She pulled her hand away. "Bet you look real cute in clubbing clothes."

Cisco let out a burp that rattled the window panes. Pizza Creep said, "Jesus, dude!"

Caitlin pressed her hand to her mouth, and her shoulders started shaking. For a bad moment Cisco thought she was crying, because some pizza creep was hitting on her and some mannerless freshman had just basically burped right in her face -

But then the giggles spilled out around her hand, and her face was squished up all cute and dimples were digging themselves into her cheeks.

Pizza Creep said, "God. Fine." He pushed himself away from the desk. "Didn't really even want to go out with you. Ice cold bitch." He grabbed his pizza sleeve and stormed out the front door as Caitlin wound down.

When she had stopped gasping for breath, Cisco said, "Sorry about the burping and the talking with my mouth full and you know. I was trying to drive him off."

"Thank you," she said. "I've, um, I've never been rescued in quite that way before."

"Eighteen years as a little brother," he said. "Annoying people is my superpower." He closed the Cherry Coke and started to pull the lid over the pizza. He paused. "Want a slice?"

She shook her head. "I had lunch already."

"Really? What?"

"A sandwich."

"Okay," he said. "Well, I might have a slice or two left so if you get hungry, you can call me." He glanced at her book. Chem again. "Or if you need someone to shuffle flashcards or something."

Her smile died away and she looked at him sternly.

"Whoa," he said. "I'm not trying to flirt like Pizza Creep there. I'm just - my roommate went home, and all my friends went home, and actually video games all by myself are kind of boring after the third or fourth hour in a row. Just saying, it'd be nice to hang out. You know. Break up the monotony."

Her stern expression softened. "I'm working until ten," she said. "But thanks." 

She bent over her book again, clearly very ready to get back to work, and he accepted the gentle brush-off. He stuck his soda under his armpit like a football, balanced the pizza box on the other arm, and headed back to his room.

Still, he reflected as he waited for the elevator, she was awfully cute when she laughed.

3. Saturday Night

Around five-thirty, he went past the front desk and found it empty. He stood blinking, feeling more than a little dismayed.

"Hello?" he called out.

From the communal kitchen, he heard a gasp before she came scrambling out. "Sorry!" she said. "Sorry. I just stepped away and - sorry. How can I help you?"

"Chill," he said. "It's fine. I just wanted to say hi."

"Oh," she said. "Hi."

"Hi," he said again. "So, what are you studying tonight? Still chem? My offer of flashcard wrangler stands."

"No, it's European History right now. An essay."

 "Let me guess, due in November?"

"Due on Thursday."

"I'm not in that class with you too, am I?"

She smiled. Oh, look at that, still cute. "No, you're not."

"Oh good, because I definitely would be failing, on account of not going even once. So what's your essay?"

"The role of trade routes between urban centers in the spread of the bubonic plague."

He blinked. "Oh, great. Light-hearted and fluffy, I see."

"There are actually a lot of parallels to current pandemic models," she said. "It's very interesting from a public health standpoint."

"Well, cool. Sounds like fun."

"It is." She tugged her shirt straight and brushed at a flyaway hair. "Are you waiting for another food delivery?"

"No, I was actually gonna go and get something."

"Everything on campus is closed," she said. 

"Not the Grille. Right?"

"Well, no, but they close in - " She glanced at the time. "About an hour."

"More than enough time." He gave her a little salute. "You want me to bring you anything?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine."

He squinted at her. "You eat, right?"

"Yes, but I have food here." Off in the kitchen, the microwave beeped.

"Oh no," he said. "Really? Some sad little cheapass microwave meal that you're going to eat over your bubonic plague research?"

"It's fine," she said. "It's Easy Mac."

He made a pained face. "Easy Mac is for two in the morning when everything's closed or 'I haven't eaten in eight hours and am legit going to pass out before I can  walk to the buffet.' Not for a meal. This is the whole reason they give us meal plans." He waved his student ID.

"I got it at the convenience store last week. With my meal plan dollars."

"You were ripped off," he said. "Okay, look, are you on some kind of weird ass diet? Paleo or whole thirty or whatever the latest excuse for not enjoying food is?"

"No," she said. "I am really, seriously fine with my Easy Mac and you should go before they start to close down all the food stations."

He glanced at the time and conceded her point. "Okay," he said, heading out the door. "Just saying. You have my number. Shoot me a text if you change your mind. I can bring back french fries or a tuna sandwich or you know, whatever."

"I won't," she called after him. "But thank you!"

4. Sunday Afternoon

Cisco took yesterday's pizza down to the kitchen. He could have stuck it in the microwave in his room, yeah, but this was a chance to get out of his room and stretch his legs.

Also maybe to hang out and talk to Caitlin again.

When he got there, she was riffling through her stacks of paper and textbooks, a frown digging between her brows.

"Hey," he said, setting his plate down. "Everything okay?"

"I thought I had it . . ." she mumbled. 

"What?"

"My sociology book. Ugh!" She kept looking.

He went to put his pizza in the microwave and came back. She'd moved everything from one side of the desk to the other and looked completely frazzled. 

"It's probably in your room," he said. 

"I know it is, I was working on the readings last night. I must not have put it in my bag. Ugh." She pushed her hair out of her eyes. "I wanted to finish that. Now my whole study schedule is going to be off."

"Run up and get it," he suggested. "You live here, right?"

"Of course I do, I just - I can't leave the desk for that long."

He looked around the empty lobby, shading his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I can see how you're super-busy."

She wrinkled her nose at him.

The microwave beeped and he went to retrieve his food. When he came back, she was grumpily rearranging all the books again, pouting at a color-coded piece of paper that was clearly her totaled study schedule.

"Look," he said, flapping his hand over the hot pizza to cool it down. "Why don't I watch the desk for you? Just for five minutes. Go get your text, get your homework done, and stop fretting."

"I'm not fretting," she said indignantly.

"You're fretting all over the place. I'm capable of holding down this fort. Go."

She bit her lip, looked at her schedule again, and got up. "Okay, just - if anyone comes in, ask them for their student ID, and if they don't live here, you have to ask them who they're visiting and call that person. Same for food delivery, except they're not allowed to just go wandering around the halls, the person has to come get it. The numbers are in this binder here, and if the mail comes - oh, wait, it's Sunday. No mail. Okay." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "Okay, I'll be right back."

"Okay," he said, plopping himself in her chair. "I'll be here."

She rushed off toward the elevators.

He chewed on his reheated pizza and surveyed the back of the desk. It was covered in all the little notes and shorthand of a desk that several people shared. Notes of people not to let in - apparently, 542 had a nasty ex. Hours and locations of things on campus. A schedule, Caitlin's name in every block from noon on Friday.

He opened the binder. The first page was clearly the workers, because it had another copy of the schedule and a list of phone numbers and room numbers. He noted Caitlin's - 401. Whoa. She'd been one floor up for two months. He could have just gone up the stairs. Why had they never met?

Well, they'd met now.

He considered the phone number, then shut the binder. Taking note of a girl's room, that was one thing. Taking their phone number without their knowledge was something else.

The crust of the pizza was all gross and tough from being reheated. He tried gnawing at it for a moment, then decided it was too nasty and threw it away. It landed on top of a paper plate with a few crumbs and a corner of dried-up bread crust. She must have had another sandwich for lunch.

The elevator dinged, and he dropped her study schedule on top of her stack of books. She came out with the wayward soc book tucked under her arm. "Thanks," she said. "How was it?" 

"So busy," he said, vacating the seat. "So, so busy. I'm dying. I don't know how you do it." 

She wrinkled her nose at him again and settled in, but didn't move to open the textbook. "I know you think I'm silly, but I really planned to get some work done this weekend. Maybe work ahead and buy myself some breathing room mid-semester."

"Is that why you stayed? To study?"

She looked away. "Not really."

He was quiet, leaving space open for her to talk.

"I didn't want to go home," she said. "I know most people did, to see their friends and - I just didn't."

"Not even your parents?"

"My mom works a lot."

She didn't mention her dad, he noticed.

"So there's nobody at home that I want to see," she finished up. 

He raised his brows. When she didn't go on, he said, "Nobody from high school? Nobody you want to reunite with? Nobody you want to tell all about your adventures at college?"

She played with her study schedule, folding the corner over. "I've never been a social kind of person," she said. "And after senior year - no, nobody."

He studied here. There was a story there, in that cut-off phrase. "What happened?" he said gently. "Senior year."

She folded her schedule again, and a third time. Just when he thought she wasn't going to answer, she said, "I had a boyfriend."

"Many people do."

"His name was Hunter," she went on. "He was popular and cute and smart and I couldn't believe it when we started dating. He made me feel so special. And his friends were so nice. I'd never had a group of friends before. He was sweet and kind and just, just perfect."

"Sounds like a prince," Cisco contributed, wondering how this story ended.

"He was," she said. "I thought. But the other thing about him was that he lied. He lied about everything. His ex and his car and where he was when I texted and even his grades."

"Ooo," Cisco said. "Not so princely."

"Nuh-uh. Sometimes I think he lied just because he could. And when I figured out he was lying, he would even lie about that! He would look me in the eyes and tell me that I must have lost my homework when I'd seen him take it off my desk before he left my house." She heaved a sigh. "And when I got tired of that and broke up with him, he - "

"Let me guess," Cisco said. "He started lying about you."

"It turned out that all my new friends weren't really my friends, they were his. And people who didn't care about me one way or the other, before, they were all happy to believe I was a crazy bitch who made up stories when I got dumped. So." She smoothed her schedule out. "I'm really not that excited about going home."

"I get that." He folded his arms on the top of the desk and rested his chin on them. "Hunter's a moron. You know that, right?"

"He cheated in every class," she said. "Every single one."

It made him smile a little. She sounded so indignant. "Well, yeah, there's that. But I mean, he was a moron to treat a girl like you that way. You didn't deserve that, not from him or his friends."

She smiled a little. "Thanks. I've made friends here, you know," she added. "My roommate and some others. They're just all gone for the weekend."

"Except me," he said.

She blinked up at him. "Right," she said. "Except you." 

He gave the desk a little knock. "Well, I won't disrupt your study schedule anymore, but you know where to find me if you need a break."

5. Sunday Night 

When Cisco put in the order, he didn't wait for it to arrive, but took himself downstairs almost right away. 

"Hey,” he called out, and Caitlin’s head popped up, a smile brightening her face. 

“Hi!”

He grinned. “Listen, is it okay with you if I hook up my console to the TV in the rec room? I could play in my room but it's, you know. Lonely."

"I'm fine with that," she said, getting up to hold the door. "What are you playing?"

"Not sure. I finished two big games so far this weekend, so maybe something quick and fun."

She leaned in the doorway, watching him set up. He glanced at her. “Wanna play? Study break.”

She played with the strings on her shirt. “I’m kind of studied out,” she admitted. 

He clutched his heart. “Quick, check the weather, I want to see where the pigs are flying.”

She made a face at him. 

“If you're too tired to study, you really need to play something.” His screen popped up and he handed her a controller. 

(Okay, yeah he might have been planning this offer. Sue him.)

“The desk,” she said, not very forcefully. 

“If you sit right there at the end of the couch, you can see it,” he said. “Ever played Mario Kart?”

She tilted her head, then reached for the second controller. 

"I'll take it easy on you," he said. "Promise."

"Thank you, I appreciate that," she said, and wiped the floor with him. 

“Oh my god!" he wailed as her car careened over the finish line a full lap ahead of him. "I’ve been hustled. You hustler.”

“I never said I hadn’t played before,” she said. “You assumed.”

“And I made an ass out of myself,” he said. "But seriously, you don't strike me as the gamer girl type."

"Video games have been shown to increase hand-eye coordination and hone problem-solving skills." She flexed her fingers. "My roommate has this game. It really is excellent stress relief."

He grinned. “Okay, enough chivalry. I get to reclaim my honor now.”

“You can try,” she said demurely, folding her legs under her. 

They'd done eight races - six of which Caitlin had won - before his stomach growled and he realized his food was really taking a long time. "Hang on, hang on," he said, setting his controller down and picking up his phone. What he saw made him groan. "Oh, shit!"

"What?"

He stared mournfully at the app. "I forgot to hit the submit button. I never sent the order in." He checked something and groaned. "And they're closed already."

"Can you order from somewhere else?"

"I guess, I'll just have to wait longer." His stomach growled again. "And I ate all the rest of my pizza earlier." He pouted.

"That's terrible," she said innocently. "If only you had a friend who had some microwaveable food in her room."

He clasped his hands under his chin and hit her with puppy eyes. "Pleeeeeease can I have some Easy Mac?"

"Mmmm, I don't know, you did make fun of it."

"No, no, no," he said. "Late at night? Everything closed? On the brink of starvation? This is exactly the situation that calls for Easy Mac."

