#and yeah this was oliver talking in an interview and should be taken with a grain of salt

[moonstonediaz]

“you don’t have to be anything for anybody.” — eddie literally saying that buck is perfect for who he is, that eddie chooses and accepts buck exactly the way he is, that eddie has always met him where he is….👀

[matan4il]

One thing I feel like never gets mentioned enough is how Oliver chooses a running style, and one day, I hope there is a tell-all book by Ryan where they explain these choices. We have three distinct runs by Buck.

The first was the most recent. Running to the clinic wad so prestine he could have been in the Olympics.

Then running to Maddie. He starts out over the bridge exactly perfect running. Then he hits the terrain and it turns a little messy because snow and slopes.

But then you have running to Eddie after the gun shot. Perfect surface, he should have just been able to sprint out as we all know he is capable of. But if you only saw him in that moment, didn't know him at all, you would have thought he was the most uncoordinated man alive!! His panic was that great!!

P.S. fun fact but have you ever read the interview where Oliver talked about the Maddie run and that no one told him till after the takes they were worried that he might step on a stick or debris. But they were like shhhh don't tell him we don't want to ruin the performance.

Hi Nonnie! Thank you for the ask.

Oooh, I love this! Yeah, I agree with you so much, when Buck runs to the clinic, he does wanna make it there in time (poor boy had some steam to let out), but it's not the same as running to a loved one whose life is in danger! And as you astutely pointed out, the surface matters (as someone who has had to run on sand, it VERY MUCH matters. Ooof), but when he's running to Eddie, the surface is just fine. The reason his running is so... let's say inelegant, is because he sprints so hard, his limbs are barely coordinated. It's a direct expression of his level of panic as well as how much he's taken aback in that moment ('coz with Maddie, he had hours to gear up to run to her the second he sees her. I think that's why he at least starts out okay, as long as the terrain is as well).

Just in case anyone thinks that running doesn't matter, and that it's just seen as universal in TV and movies, I just wanna point out that there are whole essays written on certain running scenes and what they express. Probably the most famous one being the running scene in The Graduate, when Benjamin is desperately trying to get to the church and stop Elaine's wedding. The fact that this pops up in my head in the context of Buck running to Eddie... ksjdfhsdkfjs

And nope, I didn't know that about the shooting of that scene. Thank you so much for sharing with me! Now I'm so happy he's okay and he didn't accidentally harm himself during that shoot.

Have a great day, lovely! As always, my ask tag is here. xoxo

[little-corritrice]

James ~ Insecurity

Standing in the room, I was staring at myself in the mirror. I was trying to smooth out every crease in the dress to the point my hands felt super hot. I was about to go to a premiere with James for the first time. I have never gone to any before because I was scared of what people will think. I could tell James was very sad about it as he took it in that I didn't want to be seen with him, which isn't the case at all. In fact, it's quite the opposite. I don't want him to be seen with me. I was very very insecure about myself. I was also very scared to go out to public places with him because his fans are very judgmental and can make rude comments or even just glare me down the entire time. So, to go with him to a place where a lot of cameras were, and a lot of famous people are freaked me out more.

As I was lost in trying to make me look at least decent, James voice from the door made me jump. He looked confused, but decided to just brush it off. "You look amazing, darling." He said, coming behind me. He helped me put on my necklace, and turned me around. He was going to kiss my lips, but I moved so he kissed my cheek. He looked taken aback for a second before he pulled away. "Ready?" He asked, holding his hand out. I nodded, but grabbed his arm. He gave me a confused smile and guided me down stairs. We got into the car that was sent for us, and we drove to the location. I fidgeted with my fingers as Oliver and James were both talking casually with Oliver's girlfriend and another girl who came along with us. I was sitting by myself and was over-thinking everything right now.

As we got to the premiere, I was the last to get out. I watched as the girl clung to James' arm and I walked behind them. It kind of hurt that he didn't do anything, and I was so embarrassed right now. I could already hear the articles writing. I felt a hand rest on my arm, and it was Oliver's girlfriend. She gave me a small smile and grabbed my hand as we walked. "Don't think about her." She whispered to me, and I nodded. See, Katy was the only one who knew about part of my insecurities and comforted me when I was feeling down. Oliver gave me a soft smile as well, and we walked the carpet all the way to the tables. The boys told us to wait here while they went to do some interviews. I shifted in my seat uncomfortably as the other girl stared at me, smirking like she had won something. I didn't know what to do, so I just looked down. 