She laughed. "Keep an eye on the desk for a minute?"

"You got it. You're the best." 

She was back down with the plastic bowl within a few minutes. He thought of hugging her or kissing her cheek, but they were barely friends. He didn't know how she'd react, and the last thing he wanted was to scare her off. So he just said, "Thank you so much, you're awesome,” he told her as they went over to the kitchen.

"It's Easy Mac," she said, blushing a little. "Three-fifty at the convenience store."

"Still a ripoff," he said, following the directions on the side and popping it in the microwave. "You didn't get one for you?"

"I ate before you came downstairs."

He got an orange soda from the vending machine while it cooked. The pasta was a little crunchy because he hadn't put enough water in, but it tasted like a feast. He settled back into his spot on the couch and chowed down.

She sat with him, idly flipping through the different characters on the screen. "Can I ask you something?" she said very tentatively.

"Sure, shoot."

"I told you why I stayed, this weekend. But why did you?"

He stirred the pasta a few times to break up a big lump of powder. She waited.

Finally,he said, "My brother had a concert."

"Oh," she said. "Um - you didn't want to see it?"

"I've seen so many of my brother's concerts," he said. "And this one was in San Fran. Some young prodigy series. Isn't there an upper limit on when somebody's considered a young prodigy? Like, if you're old enough to drink, doesn't that DQ you from prodigy-hood? Like, I'd think."

"So, you didn't want to go to San Francisco."

"Not if it meant hanging around a hotel room while he got photographed and went to practices and my mom was being all stage-mommy." He shrugged. "I’ve done that. Got the t-shirt. I’m over it.”

“You couldn’t just go home? See your friends?”

“My pop said I would throw a party and destroy the house, so no, I couldn’t. Which, heh, I may have done once or twice in high school, so he's not totally defaming my character there."

She didn’t laughed. "You didn't this weekend. Here."

"Everybody I know went home." He stirred his pasta again. "And I'm not . . . mad about it anymore."

She raised her eyebrows, reminding him that he'd opted to stay at school and play video games alone in his room for three days straight rather than go to San Francisco. 

"I'm not as mad," he corrected himself. "My brother and his music - it was such a thing at home, you know? Like it ate up all the air in my house. But here, it's just like . . . whatever. That's them. That's just the way things are. I don't have to like it." He shrugged again and set the macaroni bowl down, scraped clean. "Could be worse."

"Well," she said. "I'm glad you stayed."

"Me too," he said. "Who knows how long it would have taken us to meet if I hadn't."

She picked up her controller and gave him a sweet smile. "So what are we up to? Best out of thirteen?"

"Hooo-hoo, she's talking smack! Now you're asking for it." He grabbed for his own controller. "No more Mr. Nice Guy."

+1. Monday Afternoon

Cisco walked down to the lobby, practicing. "Hey," he said, casual, flirty, "so I was thinking - " He almost swallowed the next word at the sight of the person behind the desk.

Who was . . . not Caitlin.

"Sup," Kevin said, looking up from his tablet.

"Hey, man," Cisco said. "Uh, where's Caitlin?"

"Who?"

"Caitlin? The girl who was here all weekend? Where you're sitting right now?"

Kevin squinted into the middle distance. Cisco could practically smell the smoke as his brain tried to get into gear. "Oh," he said. "The chick. Yeah, she went back to her room, I think." He looked back at his TV show.

"Oh." Cisco considered that. He'd been intending to hang out with her here. But if she wasn't on duty, maybe that would be better.

Or maybe it would be worse. Maybe when she wasn't stuck at a desk, she wouldn't talk to him at all.

But they'd hung out and played video games and laughed and talked for hours last night, even after she closed up the desk and put out a little sign that said she'd return at eight in the morning.

Welp. Nothing to do but try. He gave Kevin a little salute. "See you later, man."

"Yup."

He rested against the rail in the elevator, watching the numbers tick up one floor more than usual. He glanced at his phone, where he'd been having a whole convo with his roommate.

It sounds like she likes you already

I know she does she practically said

But do you think she could LIKE me

more than friends like me

making out like me

It wasn't that he didn't like the idea of being friends. He thought she'd be a good one.  But the part of him  that had noticed how cute she was had already cast its vote for a making-out kind of relationship, and hopefully more. 

Dude I don't KNOW

Just like

invite her for a walk or something

if I ever get to talk to the Mysterious Goddess that's how I'll start

Cisco put his phone away with a grunt. Barry was full of ideas for what he'd do if he ever managed to find the beautiful girl he sometimes randomly saw in the halls or around campus. Cisco kept telling him that the first step was to walk up and fucking say hi.

The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor with a chirpy ding. The dorm was already starting to feel more normal, with room doors open and somebody laughing and girls walking up and down the hall. He waved and said hi to a couple of the girls that he knew already. How are you, how was your weekend, see you in class. 

He found 401, the door closed. He shook his shoulders out. Wooo. Go for it. Faint heart, et cetera. He knocked.

It opened after a moment, Caitlin saying, "Iris? Did you forget your - oh!"

"Hey," he said. 

"HI," she said. "I thought you were my roommate. She's supposed to get back soon."

"Nope. I'm me."

"Hi," she said, and blushed.

That was encouraging. He said, "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

"Me neither. So, the Riverside is open again."

The buffet cafeteria by the student union was where most people sat down to eat if they had more than ten minutes to grab something. Better yet, it had a row of two-person booths under the south windows, cozy and bright.  

"I know," she said. 

"And I figured I owe you a meal. So I wondered if you'd wanna come eat lunch." He grinned again. "Unless you already have some Easy Mac."

"No, but I was waiting for Iris to come back."

"Oh," he said, trying to parse that. A gentle brush-off? Or a sacred, unbreakable girl-pact? "Okay. Well, we can rain-check it."

"Actually," she said, and he stopped in the act of taking a  step back.

"Yeah?"

"Actually, I'd like that," she said. "Lunch with you. I can catch up with Iris later."

He felt his smile bloom. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said. She reached over and grabbed her keys and ID off her desk, and patted her pocket for her phone. "Okay. Let's go."

FINIS

[saveyourblood]

Stolen Dance | Ch. 9

Summary: “Maybe this was a pipe dream, a delusion you’d soon awake from or a phase you’d outgrow. You didn’t really care. For a brief moment in time, you were in love. That’s what you chose to care about. That what you made matter.”

The one where you’re a paramedic, he’s an FBI agent, and the time you spend together is borrowed.

Word Count: 4.9k

Song: Smother - Daughter Warnings: Angst.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

_____________________

“We’ve already been over this a hundred times,” you said. You tugged at your blouse; you chose a bad day to wear this shirt. 

“This will be the last time,” Hotch assured.

“We need your entire testimony on tape,” Strauss continued. While they both sounded professional, Strauss’s had a certain… edge. It lacked the almost undetectable understanding in Hotch’s.

You sighed. “Dr. Reid, Agent Morgan and myself were told to investigate Professor Nichols’s house. Reid and Morgan waited in the yard like they were told. I walked around the perimeter of the house, and I found his lab. I found Nichols’s body, and I also found the broken vial of anthrax. I sealed off the door the moment I realized. I take full responsibility for what happened.” 

“Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple,” Strauss said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You directly disobeyed orders, and consequently, you endangered both your team and the Bureau's reputation.”

You frowned. “That sounds like it’s exactly my fault.” 

“If this went to court, it wouldn’t be,” Hotch clarified. “You haven’t been formally trained for terrorist and chemical warfare situations.”  

“Court?” You asked. “That’s what this is about?” 

“We’re all incredibly lucky for the positive outcome of the Nichols-Brown case,” Strauss said, “but it could have ended very differently.”

“If I died, maybe,” you shrugged, “but I didn’t. So I have to admit, ma’am: I don’t really see the problem here.” 

“The problem, Miss Y/L/N, is that the Bureau would have been held responsible for your death,” Strauss said. “You were hired as medical staff — you had no business being at that house in the first place.” 

“Okay, wow,” you laughed in surprise. “First of all, my background isn’t only in medicine; I served in an active warzone for 18 months. Before I was discharged, I was held hostage and tortured. Second of all, medical staff or not, my insight was integral to solving that case.”

“If you hadn’t discovered what you did —” 

“I did,” you interrupted Strauss, which may very well be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, but all you could see was red. “Ma’am, is there something else you’re trying to say?”

She stared at you for a moment before clearing her throat. “After reviewing the cases you’ve worked, the Director is concerned about your recent behavior.”

“‘My recent behavior’?”  You asked. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“The VA sent over your prescription records,” Hotch said. 

“.5mgs of Alprazolam as needed, 175mgs of Sertraline for maintenance,” you confirmed.

“Considering your PTSD diagnosis along with your… erratic decision-making, the Director believes it would be best for you to step back,” Strauss informed.

You smirked, but it wasn’t in amusement. “With all due respect: if he feels that way, tell him to grow a pair and tell it to my face.” 

Strauss’s eyes widened, and you thought for a brief moment, so did Hotch’s.

“I’m sorry?” She asked, in complete disbelief. 

“I’m useful to this team as more than a paramedic — any agent will tell you that,” you said. “I can admit that what I did was reckless and stupid. But when it comes down to it, no more people got hurt. We can sit here and talk about theoretical lawsuits all you want, but at the end of the day, there’s nothing to talk about; the case ended as well as anyone could hope. No one can sue anyone. I did my job, and I did it well. I’m not going to apologize for that.” 

Strauss studied you, still trying to grasp your vocal confidence. “You’re on paid leave until you pass all required training. You’re not to work any cases until then, BAU or not. Understood?” 

“Yes ma’am,” you said before walking out. 

“How did it go?”

“About as well as I expected,” you said, shrugging off your coat and hanging it up. “I’m on paid leave until I go through all my training.”

“That’s… great,” Spencer said, letting out a breath of relief. He set his briefcase on your couch while he took off his scarf.

“Honestly? Strauss probably wants me gone,” you said, digging in your fridge for a couple of beers. “I’ll take paid leave any day.”

He frowned, walking around to take a seat on the couch. “What makes you say that?”

You used a bottle opener to pop off the tops of two bottles. You went into the living room, handing Spencer one of the bottles. 

“When I first interviewed, she didn’t seem thrilled with my qualifications, or rather, lack thereof,” you said, taking a sip of your beer. You curled up next to him on the couch. “She’s the reason I have to wear that stupid uniform — it’s her way of telling me and everyone else that I’m a paramedic, not a profiler. Half of that meeting was her telling me I’m a lawsuit in the making.”

“We’re lucky to have you on the team, Y/N, and not just as a paramedic,” Spencer promised, wrapping an arm around you. “Hotch would fight Strauss tooth and nail to keep you on.” 

You smiled softly. “Thanks,” you said, playing with the fingers on his freehand. “Spence, how would you feel about disclosing our relationship to HR?” 

He raised his eyebrows. “That would make things pretty official, don’t you think?” 

“Well, a little over a week ago, you did ask me to move in with you,” you laughed nervously. “Unless we’re not doing that anymore?”

Spencer turned to you, a smile creeping onto his face. “Nothing would make me happier.” 

You returned the smile. You took the beer bottle from his hand, set both of them on the couch, then — quite literally —  threw yourself at him. 

Spencer yelped in surprise. He grabbed you in a hug, but the sudden weight change threw off his balance, and the two of you toppled to the ground. You ended up pinned to the floor, laughing underneath your boyfriend. He cut off your laughs with a kiss. 

This… This felt good. 

_____________________

It took Austin’s mother three days to respond to the message you left her.

Just as Spencer suspected, it was easy for you to find her Facebook profile. Austin mentioned his mother to you a few times, and considering their unusual last name, there weren’t that many profiles to choose from. As if the name wasn’t enough, her second most-recent profile picture was one of Austin. 

Per Spencer’s recommendation, you used your own account to message her; something about people being more willing to trust you the more information they can see. You haven’t actively used the account in years, but it still had all of your basic info — age, hometown, job experience. 

You kept the message brief, simply stating that you served with Austin in Syria, and that if she wanted to call you, she could reach you on your cell phone. No friend request, no graphic details… just a random message out of the blue she had every right to ignore if she felt inclined to do so.

You were drinking coffee with Spencer after some of your training when you received a voicemail.

‘Hello, Y/N. My name is Angela Crow. I got the message you left me,’ she started. 

Janet went on to say that she would love to meet with you in person, if you were willing to do so. She lived with her husband in Seattle — they wanted to be closer to their daughter after losing their son. She thanked you for getting in contact and encouraged you to call back if you wanted to set something up. 

A few days later, you were standing in an airport. 

“You know, the last time we did this, it was the other way around,” you said to Spencer as you hoisted one of your two bags onto your shoulder.

You asked Strauss to not schedule any training for a week, telling her you didn’t care if you got paid for it or not. This wasn’t about your work, or the current lack thereof; this was entirely different. This was something you had to do. 