After a bit, the boys came back, taking their seats. What I found ridiculous was that I was sitting across from James, while that girl sat all up and close next to him. I wasn't getting mad like I should have, but I was over-thinking, and my insecurities were beginning to show. I had my head down the whole time, not saying anything. "So, y/n. What do you do for a living? James can't be the only one paying for things." She said in the most mocking voice ever. "Oh, I...uh...am actually unemployed at the moment." I said, not daring to look up. "I figured as much." She said, looking me up and down. I held back the tears as she kept asking me questions about my life, and implying things like I'm just using James. 

Soon though, the movie was starting, and she finally stopped talking. Katy looked over at me, but I looked away. I saw her smirking at me before resting back, leaning on James' arm. I couldn't take it anymore, and quickly got up, rushing out without anyone noticing. I took a cab home, tears welling in my eyes. "Rough night?" The driver asked, and I gave a kind smile. "Yeah. Rough night." I said, and he dropped me off. He was kind enough to not charge me, and just let me go. I smiled before I shut the door, walking up to the house. I took off my shoes as they were hurting me. I unlocked the door, and placed my shoes down. I went upstairs, going to the bathroom. I stared at myself before letting my tears fall, not caring anymore. I slid down the wall, burying my face in my knees as I sobbed my heart out. 

It was probably an hour before I heard the front door open, and I looked up. I got up from the floor, looking at myself in the mirror. Mascara was running down my cheeks, and I just looked hideous. I quickly got makeup wipes and wiped it all away. My eyes were still red and puffy, and I frowned deeply. Tears came to my eyes, but James' voice made me panic. "y/n?! Are you home?!" He called, but I didn't respond. I heard his running footsteps, and turned the water on, pretending to wash my face. The door burst open, and James looked at me wildly. "y/n." He sighed out, but I just turned away from him, going to dry my face. "Baby, please let me explain." He said, and I let out a quiet sob, the emotions getting too much to handle. I stayed turned around, not daring to look at him. He sighed, coming over. 

He held my arm, but I moved from his touch, going to the bed. I sat down, facing the window. James stood behind me, looking down at me. "y/n, please. I didn't realize this-...us was hurting you." He said quietly. I let out a sob, holding my face. "It's not us, James." I said, shaking my head. "It's me." I cried, standing up and turning to him. "Why me? There are girls so much better, more wealthy, more everything than me. That girl, she's a perfect example. She's famous, wealthy, and beautiful. So, why did you choose me?!" I said, screaming at the end. He didn't say anything, just stepping forward. "Because I love you, y/n. I love everything about you. I don't want someone wealthy, or someone famous. They have nothing compared to you. That's why I chose you. Because I love you, y/n." He said, and I stayed silent, turning away from him.

I didn't know what to do, so I just sobbed into my hands, my head telling me all these different things. James wrapped his arms around me, kissing my head. "I am so sorry that I made you feel this way, y/n. I love you so much, and I don't want to lose you. You are perfect to me, and no one else can beat that, okay? I promise that I will make you see that all your insecurities are perfect to me." He said, turning me around. "Okay?" He asked softly, and I nodded. "I love you, so much more than you know y/n." He said, resting his forehead on mine. "I love you too." I whispered, and he gave me a soft smile. He leaned down, giving me a gentle, yet passionate kiss. All my worries washed away in that moment. Nothing was coming in between us, and that was for sure.

[disturbedbydesign]

Lie To Me - Chapter 8

Pairing: dark!Professor!Bucky x reader

Chapter 8 Word Count: 3.3K

Summary: After getting a spot in Professor Barnes’s coveted writing workshop, you start to form a close relationship with your handsome new teacher. But Bucky Barnes is not who he appears to be, and once he has you where he wants you, he’s not going to let you go.

Warnings (for complete work): noncon/rape, dubcon, sexual assault, daddy kink (not ddlg), voyeurism (hidden camera), blackmail, manipulation, age gap (reader is 21, Bucky is late 30s), student/teacher dynamic, physical violence, reader has history of physical and sexual abuse by a family member, mentions of domestic violence, mentions of campus rape, body image issues (reader has scars), ableism, smut/explicit sex (oral, vaginal, anal), unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), choking, biting, breeding.

A/N: Written for the @writing-in-the-dark-bingo challenge (bingo card at end of chapter). This one got away from me but there’s just something about creepy manipulative Professor Bucky that really does it for me. I apologize in advance for how messy this gets. Also, please heed warnings. This is a dark!fic and you are responsible for your own media consumption. 18+ only, no minors.

If you prefer to read on AO3, you can do so here.

Chapter Eight

Bucky had been pleasantly surprised by the amount of pain you were able and willing to tolerate. Given your history, he hadn’t taken you for the type who takes pleasure in pain—an emotional masochist perhaps, but that’s it. He’d thought he would have to work up to that with you, but he’d been delighted to find out he was wrong. You’d wanted to please him, sure, but it was more than that—you wanted it, you needed it, and your willingness to submit to him in every way was a most welcome discovery. Because he has plans for you, and now he thinks you might actually enjoy them.

Much as it pains Bucky to do it, Steve was right; he needs to patch things up with Sharon before she does something rash. When she arrives at his office, he wears his best mea culpa face and hands her a flute of her favorite champagne.

“What’s this for?” she asks.

“We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what exactly?”

“Listen, Sharon, I know I’ve been especially prickly lately and I’ve taken my shit out on you and I want to apologize for that.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Professor Barnes.”

“Bucky,” he says. “It’s Bucky to you. You know that.”

He can see her cheeks redden a bit and he raises a flute of his own.

“To your success,” he says.

“I don’t understand.”

“I made a few calls. You have an interview for that summer internship at The New Yorker set up for tomorrow afternoon. It’s a formality, of course. You’ll get it. I made sure of that.”

Sharon’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God, Bucky, thank you.”

“I know how much you’ve always wanted it. I figured I owe you that, at the very least. I’ve been a real shit lately, Sharon. You’ve always been nothing but good to me.”

“It’s ok,” she says. “Water under the bridge.”

“Cheers to that.” He smiles wide and they clink glasses.

“So,” she asks, “you still need me to go talk to her?”

Bucky pretends to think about it. “I’m honestly not sure. Could use your input, actually.”

“Where are you with her? I mean, broad strokes. I don’t need the details.”

“The Parker thing threw her, but I think she’s coming around.”

“The roommate is coming back tomorrow,” Sharon notes. “If you want me to talk to her, I need to do it now.”

“Maybe you should, then, yeah.”

“Not a problem. I’ll go over there right now.”

“Finish your champagne first at least. I got you the good stuff.”

Sharon smiles as Bucky pours her a second glass.

“If you insist,” she replies, and when she smiles at him, Bucky can see that it’s genuine.

📚

Sharon is a little tipsy as she makes her way across campus to your dorm. She knows that Bucky only ever does things that serve his purposes—that his little olive branch is just another chess move—but she doesn’t particularly care. Bucky Barnes giveth and Bucky Barnes taketh away. Sharon has learned not to look that particular gift horse in the mouth when he’s feeling charitable. Besides, The New Yorker internship has been a dream of hers for years, and what was all of this for if she doesn’t get to reap the ultimate reward?

She knocks on your door and you look flustered when you open it.

“Oh, wow. Hey, Sharon. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company. Lemme throw something on real quick.”

Sharon spies the bite mark on your shoulder before you get your hoodie over your tank top. She remembers those. She hated them.

“Sorry, I probably should have called first. Can I come in?”

“Of course. Sorry. So, uh, what’s up? I didn’t miss a deadline, did I?”

“No no, it’s not that. I wanted to talk to you about Peter Parker.”

She sees you wince when you hear Peter’s name. “What about him?”

“Well,” Sharon begins, “I know that you have a personal connection to the whole Peter situation. I mean, I read your interview and it wasn’t that hard to connect the dots. At least, not for me, because I know something about what happened. Anyway, Professor Barnes sort of let it slip that you’re angry with him that he didn’t come forward with the information about Peter right away, and I just wanted you to know that that’s totally my fault. You have every right to be angry, but it shouldn’t be at him.”

“I… I don’t understand. What do you-”

“Barnes came to me for information because he knows my sorority throws joint parties with those guys sometimes, and I didn’t want to but I told him what I knew on the very strict condition that he not tell anyone. There’s sort of a code of silence when it comes to Greek life around here and it would be bad for me in terms of networking if I got branded a snitch.” She pauses, feigning contrition. “I know that’s no excuse and it’s selfish, but it’s the truth. Anyway, the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me—especially having Peter in class with you—so I went to Barnes and told him to go ahead and pursue it, and that if he absolutely had to attach my name to it, he could. He would never have sat on it if I hadn’t begged him to. I just thought you should know that and I wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry.”

Sharon watches your every move as she speaks, trying to gauge your reaction, and you seem to believe her. It takes you a minute to gather your thoughts and Sharon waits patiently to hear them.

“I appreciate you telling me that, Sharon. I do. And I’m not mad at you or anything. I mean, I’m not in a sorority, but I know enough to know that it’s kind of a fucked-up complicated social dynamic when it comes to shit like this, so I get why you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with it. You were just trying to protect yourself—believe me, I get that—but can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What did Professor Barnes say to you about me exactly? Like, how did that even come up?”

“Oh, it was nothing really,” she replies. “He was moping around his office yesterday when I went to drop off some research and he almost bit my head off when I asked him what was wrong. Then he felt bad about being snippy so he told me that you were angry with him about the Peter situation. Between you and me, Barnes acts aloof sometimes, but he’s actually a very sensitive guy. He doesn’t like it when people are upset with him. He just wants to be adored at all times, I think.”