“I wasn’t entirely sure I was in love with you then,” Spencer returned. “I was pretty confident, though.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, me too.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with?” He asked. You could only hope it was for the last time.

“Spencer, you have no luggage, and even if you did, a last minute-ticket would put you out at least a grand,” you deadpanned. Then, you took his hand. “I love you, and I wish you could be there. But this is something I have to do alone.” 

He smiled sadly. “I know. I just wish I could help.”

You frowned. “Spencer, you’ve done more for me than you’ll ever know. Besides, I’ll only be in Seattle for two days. Then, I’m spending two days with my mom in Colorado, and then I’ll be back home. You’ll be assigned a case as you won’t even realize I’m gone.” 

“Not possible,” he said, pulling you into a hug. 

You hugged him tightly. You felt him rest his chin on your shoulder, then his lips, then his chin again; it was his trademark. It made you smile. 

When you felt your eyes start to well up, you pulled away. 

“Go, get out of here,” you chuckled, “or else I’m gonna lose it.” 

He set a hand on your cheek and placed a soft kiss on your lips. When he pulled away, you wanted nothing more than to pull him back towards you. You knew you had to let him go, though. You had to let him go if you ever wanted him to be fully yours. 

“Goodbye,” he said softly, before walking away.

He made it a few yards before turning back to you to say something. 

“What?” you asked. People were staring, but you didn’t care.

He cleared his throat, moving a little closer. “I always have a go-bag in my car.”

You smiled. “Of course you do.” 

He grinned before waving you goodbye and walking off, this time, for real. 

You spent the first day in Seattle walking around. You passed a few tourist attractions and entered a few shops, but for the most part, you simply took in the city.  It was below freezing point, so the infamous Seattle rain became a thin blanket of snow that draped the entire town. You stayed bundled up in your jacket and occasionally took refuge in a cafe, ordering a coffee or tea and something small to eat.  You stumbled across a used bookstore, and you managed to find a biography of Edgar Allen Poe. You bought it as a gift for Spencer. 

You eventually took a cab back to your hotel room, texted Spencer that you were turning in for the night, and laid down in bed. And yet, despite your exhausting day of both travel and walking, you weren’t tired. Physically, you were exhausted, but your mind was racing. 

You sat in a local cafe called Prim and Proper, tapping the side of your mug anxiously. Mr. and Mrs. Crow offered to meet up here, as it was one of their favorite spots in the city. It was a smart rouse — no chance in hell would you have gone to their house right away. Your instincts simply didn’t allow it. 

“Y/N?” Someone asked hesitantly. 

You looked up to see a middle-aged couple observing you. By physical appearance alone, you could tell they were Austin’s parents. On their own, neither of them appeared to look more like their son:  it was a combination of their features that set you off. 

Austin’s hair was jet black, just like his father’s. However, the man in front of you had pale green eyes, unlike Austin’s dark brown ones. He got his eyes from his mother, who’s natural hair color was auburn. He was a perfect blend of both of them; you wondered if his sister turned out the same way. 

You smiled courteously, taking a stand and sticking out a hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” 

Rather than shaking your hand, Janet lowered it. A bit of panic set in. However, you soon realized she only did this so she could hug you.

Though initially startled, you eventually wrapped your arms around the petite woman. Austin must have inherited his height  from his dad. 

“I’m sorry,” Janet said, pulling away with watery eyes. “It’s really nice to meet you too, is all.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Austin’s dad — James — clarified.

“Really?” you asked, taken aback. “I had no idea Austin even mentioned me.”

The two of them shared a look. 

“Please, sit down,” you said, gesturing to the booth across from you. 

You didn’t think you could laugh so hard with strangers.

After some awkward small talk, the conversation seemed to pick up naturally. To your surprise, it was more than bearable — you could actually say you were enjoying yourself. It was like once the three of you started basking in the lighter memories, it was impossible to stop.

“Was he still a foodie overseas?” Janet asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” you laughed. “This one time, he put clam chowder on a sandwich. Sometimes, he’d trade men in his unit for random shit, throw it together, and eat it. I think he did it to get a rise out of me.” 

“Did it work?” James asked, chuckling.

“Of course! Some of the stuff he came up with was disgusting.”

“That sounds like Austin,” Janet agreed, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “I can see why he loved you so much.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “H-he said that? He said… love?” 

James nodded. “All the time. After the two of you got together, every call he made home was to talk about you.”

“‘Mom, you’ll never guess what Y/N said’, ‘she’s so pretty’, ‘she’s the one’...” Janet reminisced. “He was head over heels.” 

“Wow,” you said. “I… I never knew. I mean, I loved him too, I told him, but he only told me once, and it was before…” You trailed off. 

The two exchanged another look. It made you uncomfortable, as it felt like you were being left out of something.

“You didn’t know?” James said. 

“...Didn’t know what?” 

Janet shrunk back in her seat. “The last call Austin made to us was three days before he died,” she explained. “He said he didn’t have much time to talk, but he told me to check my email.”

You frowned. “Your email? What did he send you?”

“A picture and an order form,” James picked up. 

“I don’t understand…” you said, clueless. “An order form for what?”

With a sniffle, Janet reached into her coat pocket. She briefly set her hand on the table, pulling it back to reveal a small, black box.

“A ring,” Janet whispered. “He was going to ask you to marry him, Y/N.” 

It felt like all of the blood in your body disappeared. Your face went cold, your hands were numb, and sweat began to break out on your forehead. 

“Y/N?” James asked, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t be here,” you muttered. You fumbled for your wallet, tossing whatever bills you could find onto the table. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” 

You heard them protest, but by that time, you were already halfway across the cafe, making a beeline for the door. You were halfway down the street when you heard the couple stumble out of the cafe.

“Y/N, please, wait,” Janet pleaded.

“We’re sorry for springing it on you,” James said. “Please, come back inside. We can talk.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said as you turned around, “but I didn’t come here so I can fall in love with your son again. It’s been 3 years — I’ve moved on. I’ve met someone. He’s kind, and incredibly smart, and… alive. And I love him. I thought meeting the two of you could finally close this chapter of my life. Because I’m ready for that. I’m ready for it to be over. I’m sorry, but… I can’t.”

You continued walking, and this time, no one stopped you. 

You ended up walking back to the hotel rather than hitching a ride of some sort. Halfway through your trek, snow began to fall. Small, white flakes got caught in your hair and eyelashes; they settled on you coat briefly before melting. It felt oddly fitting.

You sat in your hotel room for a few hours, the TV on as white noise as you stared out the window. You’d been cradling the same cup of tea the entire time, taking only a few sips every once in a while. You reheated it at least three times, but you had yet to add any more water. 

You didn’t think that one day, you might be married. You didn’t think you’d ever find someone who’d want to spend the rest of their life with you. You’ve thought about kids and settling down, yes, but something about marriage seemed so… official. It didn’t seem right. 

The more you thought about it, though, the more you realized something: you would’ve said yes. 

Austin was conventional, but everything about your relationship with him wasn’t. You met in a warzone and shared kisses behind closed doors. It only took a few months for the two of you to know each other inside and out. So, had a sweet Texan boy who once stole your heart asked if he could keep it, you would have agreed. 

That probably scared you more than anything else.

You heard a knock at the door. 

You stood up with a frown, setting your mug on the end table. You crossed your arms and leaned in to the peephole, sighing in both relief and anxiety when you realized who was on the other side. 

“Mr. Crow…” you said as you opened the door.

He raised a hand. “Hear me out. Please.”

After a moment of consideration, you stepped aside to let him in. 

“You used both locks,” James recalled as he took off his coat. “Austin did the same thing every time he came back. I guess what they say is true — you never come home the person you left as.” 

You decided to humor him. 

“I put a padlock on my apartment door,” you admitted. “I put an extra lock on the bedroom door too. Just in case.” 

He nodded in understanding.

“We thought you knew,” he said quietly. “I swear, we thought he asked you. In fact, we thought that’s why you decided to talk to us in the first place.” 

You shook your head sadly. “I had no clue. I just… as selfish as this sounds: I wanted to put this all behind me. I have a boyfriend who wants me to move in with him. We’ve talked about having kids. I have a new job and I’m going back to school. I’m not the same person I was in Syria, or even Colorado. What happened with Austin is a part of me, and a part of me will always love him, but I don’t let it consume me anymore.”

“I understand,” James said. “But… can I be honest with you?” 

“It’s preferred.”

He chuckled sadly. “Janet wanted this to be the start of something. She’s thought a lot about you, even if she won’t admit it. She’s always wondered what you were like, if you were as amazing as Austin made you out to be. Whenever I’ve confronted her, she’s brushed it off, but I think… I think she’s made up a different world: one where you and Austin are married. A world where he didn’t die and the two of you lived happily ever after.” 

James reached in his pocket. He came back with the ring, which was still in its case. “I wish that world was real. But it just isn’t. We don’t have a son anymore, but we have a daughter. We have grandchildren. I want to think about them; I want to live in what’s real. Janet does too, she just… can’t. She wakes up every morning, sees this ring sitting on the dresser, and spends the rest of the day thinking about Austin. The grief still consumes her, and I think this ring is a part of the reason why.”

“She sees it and lives in possibility rather than reality,” you agreed softly. 

He nodded, then cleared his throat. 

“You said meeting us was selfish,” James continued.

You nodded. “In a way, yes.” 

“Well, it’s my turn to be selfish,” he said, extending his arm. “Take it. I don’t care what you do with it — if you keep it, lock it away, throw it in the goddamn ocean for all I care. Just… please, get it out of our lives.”

Swallowing thickly, you reached a hand out. To your surprise, it was James who hesitated.

“I love my son,” he said, voice cracking.

Tears sprung to your eyes.

“I know,” you whispered, taking the box from his hand. “I do too.” 

You made sure to hold his grasp a little longer than necessary. 

_____________________

You walked down the stairs in the airport. To your surprise, you saw a line of people holding up neon signs, and all of them were for you. 

“Y/N!” Garcia cheered, frantically waving her sign that read ‘welcome’. Derek stood next to her holding ‘home’, JJ held ‘Y/N’, and Spencer held a sign with three exclamation points. Emily stood next to Spencer and Rossi in the middle. 

You chuckled, approaching your second family. “This is completely unnecessary.”

“Hotch was busy with a case file, but he sends his love,” Garcia continued as if you said nothing. 

“Wait, so you guys just finished up a case?” you asked.

You looked to Spencer, who nodded.

“Oh my god, go home!” You said with a laugh. “This was really sweet, you guys, but seriously, go home. Get some sleep. God knows I will.” 

“I second that,” JJ agreed, handing her sign off to Garcia. Then, she hugged you. “Glad you’re back, Y/N.” 

You waved both JJ and Emily goodbye, as the two of them rode in together. 

“Come on, baby girl,” Derek said, wrapping an arm around Garcia. “Let’s get you home.” 

You took both of Garcia’s signs as well as Derek’s, hugging them both before they left. 

“Need a ride?” Rossi offered.

“Oh, my place is actually on the way to Spencer’s,” you lied. “Thank you, though. Have a good night, Rossi.” 

When the door closed behind Rossi, you pulled Spencer in for a deep kiss. You grabbed him by the tie he was wearing, practically slamming your mouth against his. The two of you made out for a few seconds, before you remembered other people were around who probably prefer not to watch. 

“What was that for?” Spencer asked breathlessly when you pulled away.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “No reason. I missed you, is all.”

He smiled giddily, wrapping an arm around you. “I missed you too.” 

You grinned, shoving a hand in your pocket. Your fingertips grazed the ring case. Your smile faded ever so slightly. 

_____________________

The training you went through may as well have been called ‘common sense’; most of it was merely a fancy way of saying ‘wait for backup, you’re underqualified.’ Whether it was a bomb threat or a terrorist attack, you and all the other rookie agents learned the bare minimum. Really, this was stuff you could only learn on the field, in the moment. Thankfully, you’ve lived through most of it already. 

“You seriously already work for the BAU?” Marcus asked, in awe.

You nodded, taking a sip of your water. 

It was another 6-hour session, and by noon, you and the rest of the class were on a lunch break.

“What the hell are you doing here, then?” Another student, Jessica, asked.

“I was hired as a paramedic,” you clarified. “The BAU is nonstop, so I haven’t really had the chance to get properly trained.”

“If you aren’t trained, how did you talk your way into working on the field?” Marcus asked.

“The Unit Chief offered me a job,” you said nonchalantly. “I served in the military before becoming a paramedic, so he knew I was capable.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Jessica pointed out.

“It’s so the Bureau can cover all their bases,” you replied. 

“You mean so they know you can’t sue them?”

You smirked. “I didn’t say that — you did.” 