That makes you laugh, and Sharon laughs with you.

“Sounds like every moderately successful male writer in the history of the craft,” you quip, and Sharon gets a kick out of that. She still doesn’t like you, but she gets why Bucky picked you.

“Anyway,” Sharon continues, “I told him I would come and talk to you because it was my fault that it all happened the way it did. So here I am, begging you to please forgive Barnes so he doesn’t make my life miserable for the rest of the semester.”

“I’m not mad at him anymore,” you admit. “I was—I was fucking pissed—but I’m not now.”

“I’m glad,” she says. “Barnes is a good guy. He would never do anything to intentionally hurt someone—especially not one of his students. That’s just not who he is.”

“Yeah,” you say, “I know.” Sharon can hear the lovesickness in your voice and it makes the champagne churn in her stomach.

“Alright, well, sorry to barge in on you like this. I’ll get out of your hair now.” Sharon wears a fake smile on her way out of your dorm and texts Bucky on her way to her car.

She bought it. You were right. She really is easy.

📚

The second Sharon is out the door you snatch up your phone and text Bucky.

So Sharon stopped by... You should have just told me the whole truth. I would have understood

I know you would have but I made a promise to her and I don’t break my promises

I get that. But I don’t know why you’d think I’m still mad at you. I figured after the other night…

I honestly wasn’t sure if it was just sex or if you actually forgave me

It wasn’t just sex and I think you know that

Do I?

Well if you don’t now you do

Come over tonight? It’s Friday... you can stay in my bed all weekend if you want

You sigh because, as amazing as that sounds, you have a lot of fucking work to do.

I can’t. I have so much work. I’m behind on like everything. You’re really fucking distracting, you know that?

I would apologize but I’m not even remotely sorry

You’re such an asshole. But ok let me see how much I can get done tonight and tomorrow and maybe I can come by tomorrow night?

Anytime you want, babygirl

The pet name makes you ache for him but you may actually fail half your classes if you fuck around this weekend so you force yourself to stay strong, gathering up your shit and heading out to try and hammer out your Classics paper.

You stay strong at the coffee shop when he tries to bait you: You sure you don’t wanna come over? I’m so lonely…

You stay strong in the library when he starts sexting you: I’m so fucking hard right now. Need your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock

You even stay strong late night in your room when he sends you a pic, hand gripping the base of his cock, cum absolutely everywhere, and a message: Thinking of you...

OK, maybe you don’t stay totally strong after that one. Maybe you shut your laptop for the night and crawl into bed and call him and fuck yourself with your fingers, telling him you wish it was his big fat cock instead. But, hey, at least you finished your paper.

Bucky is relentless all day Saturday—you even have to turn your phone off after a particularly lewd text about the things he wants to do to you made you audibly moan in the otherwise silent library. By 7pm, you’re way over-caffeinated, starving, and basically braindead. But you did well. You got most of your work done. You’re proud of yourself. You were a good girl, and now you deserve a reward.

You walk to your car in the library parking lot and find Bucky waiting for you.

“You turned your fucking phone off, didn’t you?”

“Christ, Bucky. You scared the shit out of me. How long have you been out here?”

“Not long,” he replies. “I needed to grab something from my office and I saw your car. SInce, you know, it’s Saturday night and you’re basically the only one at the library. Wasn’t too hard to spot. I was gonna come inside and steal you but I figured I’d better not.”

You remember one of Bucky’s many texts from earlier that day—the one where he described in detail how he wanted to drag you down to the archive room and fuck you in front of all the first editions.

“Well, I was just about to call you, but since you’re here already like a psycho stalker, I am absolutely fucking done working for the weekend and I’m starving.”

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “Not gonna lie, I thought I could get you to cave.”

“I do have some self-control, you know.”

“I don’t.” He pulls you into the shadows, grabs you by the neck, and steals a deep, hungry kiss.

You let it happen, and you kiss him back, and you want to whisper “choke me” but then your brain starts to work again thinking what the fuck is wrong with me and this is a very bad idea and you push him off.

“Bucky, stop! Not here.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. That was bad. Felt good, though.” He gives you that devious little smile that makes your pussy throb and you know it’s time to go.

“Ok, let me just run back to my room and grab some stuff and I’ll meet your at your place.”

“I’ll order dinner. What do you want?”

“Thai?”

“Perfect. Just text me what you want. See you soon, babygirl.”