Jessica shared the expression. “Understood.” Suddenly, her demeanor changed; her expression went flat and she shrunk in her chair.

“Hello, Jessica,” A familiar voice greeted from behind you.

“Hello, Chief Strauss,” she returned. 

You turned around, greeting her.  “Ma’am.”

“May I speak to you a moment?” She asked.

Nodding, you stood up. “Be right back,” you said to your table with a wink.

Strauss led you down a hallway, away from the commons and inhabited offices. It was just the two of you and a flickering lightbulb. 

“Do you know why I was offered this job, Y/N?” She asked.

You shook your head. “No, ma’am.” 

“Because I was just like you — I was just as stubborn as I was ambitious. I was passionate, and quick on my feet, but I could be hard-headed, especially when it came to my superiors. I felt trapped, like I was being forced into a role that didn’t quite fit.”

“How does this apply to me, ma’am?” 

She sighed. “I want to apologize for the way I treated you in the past.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Seriously?” 

“Rather than viewing you as an asset to the BAU, I saw you as a liability. I got caught up in the technical side of things; I cared more about how it would look on paper than what good it could do for the department. I did the very thing that pissed me off as a young agent. And for that, I’m sorry.” 

You smiled softly, outstretching your hand. She shook it briefly. 

“I heard you’re pursuing a degree in Psychology,” Strauss continued.

“I am,” you confirmed.

“Well, when you graduate, the BAU would be lucky to hire you as a profiler,” she said. “Agent Hotchner already speaks highly of you.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She made it halfway down the hallway before turning back to look at you.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, Chief?” You asked.

“If you ever speak to me like you did in that meeting again, you can kiss this and any future job goodbye.”

You chuckled. “Understood.” 

_____________________

“Is this really everything?” 

“For the last time, Spencer: yes, this is everything I own.” 

Just as you had packed up your Jeep to move out to Virginia, you had done it once again. Only this time, your belongings were moving to the other end of town rather than halfway across the country. 

“What about photos? It’s said that photography is the simplest and most effective way to add character to a space.”

You slammed the trunk shut. “My mom has all of my pictures back in Colorado. I have a photo of her in my wallet.”

You decided to leave out the photograph of Austin you kept hidden away in a keepsake box. 

“Shoes?” He asked dumbly. “On average, American women own 19 pairs of shoes.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with 19 pairs of shoes?” you asked. “I have work shoes, dress shoes, and my boots.”

Spencer smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I just can’t believe you can pack up your entire life into a single vehicle.” 

“It’s okay,” you promised, setting your arms on his shoulders. “Most people don’t get it.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips while his hand reached up to cradle your cheek. “You don’t own any books,” he whispered after pulling away. He kept close, though, so close that neither of you opened your eyes. “I find that truly upsetting.”

You laughed, kissing him again. After managing to pull yourself away, you opened the trunk again. “Speaking of books…” you said, flipping open a box and reaching in. You came back with something wrapped in a bow. “I forgot to give this to you when I got back from Seattle.”

You handed Spencer the Edgar Allen Poe biography. He carefully removed the ribbon, running his fingers over the cover.

“You’ve probably read it already, but I thought it looked cool,” you said. “Besides, I thought once you’re done with it, you could loan it to me.” 

“If I start on the car ride, I’ll be done with it by the time we reach the apartment.” 

“Show off. You want to read my Sociology textbook while you’re at it? I have a paper due Wednesday.” 

Spencer chuckled. One hand found your waist, pulling your body against his.

“I’ll get right on it,” he promised.

“Good,” you hummed, tracing his lips with your finger. 

Who needs a ring when you have this?

_____________________

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[killadraco]

Strip for me

—in which you get paid to strip at Draco Malfoy’s birthday party.

warnings; smut, cussing, freaky content

y/l/n=your last name. y/f/n=your friends name

My hands glided down the pages of the book that i was highly not interested in, i was basically flipping through the pages without actually reading them, but i also couldn’t let Professor Snape catch me not giving two shits about his teaching. “Maybe you could help Filtch instead of pretending to read the book, y/l/n” I looked up to Snape who looked very unpleased with me, figures. I could feel myself groan silently and rolled my eyes as i actually went down to read the boring book. “How much pounds would i have to give you, for you to come to Draco’s party?”

I turned my head sharply, seeing Blaise right in my face. I furrowed my eyebrows deeply and let a chuckle out—with being a slytherin, i was Draco’s friend. We weren’t close but we occasionally talked or—quite honestly he occasionally teased me about anything wrong with my body or face that day. “Um...none?” i said with a small giggle, lifting the book up so Snape couldn’t see the conversation going on. “I saw how you could dance at the Slytherin party, how much would i need to pay you to dance at Draco’s party?” he asked again. My body stiffened, no one had ever asked me such a thing. “Dance? like slow dance?” i questioned with a turn of my entire body, now completely facing him. He was hunched over his desk and i could see crabbe and Goyle snickering from behind him. For a moment i thought that it must have been a dumb joke to make me flustered, but Blaise looked down at me seriously—never taking his eyes off mine. “slow dance...bloody hell no of course not” Blaise snapped unimpressed. “He needs a real dancer like, a strip dance”

My eyes widened at the words that came from Blaise’ lips. “Excuse me? you want me to...strip?” I asked nervously, making Blaise roll his eyes and nod annoyingly. “First of all—“ “save it. Meet us in the Slytherin common room tonight” I was absolutely in shock, not only had Blaise asked me to strip for Malfoy, he had cut me off. I swear i didn’t belong in Slytherin. “Don’t forget you’ll have a test, so don’t be dumb and do your studies”

I was pressed up against a wall, just outside of the Defense Against The Dark Arts class. I was quite utterly upset with the fact that i was being ‘forced’ into dancing for Draco. I huffed quietly as my best friend finally made her way out of the class room. “There you are! I’ve been waiting for like 20 minutes” I groaned, walking besides her. She paid no attention to me whatsoever, her eyes stayed on the students in front of her. “Helloooo?” I waved my hand in front of her too gorgeous face. “Y/f/n”

She let a huff out and turned her body towards me. She was angry, her eyes looked as if she was going to kill me with them. Her hands were locked on her books, causing her knuckles to turn white. “Whoa, what happened to yo—“ “are you bloody mad?” she practically screamed, clenching her jaw with each word. “I hope not, why would i be mad?” I joked, knowing it wasn’t the time. It was a bad habit i had, yeah yeah. “Why would you strip at Draco Malfoy’s party? you’ll literally be a play toy for each of the boys there”. When the words strip flew from her mouth, my heart started to beat faster, my lips curved into a straight line and my own knuckles were slowly turning white. “I am not! Who told you i was?” I asked angrily, making other kids looks back to us as they passed through the halls. “Oh come on! everyone knows, ‘Y/n y/l/n is stripping at Draco’s party!’”

“I’m not alright? i was asked but i’m not, if you’ll excuse me—“ I exhaled harshly, now fuming from the fact that everyone thought i was a deadbeat hooker who dances for rich-pureblood boys for money. I had angrily made my way to the Slytherin Common Room where Blaise, Goyle, Pansy and Draco sat lounging on the couch. “What the hell, blaise!?” I stomped in. “Ahh, look Draco, It’s your stripper!” He announced happily. “Really? her? i guess it’s better than nothing” Draco shrugged. I felt like everything everyone said made me fume more and more.

I coughed back to yelling and took a long deep breath. “I am not stripping at anyone’s party. Why does everyone think i am?” I asked, which Pansy was not impressed with. “Stripping? why would Draco need a stripper? i could’ve—“

“Because you are? obviously” Goyle cut in, looking at me as if i were absolutely dumb. “No i am no—!” “Oh for Merlin’s sake” Draco started, rolling his eyes and looking over to me. “Blaise will pay you and—“ he paused, which i’m not going to lie, scared me. “I’ll stop teasing you”

I quite honestly didn’t know what to say. If i danced at his party, for just one night. All the teasing and Bullying would stop, but i’d also be know as The Girl Who Stripped. It wasn’t the most comforting feeling. Draco huffed quietly and stood up, “fine. and—“ Draco took a moment to try and think of another way to pull me into the Stripping Case. “I’ll have my father help your parents—who unfortunately are struggling with... what is it?” He asked sarcastically. “Everything?”. This was teasing Draco, he constantly made fun of my life and how my parents were poor unlike his own. At this point it could have been a win win situation, My family could get help and Draco could get a hard on—pfft.

“F-Fine. I’ll do it”

My heart was racing, i felt like my boobs were pushed up to my eyelids and my hands were shaky. “Maybe you shouldn’t have said yes”. Y/F/N had been very unfriendly about all this, she constantly reminded me that i would be dancing on Draco Malfoy’s lap tonight. “So you’ve said, Mr.Malfoy has loads of money and—“ “yes i know, you’re family needs help”. I sighed lightly as i brushed down the black lingerie set i was wearing under a very long black coat. “Well, i have to go before Blaise comes and drags me there” I mumbled, looking back to Y/f/n who looked very upset. I let another small sigh out and went off to the Astronomy Tower.

I could hear loud music blasting from the top of the stairs, i was almost there and my heart was racing wildly. “Draco! Draco! Draco!” other Slytherin’s chanted, along with laughing and cheering. “Just one night. You can do this”. I slowly pulled off the jacket and draped it out the stair well before continuing up the large stairs.

Draco laughed along as many boy Slytherin’s lifted him up into the air. Draco thought it was amazing how they snuck so many people up here and played such loud music without one Professor finding them. “Draco! Draco! Draco!” they chanted and cheered. All Draco could do was laugh and enjoy the party going on. The chanting slowly stopped and Draco was brought down to his feet, still laughing at the chanting and unexpected lifting-into-the-air. “Draco! you gotta see this” Blaise quickly grabbed ahold of Draco’s arm and dragged him to the stairs of the Tower. “Oh. My. God”

“Oh. My. God” I watched as Draco and many other body crowed around the stairs, all looking my body up and down. I had a few curves that lined my body perfectly, but i felt utterly insecure with more than 7 boys staring at me. “Well? Do your job, put Draco in his place” laughed Blaise, along with many other students. I had only danced once at the Welcome back party for the Slytherin’s in our 4th year, Y/F/N and i had only been joking, but apparently it caught Blaise’ eyes.

I gulped back as a hand wrapped around my waist, Draco slightly pulled me into the Tower before he backed up into a chair. “Yeah? put me in my place” he said, inches away from my face. He pulled himself into the chair behind him and sat very chilled, his legs were spread apart and far out , he was slouched down, and his arms were crossed over his chest. He was sneaky enough for me to catch the small button of his pants, unbuttoned. I had a jolt of confidence, my body stoped being tense and i was now pulling my hair down. I didn’t know where it came from, but i felt like i wanted to dance for him, for some odd reason.

Draco licked his lips as a few whistle’s and cheers were heard from behind me. The music became louder and was switched from party music to seducing music. I flipped my hair as i leaned down onto Draco’s knees, he was so relaxed, it gave me chills. His eyes stayed on might as i flipped my body over, my arse now close to the bulge peeking out from his suit pants. I danced along his lap, making sure to touch his body and tease him. I had expected Draco to do something like touch me or pull me into his lap, but all he did was stare. Stare straight into my eyes and feed off of the tension between the two of us. More cheers went through the air, my body uncontrollably dancing around Draco’s face and lap, occasionally rubbing myself onto his bulge—which i couldn’t tell if it was for my pleasure or him pleasure. I let my arms fly up into the air, making my boobs stretch out, every boy now intrigued by my body. I could feel Draco’s hands slither up my chest, squeezing my boobs as he got to them. For a moment i swear i could feel his lower body buck up into me, causing me to throw my head back in pleasure. I tried hard not to show that i was enjoying the feeling of Draco against me, but it wasn’t easy with him constantly trying to make me wet. “Yeah. Put my in my place. Please, a little girl like you doesn’t get to put me in my place” He whispered into my ear, sending chills through my whole body.

“Leave, would y’all?” I could hear many boys ‘oouuu’ and ‘ahhh’ as they left the tower. “Have fun” Blaise coughed out as he left down the stairs. It was just Draco and i, our bodies still collided together and his dick still rubbing against my now, wet, clit. “What made you think, you would come up here” As he talked he moved, standing up from the chair with a large piece of my hair wrapped in his hand. He slowly moved me to the outside of the tower, leaning over the rail and looking down to the extremely large drop down. “And put me in my place, rub your pretty little pussy all over me” he continued to move as he talked, now moving his pants down, and with that i could see his utterly large cock in place. “And me not make you cum? now why would that be?”

I could feel his hands move down to my ass, pulling my pants down in a rush. “See, bad girls like you don’t deserve to dominate. They only need to be punished, hurt...” He paused and pulled yet another chunk of hair back, making my whole back lean up against his stomach. “Touched, teased and fucked” he spat. He didn’t waste another second before he jammed into me, making my knees fall weakly. “Bad little girl” he groaned as his body started to thrust into me, making the wetness of my pussy spread around his dick. He had just started and i felt as if it was already too much for me. His groans went into my ears and my moans went into the air. “D-Draco” i moaned out, reaching my hand back for some sort of support. He was pounding me hard now and i could feel my body shake with pleasure and pain. “Didn’t mommy ever tell you it’s rude to tease?” He moaned, pushing my body back down against the rails. He still had my hair wrapped into his beautiful hand as he thrusted into my pussy, which went getting more and more wet by the second. I let more moans go into the air, my body shaking and my pussy dripping. “Now, what do you say?” he slowed down, making me whine lightly. I wanted more, i wanted to feel his cum spread throughout my body. “P-Please” i whined. “And?”

“T-Thank you—“

He immediately continued at his fast pace, groaning with every thrust. His large hand wrapped around my throat and squeezed hard. “Do a little something for me” he groaned, and i knew he was close to cumming. I wanted it. Badly. “Now” he spat into my ear. I forced myself to cum, letting it move to the bottom of his dick as his thrusts slowed down. His groan was so loud, i could have sworn everyone in Hogwarts heard. His thrust finally came to a stop and both of our breaths were harsh. He spun me around to face him, out faces inches apart and his hand still cupped at my throat. “Tease me again. And you’ll be begging me to stop, are we clear?” he asked, clutching my throat harder. “Yes. Y-Yes” i stuttered.

“Now be a good little girl and clean up your mess”

Hehe okay hi af. This took longer than intended but, it’s okay. It isn’t as good as i hoped seeing as i was very tired when i wrote it but! it’s not edited yet so! if there are any spelling errors please let me know!

[bangchanshehe]

Handsome Disaster pt. 15

When the school bad boy and womanizer Hoseok turns his attention on you it’s hard to ignore. Especially with your best friends being in a relationship and living five doors down from each other.

word count: 3.5k

It had been a solid week of hell since you had broken up with Hoseok and life felt like it couldn’t get much worse. The school had granted you medical absences since the incident to stay at home and rest and you were thankful for their understanding and help, but only for all of the wrong reasons. This whole week you managed to dodge Hosoek at every opportunity that he tried to make his presence known. And god damn it, it was fucking hard.

He tried beating down your door, calling you and texting you all the time and even harassing SeRa to get into contact with you on his behalf. You knew that it was hurting him to separate from you and it was killing him inside, but it was even harder for you. Serval times you wanted to knock on his door or even open up the windows to see him outside but the constant news coverage of the innocent murdered family kept you at home. Trapped inside with your shame, guilt and pain.

Life couldn’t just go back to normal after such a huge change and emotionally draining trauma. Hell, just wiping your ass was hard enough with healing ribs. you couldn’t even imagine actually living life the same anymore. And although you were a little sickened by the thought of it but the who incident taught you to be thankful for what you had and you learned that you couldn’t trust anyone.

At the end of the day it was only you who suffered in your pain. So it was justified that you were alone to deal with it.

The knocking at the door pulled you out of your trance and you looked to see SeRa standing in your door frame with the door just cracked open enough for her to see you. she smiled sympathetically to you when she realized the she had gotten your attention

“hey” she whispered “what are you doing?”

You cracked a small smile at her and shook your head

She pushed her way into your room from the small crack and made her way next to your bed and sat down next to you so she could talk with you. “Are you nervous about going back tomorrow?” she asked gauging your reaction.

You sighed and closed your eyes for a moment. Shit. You thought to yourself. You had almost completely forgotten that you had to go back to school. You didn’t know how to answer her question because you didn’t know how you felt about it.  Were you ready? Could you handle the stares? Or possibly running into someone that you didn’t want to see?

You rolled your head to the side and looked at her with pursed lips. “I guess so. I just know that things are going to be awkward and weird for a while” you answered softly.

She just hummed in agreement ad dropped her gaze apologetically. She knew more than anyone else In this world that you would take the next few days in stride but knew that they would deeply terrify and hurt you.

“and what about Hoseok?” she asked softly still refusing to see you eye to eye.

You sighed again and she raised her head to gauge your reaction. You shook your head softly and remained silent. You hadn’t told her yet that you had dropped the class that you had with him, because she was too soft hearted and would tell Hosoek. And you loved her for her honesty but right now honesty wasn’t what was for the best.

“look… I know that you don’t really want to entice Hoseok right now or get his hopes up for anything.” She started and when you met her gaze her confidence fell a little. You could see it in her eyes “and I know that you probably don’t want to hear this right now, but he’s been acting really out of character and rough ever since he last saw you at the hospital.” She let her gaze wonder over to your phone “maybe you should consider talking to him just for a little to calm him down some.” She offered

You took a moment to let her words sink in and your heart fell a little hearing that Hoseok was going through a rough time, but it wasn’t a good time for you to contact him.

“maybe later” you said quietly, and politely turning down her offer

She nodded her head In understanding “im gonna go take a shower and go to bed, goodnight.” She said slowly getting up and walking away

You didn’t say anything back to her and instead let your minds wonder over Hoseok. What did she mean by he was acting out of character or rough? Hoseok was already pretty rough in other people’s eyes. So what constituted as rough?

You laid down on your bed as you were fully clothed and shut your eyes willing for your thoughts to silence and melt away, hoping that sleep would make things a little more bearable for the time being.

  The next morning you rolled out of bed at the sound of your alarm going off and slowly sauntered to your bathroom. You washed your face and brushed your teeth but did nothing else. You didn’t care how you looked or how other people saw you. they were already going to be talking about what happened and staring at you so why give a single damn about how they saw you? you made a cup of coffee and slid on flip flops before making your way across campus to your first class.

It was distracting seeing how many people were looking at you. Or were they? You couldn’t really tell and that’s what drove you even more insane. You didn’t know if people’s stares were genuine or if you saw them looking by chance. But the small voice in the back of your head was sure that they were all judging you. so you quickly walked with your head hung low from class to class hoping that the fascination and paranoia would die down.

But sadly all you could do was scan the crowds for Shownu and Hoseok hoping that you wouldn’t by chance see or run into either of them. It was stupid to have the paranoia that you would run into Shownu but you still had the creeping feeling that he was somewhere watching you as you moved around.  

Should you try to transfer schools? Or maybe move to another apartment once the lease is up?

You were happy and enjoyed going to school and being where you were, but with the overwhelming anxiety that someone was constantly looking at you over your shoulder you couldn’t get comfortable like you were once before. And things could never go back to how they once were.

You got to your final class and you picked a desk in the back of the lecture hall. Half of the year was already over and being a transfer student into a new lecture made seating slim pickings. You unpacked your spiral and made yourself comfortable in your desk and tried to keep yourself from making too much noise or sticking out.  The professor entered with a steaming cup of tea and a content look on his face while he mindlessly greeted the class and began to start the lecture.  

You took notes and tried your hardest to focus on what was being said but even as you wrote down note for note on the board and stared at the pictures in the text book your mind was still wondering to everything but the lecture. You let out a soft sigh and put your head down over your arms at your desk. There was no use of trying to learn anything right now. You were about to doze off into sleep when the sounds of the lecture doors being loudly pulled on made you peek up from your arms in shock and anxiety. Whoever was pulling on the doors continued to pull as hard as they could as if they were trying to get in to save their life.

The professor paused the lecture, looked at the students in shock and worry and then slowly walked to the doors to open one for the person standing outside. The door flew open and Hoseok pushed his way inside past the professor making everyone gasp in surprise. You were angry and startled to see him there in front of you so livid and anxious that he would push the professor out of his way like that.

How did he even find you? You didn’t tell sera which class you had transferred to so she couldn’t tell him, which means he had to have followed you here.

Your face hardened as you looked at him as he scanned the crowed to find you. As soon as he did find you his face softened a little but his eyes seemed sadder than they were before. He ran up the stairs taking two at a time so he could get to you quicker, and you began to pack your bag in a hurry so you could take the back exit and avoid Hoseok. But he was quicker.

He slammed his hand down on top of your back pack as you were about to rise out of your chair and you yelped in surprise. You turned your head to see him and slowly sat back down keeping your eyes on him the whole time.

“Excuse me sir! This a lecture hall and most certainly not the place for you to be doing this! Get out of my class room!” the professor yelled through clenched teeth

But Hoseok paid him no mind and stood over you while his eyes scanned your body. You felt exhausted and tore your eyes away from him and looked away trying not to make a scene in front of everyone who you just met today.

“Hoseok…. Can you please not do this?”  You begged him with a tiny whisper hoping that only he heard it

“All you had to do was send one message, make one call, or step outside to tell me to fuck off so I could know that you were okay and you were alive.” Hoseok’s voice began to quiver and he squatted down in front of you. “Are you okay?” he asked trying to reach out to cup your face in his palm.

You avoided his palm by swatting it away and let out a sigh “that’s none of your business Hoseok”

Hoseok swallowed and looked away at your response “I know that, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t still care about you. “

Your head raised to look him in the eyes and your heart broke when you witnessed a tear roll down the side of his face. Your heart was yelling at you to reach out and run your hand through his hair or for you wipe his tear away, but you knew it wouldn’t be right.

Hoseok looked up and saw how soft your eyes had become and saw the hope in them. He moved a little closer to you and rose up to your desk “Please! Why are we still doing this? I love you so much and would do everything for you. I know you still love me too so why are you separating us?” he asked with a broken voice

You huffed out air as your heart strings were being tugged on. The answer that he wanted wasn’t going to come out of your mouth. And certainly not in the middle of your lecture hall. If you and Hoseok were going to ever have this conversation it would be somewhere were the two of you could actually talk.

You raised your head to see your professor impatiently waiting with his hands on his hips and a foot out forward and you bowed your head to him as you said “I’m sorry, but I have to leave”

You avoided Hoseok as he climbed up beside you and followed you out the doors like a puppy. He held onto you and paid no mind as to what direction you were walking in. He wrapped his arm around you and tried to kiss you and you quickly wrenched away from him

“What the fuck are you doing?” you yelled at him.

Hoseok stood with him mouth open like a fish as he tried to search for any answer that seemed to fit “I thought that we….”

“No Hoseok, no! I’m alive okay! I want to be left alone and certainly don’t want you disturbing my life as I try to move on from what happened.” You yelled back

Hoseok’s face scrunched up and he quietly whispered “I didn’t mean to disturb you”

“Well you have! It was my first fucking day back and all I wanted was to be treated like normal and be able to pick up where things left off. But you had to barge into my lecture and embarrass me in front of the whole god damn class.”

“I didn’t mean to im so-“ Hoseok apologized

“Just fuck off Hoseok!” you yelled over him and walked away.

  When you finally got home you crashed in bed and allowed for your tears to fall. Why had you been so mean to Hoseok and why did it bother you so much that he cared for you? it was childish for you to yell at him the way that you did, but you knew that if you allowed for him to touch you that you would give into him and things would be exactly the way that they once were. And right now you still weren’t mentally ready to be in a relationship with anyone.

You allowed yourself to cry over it any lots of other things. And you just cried and cried until you had nothing else left to cry about. You needed to have a moment to allow yourself to let everything off of your chest. It wasn’t until SeRa got home that you had realized what time it was and how long you had actually been crying. Like clockwork she came home at 5 pm and made the two of you dinner and as soon as she was done she came quietly knocking on your door.

“Are you hungry?” she asked from the other side.

You didn’t answer her but instead got out of bed and walked to open up the door. You nodded your head to her and she smiled and turned around to go back to the kitchen to make a plate for you.

You took a seat on the couch and the two of you ate there like you always did, watching some cheesy or horrible reality show as you ate your dinner together.

“So how was school?” she asked you

“Do you really not know anything?” you asked her

She sighed “I do, but I want for you to be the one to tell me about what happened”

You took another bite of your food before you put your fork down and told her about everything that had happened. How you felt embarrassed, but it broke your heart to see him and you wanted to hold him but had the voice in your head telling you it was wrong. Everything.

“It seems like despite everything you still really love him.” she pointed out

You nodded your head but didn’t actually look her in the eyes. For some reason it felt so secretive to actually admit out loud and you had no idea why. “But I was such a bitch to him today there’s no way he would actually forgive me for what I did”

“If I know anything about Hoseok it’s that he’s completely in love with you.” SeRa said making sure that you heard her every word loud and clear. “I think ruling out that he doesn’t have the same feelings after today would be a mistake.” She let you think on it for a moment before she continued “Look if you really feel bad about it then why don’t you come out tonight? Hoseok has a match and I’m sure he would love to see you there cheering him on”

“I’m not ready yet to go back there” you confessed “maybe next time I’ll be a little bit better”

Sera nodded her head and patted you on the leg, “okay, then do you want me to tell Hoseok that you want to talk to him?” she asked with raised brows and a smile, hoping that you would say yes.