He gets into his Jag and speeds off, and as you watch him go, you can still feel his metal hand wrapped around your neck. It’s all you can think about on the short drive back to your dorm, all you can think about as you pack an overnight bag, all you can think about when you pull up to his place and walk in the unlocked door. You drop your bag and practically run over to where he stands in the kitchen, standing up on your tiptoes and kissing him. You want him to do it again—to feel the cold metal squeezing your skin—but he doesn’t, and you can’t bring yourself to ask for it.

📚

Bucky has you curled up next to him on the couch, one arm across his lap and the other holding a glass of wine. You’re on the third episode of one of those murder shows you love and Bucky is content just to watch you watching it.

“We don’t have to watch any more if you don’t want to,” you say.

“You worked your ass off this weekend, baby. If you want to watch the whole fucking thing tonight then that’s what we’ll do, but can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” You pause the show and turn to him.

“Why are you so obsessed with true crime?” he asks.

“Well I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed with it. I just find it fascinating—the evil that some people are capable of, what motivates them, the lies they tell themselves, the truths behind all of it.”

“Why do you think that is? I mean—and feel free to tell me to fuck off and mind my own business—but do you think maybe it’s because you… well, because of your-”

“Probably,” you admit. “I’ve never really thought about it like that, but I guess it’s sort of… not cathartic, not comforting exactly. I don’t know. I guess there’s something about watching other people’s tragic horror stories that makes me feel like, well, at least that didn’t happen to me. That’s really fucked up, huh?”

“No,” he says, rubbing your arm. “It’s not.”

“Yeah it is,” you laugh. “It’s ok. You can say it. I’m kinda fucked up.”

He kisses the top of your head, taking a deep breath full of you, and speaks into your hair. “I think you’re doing just fine.”

You take a sip of wine and put the glass down on the coffee table. “I lied to you, you know.”

“Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

“I mean not completely, but-”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that. You didn’t even know me.”

“I know you now,” you say, looking deep into his eyes. “But can I trust you?”

“I can’t make that decision for you, babygirl.”

You sigh. “I know. I want to trust you, I do, but it’s really hard for me.”

“I understand.”

Bucky remains calm, but inside every cell of his body is on fire because he is so fucking close to getting the answers he’s been seeking ever since your file came across his desk. But he needs to have patience. He needs you to feel completely safe with him or he will never get what he needs.

“I just… sometimes I feel like jumping out of my skin. Like all this shit I have to carry is rotting me from the inside. And I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell anyone about it. Well, I mean, there’s one person I can talk to but she has so much of her own shit I feel like I’m burdening her with mine.”

“You can tell me anything. Just know that.”

“I do,” you say. “I think.”

“Well alright then. That’s all you need to say.”

He can tell just how much you want to spill your guts out all over him but you don’t—you’re not ready yet, but you will be.

By Episode 5, he’s got you completely naked and squirming on top of him as you cum all over his fingers.

“Feels so good, Daddy.”

“My cock’s gonna feel better. Ride me, baby.”

You raise yourself off him just enough for him to get his pants down before slowly sinking down onto him. You moan “fuuuuck” in tandem as you take the length of him, and then you start to move. Bucky prefers to be in control, but he is absolutely dumbstruck by the way you look bouncing on top of him. When you start to roll your hips, he throws his head back and bites his lip.

“That’s it, babygirl. Use me.”

He brings his hands from your hips up to your tits and lavishes attention on each one with his fingers and his tongue, When you find the right angle—the one where each stroke hits your sweet spot just so—you grab two fistfuls of his hair and you pull. He grabs your hips and starts to fuck up into you, meeting you halfway, and it’s not long before Bucky hears your telltale little whimper.

“You gonna cum for me?”

“Mhmm.”

And then you grab his metal hand and put it on your neck and whisper, “Choke me, Daddy.”

The sound that comes out of Bucky’s mouth is absolutely feral and of course he does what you ask—not too hard, though, because that’s not what you want. What you want is to feel like he has your life in his hands, to roll the dice—to trust him—and see if he’ll hurt you or keep you safe. He applies just enough pressure to constrict your breathing as he fucks you through your orgasm, and you make an absolute mess all over him as he praises you. When he lets go, you gulp down some air and then kiss him slow and deep.

When you pull away, Bucky takes your face in his hands and presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “I love you.”

You look startled, scared even, but you don’t stop circling your hips.

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it, Bucky.”

“I mean it,” he says. “I love you,” and he thinks to himself that he might not even be lying.

“I-”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s ok.”

But you do say it, and he knows you mean it because he can feel it in every inch of your body.

He whispers against your mouth, “Say it again.”

“I love you, James.”

When his given name falls from your lips, Bucky cums so hard he thinks the veins in his neck might burst. He can’t catch his breath. He can’t see straight. He hears you ask, “Are you ok?” and he truly doesn’t know if he is ok but he doesn’t care because he’s got you now.

When Bucky finally gets it together, he gathers you in his arms and spoons you, running his fingers up and down your bare arm. Neither of you say anything, but it’s not awkward. The silence is comfortable. It feels like home. Until you break it.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Anything, sweetheart.”

“You know my car accident?” you ask, but it’s not a question, and there’s something new and different in your voice—something almost malevolent that chills Bucky to the bone. “It wasn’t a fuckin accident.”

Chapter Nine >>>

[fanfickittycat]

First Glance

TITLE: First Glance

CHAPTER NUMBER/ONE SHOT: One Shot

AUTHOR: fanfickittycat

FANDOM: Haikyuu!!

CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader

GENRE: Romance/Fluff

FIC SUMMARY: Ushijima doesn't know why the girl tasked with covering the team for the school paper won't leave his mind

RATING: G

AUTHORS NOTES/WARNINGS: I’m putting this below the cut but you can also read it on AO3 here

“Is she back already?” Ushijima didn’t flinch when Tendo joined his side, only nodding stoically in response. He was observing the girl with such rapt attention, that Tendo was genuinely surprised; usually, Ushijima only had eyes for volleyball. Girls seemed to be out of the question. Even when the topic of girls was brought up in the locker room, he never paused to pass comment. In fact, he didn’t look like he was even listening to the conversation, instead methodically doing up the buttons on his shirt or neatly folding his kit.

“I hear she’s from the journalism club” he said, watching his friend’s face carefully for any changes in his features. The day had been so boring, and finally something interesting was happening. “Hmmm”. Nothing. “I guess she must want to cover the team going to the finals.” “Hmmm.” Nothing again. “Maybe she’ll want to interview us?” Ushijima cleared his throat “hmmm.” Ah, bingo. “You should talk to her” he nudged Ushijima in the side “you’re the captain after all.” Ushijima finally broke his gaze, looking down at the water bottle in his hands “I’m not good at talking.” Tendo opened his mouth to say something encouraging; to bolster his friend who always seemed to be confident in all his abilities on the court, but the squabble between Semi and Shirabu stopped him.

“Hey” Ohira said “don’t fight in front of the press, it makes us look bad.” The two setters continued to scowl at one another but stopped bickering. “It’s no way to act in front of a girl” Tendo added, slapping a hand on his teammates backs “especially a cute girl.” His eyes trailed over to look at Wakatoshi who’s impassive face was betrayed by the way his hands mindlessly fiddled with the blue bottle in his hands. “I guess she’s cute” Semi agreed “if you like that kind of girl.” “What kind of girl is that?” Ushijima asked, making his teammates look up at him in shock. “W-well you know…” Semi struggled to come up with the words to describe her “she’s clumsy, did you see the way she almost tripped coming in here?” “Yeah, but she got up again with that super determined face” Shirabu interjected “like she was so nervous she was overcompensating.” “She seems energetic” Ohira said “and tenacious.” “Those are good traits” Wakatoshi said offhandedly. “They are” Tendo agreed, egging him on “and she has pretty, long hair. I usually like short hair on girls but even I have to admit that it’s very becoming on her. Right, Miracle Boy?” Ushijima looked up at her again, observing the waves of thick, dark hair that flowed past her shoulders. She tucked a strand behind her ear as she continued to speak to Coach Washijo and note down the things he said in her notebook. “Yes” he agreed “it is.”

Ushijima continued to think about the mystery girl as he got changed. Who was she? Tendo had said she was here on behalf of the school paper, but usually whenever they were written about, it was a sandy haired boy who came by. Why had he never seen her before? He idly put his jacket on, pondering what the feeling in his chest was. A sort of warmth and tenderness. He hoped he wasn’t getting ill.

“Before you all go” Coach Washijo said, stopping the boys from leaving the gym “remember we have practise on Saturday, and I expect you all to be there bright and early at 6am. No excuses. Also, we’ll have a member of the journalism club with us this week so watch your mouths.” He looked pointedly at Semi, who’s cheeks flushed red, much to the enjoyment of Shirabu who nudged him. Ushijima wanted to ask what her name was, but they were dismissed in the next instance and it seemed pointless.

The girl stayed on Ushijima’s mind. That evening he had several hazy dreams all involving her. In one, he just remembered her looking at him and smiling so brightly that he managed to miss a relatively easy receive. In another, she was interviewing him, and he was struggling to answer coherently. He didn’t remember the last one very well, but in it she was holding his hands. He woke up with her phantom touch still on him. He turned his head to squint at his alarm clock. It was almost five am, way too early for him to consider rising. He closed his eyes again, but sleep didn’t find him. He took his phone off charge and looked for Tendo’s number to text. He had insisted that he get a phone, but he didn’t use it much.