“no, no ill tell him myself” you said, your heart pounding in your chest just thinking about what you would say to him once you actually got face to face with him again. At the most you did need to apologize to him

“okay well then I’m gonna go get dressed and head out so that way I can see Minhyukie before I go.” Sera said hopping off of the couch and skipping off to her room.

You focused back on your half eaten food and the tv playing some cheesy drama Sera loves to watch. You picked at your plate as you mindlessly thought through what sera had told you. You did still love him very much and it hurt you to see him so put down by what you said to him. But a large part of you  did still really feel like going back to your relationship was not a good idea. It was just too soon and so much chaos made little things even more complicated and you didn’t want to deal with it. You had already received so much attention for being in a relationship with Hoseok and having to fight off all of the girls who had slept with him or either wanted to. And with the negative attention from shownu and then eventually the chaos that came with him, attention was the last thing that you wanted.

“Ill see you later! Don’t forget to lock up tonight!” Sera said almost running out of the door to see Minhyuk

You half laughed at her and watched as she crossed the street and got up to close the door. You had an itch to follow her just down the small path that led to the boys’ house but you talked yourself down from doing it. So you turned around, locked the door and sighed when you finally addressed the new silence in the apartment.

You cleaned the kitchen, did a load of laundry, caught up on late homework and did your best to distract yourself from thoughts that would get you down. There was a small voice in your head that worried if Hoseok was okay after his match. Surely he hadn’t been hit or hurt, but you still wanted the peace of mind of knowing that everything was okay.

You were about to turn off the lights when you heard a knock at the front door. Your heart skipped a beat and you immediately ran to check the peep hole. You saw sera and Minhyuk on the other side and stepped back from the door confused as to why they were back here. You slowly opened the door and stepped out of the way to let them in.

“hey y/n” Minhyuk said with a small smile and waving his hand “I’m gonna go” he said pointing towards Sera’s room, facing her as if he was trying to escape the room.

You turned to face her and you raised an eyebrow “why are you guys here?” you asked her

She dropped her head and bit her lip as if she was trying to find the right words to say. “I don’t think that you should rush into things right now with Hoseok. Give yourself some time to really think about how you feel and then maybe try again with him” she suggested but it didn’t sound quite right

“why? What? What do you mean? You just told me to go to the fight and now you think I should wait?” you asked her searching for her eyes, but she dodged your gaze every chance she got. It took you a moment to digest that something might have actually happened and then you finally asked her “did something happen?”

Sera looked up for a split second before she lowered her gaze again. “Hoseok….” She paused and shut her eyes “He went home with someone tonight”

It took you a split second for you to mentally register what she had said and then your jaw dropped. A tear rushed to your eyes and you turned your head to hide them. “he took someone home?” you asked wanting an answer that you knew wasn’t the truth

“im sorry” sera said as she reached for you to comfort you “but I think Hoseok might be back to his old ways”

NEXT PART

[oscopelabs]

Evil in the Mirror: John Carpenter’s Revealing ‘Prince of Darkness’ by Joshua Rothkopf

[Last year, Musings paid homage to Produced and Abandoned: The Best Films You’ve Never Seen, a review anthology from the National Society of Film Critics that championed studio orphans from the ‘70s and ‘80s. In the days before the Internet, young cinephiles like myself relied on reference books and anthologies to lead us to films we might not have discovered otherwise. Released in 1990, Produced and Abandoned was a foundational piece of work, introducing me to such wonders as Cutter’s Way, Lost in America, High Tide, Choose Me, Housekeeping, and Fat City. (You can find the full list of entries here.) Our first round of Produced and Abandoned essays included Angelica Jade Bastién on By the Sea, Mike D’Angelo on The Counselor, Judy Berman on Velvet Goldmine, and Keith Phipps on O.C. and Stiggs. Over the next four weeks, Musings will continue with another round of essays about tarnished gems, in the hope they’ll get a second look. Or, more likely, a first. —Scott Tobias, editor.]

It’s generally accepted that John Carpenter wasn’t a personal filmmaker—not personal in the way that Martin Scorsese, only five years his senior and Italianamerican from the start, was. Carpenter grew up movie-crazy in the ’50s and ’60s. He wanted to make Westerns exactly at the moment when that became an unrealistic career goal. His heroes were Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Welles and, above all, Howard Hawks. It’s been nourishing to listen to Amy Nicholson’s wonderful eight-part podcast Halloween Unmasked, still in progress, and to hear Carpenter—usually oblique in interviews—open up about his boyhood in the Jim Crow–era South. He mentions visiting an insane asylum during a college psych trip and locking eyes with a prisoner who spooked him. That may be the basis for killer Michael Myers but, by and large, this was a guy who wrote what he dreamed up, not what he knew.

That’s not to suggest Carpenter didn’t develop his own signature style. When he arrived in Los Angeles in 1968 to attend film school at USC, he reinvented himself, transforming from a Max Fischer–like creative wunderkind (he was a rock guitarist and high-school class president) into a laconic, bell-bottomed cowboy who listened more than he spoke. He was too cool for nerdy Dan O’Bannon, who worked with him on Dark Star. He was too cool for Hollywood itself, even after he’d succeeded there, rarely mingling socially and turning down projects like Top Gun and Fatal Attraction.

But the cool act was a bit of smokescreen. I once asked Carpenter about it, and he owned up to a private sense of pain in regard to his work. “I take every failure hard,” he told me in 2008, singling out the audience’s abandonment of The Thing, a remake of his favorite film (one that actually improves on its source). “The movie was hated. Even by science-fiction fans. They thought that I had betrayed some kind of trust, and the piling on was insane. Even the original movie's director, Christian Nyby, was dissing me.”

Carpenter would rebound from that 1982 commercial disaster—as well the indignity of getting sacked from Firestarter—by playing the game even better. He directed Jeff Bridges to a Best Actor nomination on Starman (that’s as rare as a unicorn for a sci-fi performance) and, just as things were turning golden, blew all his capital again on 1986’s Big Trouble in Little China, which was rushed and subsequently buried in the massive shadow of Aliens. “You try to make a studio picture your own, but in the end, it’s their film,” Carpenter said in our interview, the Kentucky rascal turned bitter. “And they’re going to get what they want. After that experience, I had to stop playing for the studios for a while and go independent again.”

This is the pivotal moment in Carpenter’s career, the one that fascinates me the most. It should fascinate more people, given what the filmmaker did. Divorced and with a two-year-old son, Carpenter is, at that point, 38 years old. He’s already feeling like a Hollywood burnout, with a decade of ups and downs to prove it. The solution was a pay cut, a big one: Prince of Darkness, financed through “supermensch” Shep Gordon and Alive Films and released in 1987, would be made for a grand total of $3 million, the first title in a multi-picture deal that guaranteed Carpenter complete creative control.

Scrappy but never chintzy, Prince of Darkness is the most lovable of movies. On the surface, it has all the cool minimalism a JC fan could ask for: elegant anamorphic compositions (Gary Kibbe’s muscular cinematography adds millions more in production value), a seesawing synth score, a one-location “siege” structure akin to the director’s Assault on Precinct 13 and The Thing. The movie also has Alice Cooper killing a grad student with a bicycle. It has a swirling canister of green Satanic goo in a church basement.

Critics, by and large, were unkind. In a representative review from the New York Times, Vincent Canby called it “surprisingly cheesy,” singling out first-time screenwriter Martin Quatermass for particular scorn (he “overloads the dialogue with scientific references and is stingy with the surprises”), not realizing that this was a pseudonym for Carpenter himself. Would it have mattered? Released days before Halloween, Prince got clobbered by the gig Carpenter turned down, Fatal Attraction, still surging in its sixth weekend.

But below the surface—and still a matter for wider appreciation—is the film that Carpenter dug himself out of his psychic hellhole to make: his most personal horror movie, starring a version of himself. Prince of Darkness is about watching and waiting. In a way, it’s a romantic view of the auteur’s own time at school. It’s a movie about the evil that stares out of the mirror (i.e., yourself). Like all of his films, it arrived under the possessive title John Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness. In my mind, that apostrophe is actually a contraction: John Carpenter Is Prince of Darkness. And Prince of Darkness is him.

First, let’s understand what $3 million means in 1987. To compare it to some other movies of the same period, Blue Velvet’s budget is twice as large. Hannah and Her Sisters, largely shot in Mia Farrow’s apartment, was funded at $6.4 million. When Scorsese decided to go indie and make his audacious The Last Temptation of Christ, he had a $7 million allowance—and that’s for robes and sandals. Carpenter, on the other hand, would be doing practical special effects in camera. He’d be doing a movie with gore and supernatural nuttiness. In a now-quaint New York Times article from April 1987 titled “Independents Making It Big” (“The major studios have abandoned small, serious, risky films, the kind that often win prizes”), Merchant Ivory’s Oscar-winning A Room With A View gets prime positioning with a big photograph; that one has a $3 million budget, roughly. (Not coincidentally, Carpenter’s financiers, Alive Films, are name-checked in the piece as the producers of Alan Rudolph’s Trouble in Mind.)

Coming off Big Trouble in Little China’s estimated $20 million budget (it was probably more), Carpenter would be making a radical shift. But he agreed to Alive’s terms. He’d return to doing things fast and smart, to distilling his vision down to its cleanest, clearest grammar, to getting it done in 30 days (Halloween was shot in 20, over four weeks in May 1978). Even if you disregard the whole of Prince of Darkness’s content—and we won’t be doing that—Carpenter’s desire to work in total artistic freedom is breathtaking. He will do what it takes to move forward.

A little plot: In Prince of Darkness, scientists, theologians and academics plunge into a dilapidated church where they power up their equipment and study a mysterious genie in a bottle: an “anti-god.” The scenario has some of the pseudo-tech fizz of Poltergeist or, in a lighter vein, the Harold Ramis scenes in Ghostbusters. It’s not meant to hold up under scrutiny. Carpenter, who says he was reading books about quantum uncertainty at the time (maybe not the most comforting bedside material given his professional predicament), gives pages of chewy dialogue to the twin father figures of his oeuvre: Donald Pleasence, returning from Halloween and Escape from New York, plays an unnamed, worried priest; and Big Trouble’s wizened Victor Wong appears as an esteemed professor of metaphysical causality.

If the movie has a conventional hero (it doesn’t), it’s Brian, a student who splits the difference between creepy and generically handsome. He’s played by Jameson Parker, then a TV star on Simon & Simon. Or at least I think it’s Jameson Parker. Unlike his more famous San Diego private detective, Brian sports a robust, porn-star-worthy moustache. It makes him look swarthy, mysterious—a little like the lanky John Carpenter himself, who shoots these early scenes in classrooms and hallways at his alma mater, USC. “I spent many happy years at SC as a film student,” Carpenter says on Shout! Factory’s collector’s Blu-ray. “I really enjoyed myself. I learned everything about how to make movies there.”

Watching Prince of Darkness is as close as we’ll come to seeing the director’s formative years re-enacted, memoir-style. In getting back to basics, Carpenter decided to do it literally. Brian sits in class listening; he has a bit of a Laurie Strode moment looking out the window, distracted. Who is he? He’s a young scientist observing evil, almost flirting with it. He spies on a pretty girl in the courtyard (Lisa Blount). She’s got a boyfriend and it irks him, wordlessly. Later, Brian will woo her to bed and use some hard-core Howard Hawks dialogue on her: “Who was he? The one that gave you such a high opinion of men?” he says, straight out of Lauren Bacall’s playbook in To Have and Have Not. It works. She kisses him.

The movie isn’t all wish-fulfillment. In fact, it’s charming how fully the Carpenter surrogate recedes into the team; Brian isn’t even a factor in the final showdown. Maybe his job is to watch other people vanquish evil. That would make sense, since it’s his creator’s comfort zone. In the meantime, the offscreen Carpenter is building some of his grossest sequences, spraying unsuspecting people in the mouth with streams of ectoplasm (à la Rob Bottin’s landmark FX in The Thing), mounting parallel action and deploying beetles, maggots and ants where necessary.

Prince of Darkness has one moment that’s proven unforgettable, transcending even the horror genre. It’s an eerie transmission, the voice slowed down and distorted: “This is not a dream…not a dream…” DJ Shadow samples it a few times on his groundbreaking debut, 1996’s Endtroducing. (The voice is actually Carpenter’s, impossible not to notice once you’ve been made aware of it.) He’s supposed to be a future dude reaching backward in time—“from the year one, nine, nine, nine”—maybe to prevent a biblical apocalypse. All we see is a jittery handheld shot of a silhouetted robed figure slowly emerging from the church, the ominous end-of-the-world smoke gathering.