U: Tendo, are you awake? I have a query. 4:58am

He didn’t expect to get a response and instead went to take a cold shower to focus his mind. The cold water was a welcome distraction, and he felt his body leave the dreamy warm state it was in. Today he had practise until noon, but nothing especially pressing to do afterwards. Perhaps he’d take a jog before dinner. He knew he should probably make time to review some tapes from their last practise game too. Despite him concentrating on his own schedule, his mind once again wandered to her. What would she do today?

He left the shower, padding back to his room with a towel around his shoulders. His phone buzzed.

T: What query could you possibly have at 5am??? 5:08am T: Lay it on me, Miracle Boy 5:09am

He picked up his phone, struggling to come up with a coherent sentence.

U: The girl has remained in my mind. I think I must be getting ill, should I tell coach today? 5:12am T: Sounds like love sickness to me ;) 5:12am U: I’m not familiar with that illness 5:1am T: -_- It’s a good thing you found volleyball 5:14am U: I don’t understand 5:14am T: We’ll talk about it later 5:15am U: Ok 5:15am

“She’s here” Ushijima blinked at the girl, standing before them. She looked sleepy, clutching a thermos as she greeted the volleyball team members. Her hair was tied up into a ponytail, which Ushijima didn’t like nearly as much as her hair being out. Still, there was something admittedly quite cute about seeing her like this; dreamy eyed, red cheeked, and cosy in her fluffy jumper. She shouldn’t be out here in the cold, watching the boys do laps, she should be tucked up in bed with her hair being petted gently. The thought made Ushijima flush. He resolved to himself that he was going to concentrate on practise and not on this girl, whose name he still didn’t know.

“So, lover boy” Tendo teased, as he shrugged off his track jacket alongside his friend “you like her?” The boys had entered the gym now to do some routine stretches before doing drills, and Tendo had taken the opportunity to speak up. “I don’t know her.” “But you think she’s cute?” Ushijma paused and swallowed “yes, I suppose so.” “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.” Tendo winked at him and Ushijima frowned. Surely, he had his back? In their current formation he tended to be behind the Guess Monster. He shook his head free of the thought and went to join the others.

“Take a twenty-minute break and then we’ll do three on three!” “Yes, coach!” The lapse in practise was a welcome one, and Ushijima wiped the sweat off his brow with his towel, grateful for the moment to breathe. “This is your chance” Tendo sang, jutting his chin out at the girl who was speaking to Semi. “It’s rude to interrupt” he said, feeling a sinking feeling in his chest as she laughed at something Semi said. What was this? He felt something brew in his chest that made his teeth clench in annoyance at his teammate. He gripped the water bottle, turning away to drink. “Don’t be angry” Tendo chided “I’ve found out her name…”

*** You stood, trying to follow the game but it was difficult to really grasp what was happening. The ball was shot back and forth with such ferocity that you worried it would hit you. How embarrassing you cringed, picturing yourself getting smacked in the face with the volleyball. You took a step back for safe measure, trying to remember what Haruki had told you.

“The piece is about emotion as much as it’s about sport.” “What kind of feelings can hitting a ball possibly inspire?” You said skeptically. Haruki smiled apologetically “I’m sorry you have to take over for me” “You didn’t ask for a family death” you said, feeling sorry “I’ll do my best.” “You’re a talented writer. Just put your own spin on it, like you always do. I promise this is the last time you’ll have to write a sports piece.”

You had to admit, that despite the dread and the unmistakable sinking feeling in your gut from being out of your depth, you were also in awe of the players. The way they were able to make split second decisions that ensured the ball’s return to the other side of the court; the constant movement… It was actually impressive.

The red-haired boy – you still didn’t know them by name – had an almost eerie gift for knowing what the opposing side was going to do. You scribbled it down, annoyed when you dropped your biro.

“Look out!” Your head tilted up to see your worst fear coming true. The ball was flying towards you and you felt like you had frozen, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. You braced yourself for impact, lowering your head again but the hit never came. You heard a scuffle near you, and you opened your eyes to see the tall one with the olive hair hit the ball away. He met your stunned eyes with his formidable ones. You’d heard of this one. Ushijima the captain of the team. Haruki had assured you that despite his daunting exterior and intimidating manner, he was nobody to legitimately fear. Unless you were on the other team that is…

He looked away first, running back to the court to be alongside his teammates without a glance back. You felt winded. Whatever had just happened felt so intense that it was strange to believe that it was only a couple of seconds long. The sound of a whistle blowing, and the shouts of the demon coach did nothing to snap you out of it.