The economy of the shot is beautiful, Carpenter achieving the texture of a half-remembered nightmare using only a capture-video-off-a-TV-screen trick. (It’s very Inland Empire—and come to think of it, that basement cylinder of swirling green evil is a lot like the glass box from the first episode of the rebooted Twin Peaks: The Return.) So in a situation where Carpenter is facing his most prohibitive spending limits, he’s actually expanding his craft. Prince of Darkness signals his own creative rehabilitation after turning his heel on the studios. Or, to quote the film’s poster: “It is evil. It is real. It is awakening.”

What does it mean that Carpenter’s big payoff involves a mirror? These Cocteau-like shots were some of the most dangerous to pull off. One of them involved plunging a prosthetic hand into highly toxic liquid mercury (a substance the crew had to drain from their hydraulic cranes just to make the gag work). Then, to capture the action on the “other side” of the mirror, poor Lisa Blount had to swim submerged in a darkened swimming pool while an underwater camera shot upward at the glimmering surface. I include these technical details not only to express awe at Carpenter’s commitment (along with that of his collaborators), but also to stress the obvious: The mirror climax was really important to him. The movie’s final seconds are the whole of Prince of Darkness’s reflexivity in a single cut: Brian, woken from a double dream, approaches his bedroom mirror. We see from the perspective of the glass. He touches that porn ’stache tentatively, then reaches out. Cut to black.

It’s not easy to touch that mirror—to walk away from everything you’ve labored to achieve over years, to a place where it’s just you and your talent and what you can do. To me, that’s what Prince of Darkness expresses, subtly. Creatively, the experiment worked: It led directly to Carpenter’s 1988 stealth masterpiece They Live, his most confident political statement and a kindred project in its use of real L.A. locations. That film’s critical reputation has already been defended at large. But maybe it’s time to rally behind the moment slightly earlier, when the director had to rediscover who he was, and what he wanted—and when he found a way to turn everything around.

[demantfreedman17-blog]

Economic Rewards For Weight reduction.

The most ideal diets are actually quick and easy to adhere to, nourishing, reliable as well as safe for weight management as well as protecting against diabetes and heart disease. Therefore when I stumbled across a 'lifestyle hack' on a Quora string, which recommended that consuming meals with your non-dominant palm could possibly help you stop eating a lot, I believed I would certainly consider it. I have actually incorporated an intermittent starting a fast strategy with one guideline: If your body weight prior to dinner is actually above every one of the day-to-day weights (before supper) that you have actually captured (make use of a spread sheet) after that you need to miss supper as well as fast up until tomorrow (which indicates lunch for me). Just before weight management, instantly after the weight-loss and again a year later on our team performed a morning meal research study where our experts took blood to determine many of these bodily hormones prior to breakfast and after that every half hour for the upcoming 4 hrs after morning meal. No. That choice will be conserved for that particular food turning if you create an alternative for a particular meal. The people that managed to sustain weight mored than happy with shedding a medium amount from weight.

Just what we understand so far regarding rate of metabolism as well as inner weight regulation is actually that the body appears to recognize exactly what weight this wishes to be actually within a specific variety (collection aspect concept), as well as in spite of our ideal diet programs efforts, does not desire to be actually also far away coming from that variation for long (hence the quite predictable end results of the latest investigation on The Largest Loser candidates).

While this can be good incentive for creating more initiative, lots of people on quick effective weight loss diets acquire disheartened when that fad doesn't carry on. They found significant weight-loss, as well as perhaps extra notably, no reclaim of slimmed down over time, on average. Anne Collins' fat burning system could be bought internet for the reasonable expense from $19.97. The moment paid you develop your customer i.d., and are admitted to the members-only webpage.

The analysts additionally did certainly not control for fats, so maybe that those with a higher genetic risk credit rating were eating even more food - yet that is actually a begin in the direction of obtaining some responses. Bottom line: Possessing support during a weight management regimen raises your opportunity of excellence. Yet even when our experts established S.M.A.R.T goals, that may still be actually an obstacle to drive with to achieve all of them. Healthy trip food items: When our company are actually journeying, that's certainly not constantly effortless to locate clean food items. Whether the Ketogenic Mediterranean Diet is actually anti-inflammatory continues to be to be observed. Meals is just what we humans began along with and also our team were given every little thing our experts have to survive (nutrient smart). Pick any type of acceptable diet regimen and also modify this to feature a minimum of one favored food items (also a processed food) once a day. Reduce weight if you must, or even very most importantly, if you desire to. Gain weight if you desire to. Perform this given that you wish to, certainly not since you feel pushed to by others or by an ideal picture of physical fitness or even charm. egeszsegeseletmod-blog carries out possess all-natural elements, however a lot of these ingredients have cannot reveal any sort of significant weight management effects. Colleague Professor Tim Crowe, a certified practising dietician and health and nutrition scientist at Deakin College, claimed the paleo principle-- known in previous versions as the neanderthal diet regimen-- to begin with came to prominence numerous decades earlier. Stage Four: This is the minimum selective period of Dukan where dieters can easily consume whatever they just like in moderation, yet should follow phase face to face day every week to aid preserve target body weight. Yet, sort of like that setting in The Social media network where Jessie Eisenberg as Smudge Zuckerberg says to the Winklevii, If you fellas were the innovators of Facebook, you would certainly possess thought up Facebook," if diet plans definitely worked, they would certainly possess operated. This might hold true, however most of the body weight lost will certainly often be actually water - as well as are going to be obtained straight back soon after the diet. A significant assessment of your child's elevation as well as weight along with their physician is vital. So people which are taking this saying ohh u just return to aged consuming behaviors. BECAUSE FROM A HEALTH CARE HEALTH CONDITION, there R PPL IN THIS WORLD WHO ARE HEALTHY AND HAVE WONDERFUL CONSUMING ROUTINES BUT GAIN BODY WEIGHT U KNOW LIKE ME. It's thus depressing to think about these perhaps typically healthy and balanced individuals ruining their psychological and also mental health and wellness through approving this food items dependence version. I've discovered that having such a program aids me in order to get a take care of on part measurements without having to obsessively record each and every single item from meals I eat, smell, or even think of. Productive losers" use self-restraint on an almost everyday basis, staying away from food items they recognize will certainly cause body weight regain. You might wish to drop fat deposits - yet the range measures muscles, bone tissue as well as internal body organs too. Anyways ... that night for dinner I found yourself having actually greased (not SF) tribute with a can of soup. That outscored a lot of competitions on fat burning and as a diabetes diet regimen, and being strongly structured, it is actually reasonably easy to comply with. Regularly consult your medical care supplier concerning beginning any sort of brand-new diet plan or physical exercise system. Along with its own importance on veggies as well as fruits, olive oil, fish, and also other well-balanced fare, the Mediterranean diet plan is eminently practical.

[creative-type]

The Murder of Arthur Wright V

First Last AO3 AN: Sorry for the delay. Writers block and lots of overtime at work meant little productivity. For those who care for such things, Anansi is named after the mythological trickster character popular in West African folklore.

Chapter Five: Anansi of a Thousand Faces

The sun was beginning to set as Margot set a brisk pace for the waterfront. Two days had passed since she had last met with Cain, and she was starting to get antsy. It turned out finding someone who could change their appearance at will was more difficult than it sounded. It was unfortunate that in the wake of Master Wright’s death that the mage’s conference had been cancelled—at least then Margot would have some idea of where to start looking. As it was she wasn’t sure Anansi was still in the city.

She stopped in front a small playhouse at the edge of the entertainment district. As far as leads went it wasn’t much, yet it was the best she had. None of her contacts at the Academy knew where Anansi was or where they would be traveling next. There had been no ads of upcoming plays in the paper. The rumor mill surrounding the mysterious actor had gone strangely silent.

Margot had almost given up hope when the professor of illusion made mention of a colleague who knew of a man who had seen a superlative performance given by an unknown actor working out of a little hole in the wall. Supposedly magic had been involved.

It seemed like an absurd story, but Margot was loath to go back to Cain emptyhanded. She was acutely aware that she had wandered to the rougher side of town. The looks she got here were of an entirely different sort than she was used to. The people here could sniff out a stranger faster than a bloodhound and were naturally suspicious of people they didn’t know.

Margot was more worried about keeping a low profile than her personal safety. There was no way of knowing if Anansi was actually inside, but if they were Margot didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

The bill outside of the theater advertised a man named Yotarou. Usually shows advertised any magic that would be a part of the performance, but there was no mention of any illusions. Even so, there was a surprisingly large crowd for a weeknight show. Margot paid the fee and squeezed into the rapidly filling playhouse, which was little more than a glorified bar with a stage at the back of the room. The air was dark and smoky and buzzing with a dozen different conversations. Margot settled near the back as she waited for the show to begin, settling in an empty stool at the end of the bar.

A minute or two passed when Margot noticed a man mustering the courage to approach her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him down his drink in a single gulp, slamming the glass down as he rose to his feet. One of his friends clapped him soundly on the back and gave him a friendly push Margot’s way.

She didn’t have time for this. Margot called on her magic with a twitch of her fingers. There was plenty of water in the air this close to the river, more than enough for her to work with. Margot’s palm warmed pleasantly as coaxed the heat from the microscopic all around her into her hand, taking just enough to send a chill through the air.

At the same time Margot fixed the would-be suitor with an icy glare, making sure he got a good look at her scars. The man stopped dead in his tracks. To his credit he got the message without any further trouble, turning abruptly to walk red-faced to the direction of the restrooms.

“That was nicely done.”

Margot turned to the bartender just as Yotarou took the stage. He kneeled on a pillow at the center of the stage armed with only a paper fan and began a long-winded tale about two parents who decide to give their newborn son twelve first names after being unable to decide on just one.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Margot said.

“Not many have that much control over their magic,” the bartender murmured. “May I get you something to drink?”’

“Not tonight,” Margot said. “I’m just here for the show.”

“Ah, a fan of the fallen words?” he asked. “I don’t blame you. It’s a rare art, not often seen this far west. Do you have a favorite master?”

The question meant nothing to Margot, and she shook her head. “I’m just learning.”

“It’s a wise man who admits their ignorance,” the bartender said. “Or woman, I suppose. Now listen, the best part is coming up.”

Yotarou’s voice rose to a fever-pitch as he reached the climax of his story. The boy with the long name was knocked unconscious after getting into a fight with a friend. The friend rushed off for help, but was forced to use the boy’s full name with everyone he came across, and by the time he came back the boy had completely recovered from the injury.

The story wasn’t suited to Margot’s sense of humor, but Yotarou’s exaggerated caricature elicited a quiet chuckle as the crowd burst into applause. Yotarou bowed to his audience, paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and launched eagerly into his next tale.

“Amateur,” the bartender said, wrinkling their nose in distaste. 

“You didn’t find it funny?” Margot asked.

“Three times he botched the name, and he should have made a greater distinction between the boy and his friend. Each character should be unique.”

Margot turned to face the bartender, but the space he had been occupying was empty, with a single drink sitting on the bar the only indication he had ever been there in the first place. She tried to find where he had gone, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air.

“On the house, darling,” a voice whispered in Margot’s ear. “Enjoy the rest of the show, I’ve seen all I need.”

Magic. Margot searched for its source, but her trace was overwhelmed by the spells used to light the stage and the charms warding against fire and theft. Utterly dumbfounded Margot looked down at the drink he had left her. It was one of those elaborate mixed drinks that Lyra could down by the gallon. She hadn’t even seen him mix it.

Unless…

Once again Margot called upon her magic. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard the audience burst into laughter, but she no longer was paying any attention to Yotarou’s stories. She touched the glass with a finger that glowed with soft aquamarine light, stifling a gasp as it passed right through.

It was an illusion, one of the most sophisticated she had ever seen. Carefully she dismissed the spell and touched it again, this time her fingers feeling the contour of the glass, the liquid inside rippling with the sudden movement.

Illusionary magic was difficult because the spells either had to be meticulously planned and continuously maintained by the caster. The more senses that were engaged with by the illusion the more difficult it was to cast and the more energy it required to maintain. Margot picked up the glass and swirled the contents, noting that the drink was for all intents and purposes indistinguishable from reality.

The spell was still active, and an active spell could always be traced back to its caster. Margot murmured the words to a trace under her breath, tracing a sigil over the glass. A golden thread formed around the glass and led to the entrance of the playhouse.

Margot pushed through the crowed and followed the thread outside and down the street. It led her two blocks north, the golden light growing in intensity as she neared the source of the spell. Margot paused when she reached a small diner and scanned the crowd for the bartender. The thread pulsed gently in her hands and then, suddenly, it vanished.

“Very neatly done. I like your style.”

Margot whirled to the voice. Sitting on the patio outside the diner was…not her bartender. A figure dressed in rough-spun cotton beckoned her forward, a lazy grin on his (or was it her? Margot couldn’t tell) face. Their features were unassuming and plain.

But there was no mistaking that voice. Margot sat in the offered chair. “Unless I’m terribly mistaken, do I have the pleasure of speaking with Anansi?”

Black eyes glittered with amusement. “You do.”

“I thought you would be preforming tonight,” Margot said.

“Who says I haven’t been?” Anansi leaned on their elbows. Long, spiderlike fingers intertwined together. “When I heard whispers a professor from the Kempeston Academy wished to speak with me I had to make sure it was worth my time.” Anansi’s lips quirked in the smile of a teacher indulging a favored student. “That spell was clever. I’ve not seen it before.”

“I work at a school for magic. Knowing how to trace a spell is an unfortunate necessity,” Margot said wryly. “How did you know I’m a professor?”

“I make it my business to know who wants to find me, darling. Time is a finite resource; it has never been my habit to waste mine.” The smile transformed into a sharp, biting smirk, amusement shifting to menace. “So far you’ve been interesting enough to be worth my while. Please do not prove me wrong.”

“I had some questions about your performance before the mage’s conference,” Margot said.

“You’ll have to be more specific, darling.”

Margot hesitated a moment, before saying, “I suppose it would be more accurate to say I was wondering about what happened afterword. This might seem like a strange question, but did you speak with Master Arthur Wright?”

Anansi’s eyebrows crept up toward their hairline. “I did not. Why go through all the trouble of finding me only to ask about a man I’ve never met?”

“I’m acquainted with Master Wright’s son. He said that his father wanted to talk with you after your performance.”

“So he sent you to find out what his daddy wanted?” Anansi said disbelievingly.

“Felix Wright was nearly blinded by the explosion. It will be some time before he’s fully recovered,” Margot said, choosing her words carefully. It didn’t seem wise to let Anansi know she was investigating a possible murder. “I said I would ask as a favor to him.”

“That is strangely kind of you,” Anansi said.

“I didn’t realize you would be this difficult to find when I agreed,” Margot admitted.

Anansi laughed. “Fair enough. I’m sorry to say that Felix is wrong. I know Arthur Wright only by reputation,” Anansi consulted a battered pocket watch. “Now, I have no interest speaking about a dead man who I’ve never met, but it seems a shame to leave you with nothing to show for your efforts. I’ll answer three questions, and no more.”

Margot drummed her fingers against the table as she thought. She couldn’t tell if Anansi was lying, or if this was some sort of test. Either way she didn’t want to waste what little opportunity she had.

Her first instinct was simply to ask more about Master Wright, but Margot discarded that idea as foolishness. If Anansi was telling the truth then they likely knew nothing about the murder of Arthur Wright. If they were lying then there was no way they would answer a direct inquiry.

Finally Margot settled on a question. “Whose face did you wear when you preformed The Death of Desdemona?”

“You say it as if I’ve stolen something,” Anansi chuckled. “And the answer is no one in particular. I take inspiration from those around me, but my faces are all my own. The part called for a female, so I created one that I felt would resonate with the audience. It’s trickier than you might think—academia is disproportionately elvish, so one might think that an elf would be best suited for the role, but there are those sticks in the mud who would call it a travesty to let a young elvish lady anywhere near the stage.” Anansi grinned wolfishly. “That was what decided it, in the end. I always enjoy knocking on the door of the closeminded.”

“Really?” Margot said.

“No society is perfect, and there are times people need reminded of that fact,” Anansi said. “I’ve performed in the orcish Lowlands as a runt and the Deephome Mountains as a beardless dwarf.” Anansi shrugged, a picture of worldly wisdom. “It’s a balancing act. I can’t afford to distract too much from the performances or alienate my audience completely lest no one hire me, illusions or no. But the benefit of having a thousand faces means I always have the right mask no matter the situation.”

Margot nodded slowly in understanding. “So to be clear, your character wasn’t physically based on anyone that you know.”

“Nothing is new under the sun, darling,” Anansi said. “I’m sure there were features that resembled people I’ve seen or worked with in the past, but as a whole the character of Desdemona was my own. Next question, please, and be careful as it’s your last.”

“But I’ve only asked one,” Margot said.

“If that was your intention then you ought to be more careful with your diction,” Anansi said. “After I said I enjoy knocking on the door of the closeminded you said, ‘really?’ with the inflection of a question—a question which I answered as promised.”

A flare of anger tore through Margot at the abuse of technicality, but then Anansi rested their chin on a hand and waited patiently, a look of angelic innocence on their face. Margot swallowed her argument, and with enormous effort managed a smile of her own. It was a smile she’d perfected during her post-graduate studies, perfectly civil and with an edge that could kill a man with a single look.

“You’re right. Unfortunately not all of us are destined for the stage,” she said sweetly. “In that case, where would the best way I could get into contact with you if I needed to speak with you again?”

Anansi blinked, a startled expression flashing briefly across their face. Then they laughed, surprisingly rich and full. So full that Margot suspected it was genuine.

“Oh, I like you,” Anansi said, wiping away a tear of mirth from the corner of their eye. “Well done, darling, well done. Luckily for you I’m planning to stay in the city for another five days. Look for me at the Red Griffin Inn after the noon bell. For a half-penny I’ll tell you whatever story you want to know.”

Anansi got to their feet and shook Margot’s hand warmly. “A final piece of advice, darling, free of charge. Reputation is a man’s greatest and most fragile mask. Look behind it at your own risk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Margot asked.

“It means I would think very carefully before taking on errands for Felix Wright. You might not like what you find.”

[dianamathur-novelist]

European Project, Baltic Dream, Paths Forward Where American Dream Falters

Robert J. Shiller, Sterling Professor of Economics at Yale University, 2013 Nobel Laureate, and kin to four Lithuanian grandparents, addressed attendees at the Baltic Boston Conference on November 24, 2018, commemorating the Baltic centennials.

Professor Shiller spoke about the evolution of “The American Dream,” a notion that was coined and lauded in 1931; and compared it to the European Project and the “Baltic Dream”.

Using search tools Ngram and Proquest, Schiller traced the American Dream origins to the nation’s founding thinkers, including Thomas Paine, who challenged the logic of hereditary advantage in Common Sense (1776); and Ben Franklin, who in 1782 France published the pamphlet, Information for those Who would Remove to America.

“Don’t come to America if you think you will impress people with title and money,” Franklin wrote.  “Come if you can do something. Americans say, ‘God Almighty is a mechanic.’” Franklin claimed the humble husbandman (farmer) would be respected in America.

A sister concept to the American Dream was portrayed by Israel Zangwill in his 1908 play, “The Melting Pot,” wherein a Jewish man marries a Christian woman. President Teddy Roosevelt applauded the play, making assimilation, the coming together of different nationalities and cultures, the preferred face of the nation (rather than, for example, the Jim Crow laws of the day*).

In 1930, “The American Dream” was advertising copy for a box spring mattress. (It cost $13.50).

In 1931, “The American Dream” was coined by historian James Truslow Adams in his book, Epic of America. (So named because Adams’s publisher said a book entitled The American Dream wouldn’t sell.) With that phrase, Adams was defining a hopefulness that he admired in American culture.

"…that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone (emphasis added), with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement. … It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman  (ahead of his time, Prof. Shiller points out, Adams specified both genders) shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position."

“Ideas are contagious,” explained Shiller, “like viruses, thoughts change and mutate over time, their popularity goes in and out.” In the depths of the Great Depression, the hopeful idea of the American Dream was born, its roots already established in the nation’s consciousness, and the notion went viral.

Immigrants came to America because of the American Dream, some aspiring to own farms – one version of the Dream. America attracted hardworking people. Every young activist thought of the United States as a bastion of freedom and democracy.

Continuing the etiology, in 1931 and 1961, respectively, playwrights George O’Neill and Edward Albee* used the title with irony, dealing with the disintegration of the American Dream.

The American Dream doesn’t mean today what it meant in 1931.

1950 real estate ads painted the American Dream as home ownership: Man marries and children arrive. Man gives them a place to call their own. The ideal was a suburban home, where couples could entertain using their stylish wedding gifts. The concept had lost its idealistic and intellectual tenor since 1931, even neglecting the original idea of inclusion.

The American Dream further mutated by1980, when homes became thought of as investments. Prof. Shiller pointed to the shift in public attention from land prices to home prices, among other proofs.

Today, suburban home ownership no longer represents the American Dream. Walkable cities offering art, community space, and eateries, make life meaningful to young people.

In 2018, Frank Rich wrote in New York magazine, “That loose civic concept known as the American Dream …  has been shattered. No longer is lip service paid to the credo, however sentimental, that a vast country, for all its racial and sectarian divides, might somewhere in its DNA have a shared core of values that could pull it out of any mess.”

The American Dream is history*.

Across the Atlantic, the counterpart to the American Dream is often referred to as the European Project. In contrasting the two mindsets, Jeremy Rifkin explains:

For Americans, freedom is associated with autonomy, which requires amassing wealth. One is free by becoming self-reliant, an island unto oneself — and with exclusivity comes security.

For Europeans, freedom is not found in autonomy, but in access to a myriad of interdependent relationships with others. The more communities one has access to, the more options and choices one has for living a full and meaningful life. With relationships comes inclusivity, and with inclusivity comes security.

The American Dream puts an emphasis on economic growth, personal wealth and independence. The new European Dream focuses more on sustainable development, quality of life and interdependence.

The American Dream pays homage to the work ethic. The European Dream is more attuned to leisure and deep play.

The American Dream is wedded to love of country and patriotism. The European Dream is more cosmopolitan, less territorial, … and secular to the core.

Neither Americans nor Europeans have lived up to their respective dreams, but Europe has articulated a vision for the future that focuses on quality of life, sustainability, peace and harmony.

(Rifkin, 2004.) (Check out the highlights of a collective vision based on personal transformation rather than individual material accumulation here:

Professor Shiller shared brief references to national Canadian, Chinese, and French Dreams, elaborating on views of the Russian Dream obtained through a primary source. “They don’t talk a whole lot about it, but …we too have a national dream. Not for happiness. We dream about what the majority of Americans already have, a cottage (single family home).”

A common aspect of the American and Russian Dreams: We want to live well, and not be limited by a society that prevents us from doing what we could do.

That this is the sincere desire of a typical Russian is evidenced by the popularity of recent presidential candidate Alexei Navalny, who said, “The idea we are destined to always live in poverty is deeply engrained in people’s minds. The goal of my campaign is to conquer it.” Navalny’s run against Putin was halted by conviction of a tax irregularity.

What is the Baltic Dream? Professor Shiller picked the brains of his Yale Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian students to elucidate its themes. Recurrent were feelings of loyalty, and of love for country and culture – though not in a nationalistic way – and of wanting to go back. It’s a dream of integration into exciting things wordwide; of being part of the family of European countries, small by might, yet world citizens, technological leaders and entrepreneurs in the vein of Finland’s Nokia and Estonia’s Skype. “The Baltic Dream is to be free, independent democracies; to own our land, and speak our language.” Power in song and dance is part of the genetic code, still as relevant and victorious as the Singing Revolution.

What comes next in the evolution of national dreams?

A desperate political atmosphere has come in after the demise of the American Dream. It’s every man for himself. There is loss of commitment to policies that redistribute to the poor, and loss of entrepreneurial optimism. Political attitudes are hostile. Troubled polarization and the rise of nationalist politics beset the quest for our identity and hope for the future.

Last year 69 million people were displaced by war and discord, and are pushing at borders.

Fear of immigrants, fear of automation stealing jobs, fear of home price inflation, especially for people who haven’t yet bought homes, is rampant.

Professor Shiller’s tone was tactful in answering questions from the Baltic Boston audience, which comprised both Trump supporters and critics. He deftly replied that discussing America First as a national sentiment and public policy requires a psychologist as much as an economist.

What obligation do Baltic countries have to help Muslim refugees? Muslim refugees don’t have that much interest in going somewhere where you have to learn an exotic language. And the national identities of small countries may be threatened by the influx of different perspectives. But certainly the Baltics should take some Muslim refugees, and be nice to them.

Shiller’s documentation of the rise and fall of the American Dream ended on a note of reasonable hope when he compared President Trump to the historical figures of William Jennings Bryan, a populist of the 1890s; Father Coughlin, a fascist radio priest of the Great Depression; and Senator Joe McCarthy, Red-scare smear tactician of 1950.

“These men all were very popular at one point in time,” Shiller pointed out. “Then they went too far and that did it. McCarthy eventually became ridiculous, even accusing communists of mind control.” The citizenry eventually withdrew support for these figures. “Trump’s antics may be pushing his luck. Calling a woman ‘horse-face’ doesn’t have to do with politics. You don’t call people that, even an opponent.”

“I just hope he does the right thing in the remaining two years,” Shiller concluded.

by Diana Mathur

* the author’s observation