“Are you alright?” you looked up again to see the captain looking down at you. “Um, yes” you felt your hands go clammy “thank you.” He nodded at you and a silence followed. “Is it always so…” you looked for the right word “dangerous?” The corner of his lip twitched upwards “sometimes.” “Why do you play it then?” He hesitated, looking wistful “I’m good at it and I like it.” It was a terribly blunt answer, but it made you smile. “You’re funny” you said which made him cock his head to the side. “I’ve never been described as humorous before.” “It’s a special kind of humour” you said, rewarded with a faint blush colouring his cheeks. “How is your article progressing?” He asked, clearing his throat. “I think I found my angle on it” you looked up at him “but I need to do more research. I don’t really know too much about volleyball.” “You can ask me. I know about volleyball.” You felt flustered “are you doing anything after practise? Maybe you could help me clarify all the technical stuff?” He nodded “I’m free.” “Cool.” “Yes… cool” he nodded at you, excusing himself to run back. You felt your heart race as you watched him go back to the court. For the first time since you’d been assigned the piece, you felt excited about volleyball.

[xandriagreat]

Janus Always Wins

Author's note: This is from an ask post from @timegirl

Summary: Logan and Virgil Sanders owners the Sanders' Restaurant. Even though the restaurant life is great, the everyone in the restaurant are facing a BIG problem with the banker who wants to take it. Then out of the blue, a lucky man named Janus comes by, looking for a job.

Warnings (please tell me if I missed anything): drinks, flirty Janus, knocking out, past death mention, kidnapping, crying, dealing

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

Logan and Virgil Sanders just had a meeting in their office with Mr. Sun, the banker.

Virgil sat in his seat and his hand on his forehead while Logan was pacing back and forth in front of both of their desks.

"Lo, can you stop, please. Your pacing is making my head hurt more." said Virgil, rubbing his forehead. "I just can't believe that he could do this to us!" yelled Logan, stopping his pacing and face Virgil. "$43,110,000 dollars?! We don't have time to get that amount in a month!"

Virgil raised his other hand, to stop Logan from taking over board, and said, "Okay, Lo. You need to cool down a bit. Because we have an interview with someone, who is trying to find a job."

"But the money-"

"We'll worry about the money later. But you do need to fix your hair. It's a mess!"

Virgil got a mirror and brush out from his desk and handed them to Logan. Logan looked in the mirror.

Virgil was right. His hair was a mess.

He started to brush his hair back to place. He thanked Virgil when he gave the objects back to him. Then someone knocked the door.

"Enter." said the both of them, looking at the door. A young man came inside, closed the door, walked over to them.

The young man had a white dress shirt with some wrinkles, a yellow vest, and black dress pants. He was carrying a hat and a vanilla folder in his right hand. His eyes were two different colors; brown in the right eye and hazel in the left eye.

"Hello. I'm Janus Dean." said the young man when he got to the desk and held out his left hand. "Nice to meet you, Logan and Virgil Sanders." Virgil shook it first, then Logan shook it.

Virgil gestured Janus to the seat, Janus sat in it. "So, tell us, why do you want this job?" asked Virgil.

"Well, sweeties, I want this job because I'm a good worker and a good entertainer, if you wanted more on the stage. Also, I'm very responsible." said Janus with a smile.

Logan and Virgil looked at each other then back at Janus when he said sweeties.

"Okay," started Logan, trying to remain calm. "Do you have a resumemay?"

Janus nodded and handed the vanilla folder to him. Logan opened the folder and started to read it.

"Hmm." hummed Logan as he finished reading the resumemay. "This is a really good resumemay."

He handed it to Virgil for him to read. "Agreed." Virgil said, while read it before handing it back to Janus.

After the interview, the both of them thanked Janus for coming in and told him that they'll call him in a few days for work.

"Okay, see you both in a few days." said Janus, smiling. Then he left.

Virgil was blushing more than Logan after he left.

"Virgil?" asked Logan, waving his hand in front of Virgil's face.

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

"I... I'm fine. Don't worry." Virgil cleared his throat. "Let's think of how to get the money."

•

Janus' first day was interesting.

Logan noticed that he was doing really well. Most new people would be nervous, but not him. It was like he knew what he was doing and what was happening.

He would sometimes flirt with the others staff members or entertain the customers with tricks, mostly cards and magic tricks.

"So, how did I do today?" Janus asked Logan with a smile.

Logan smiled at him. "Well, you did a good job today. Just try to control your flirting. You almost got the twins to faint."

Janus hummed in agreement, then asked, "Are you doing okay?"

"Mhm? Oh yes. I'm fine." said Logan. Janus looked at him with a frown. "You're lying." Janus said, his eyes narowed. Logan was surprised that Janus knew that he was lying. "Come on, tell me what's wrong?"

"Well, I'm just stressed about money, the future for this place, and the future for my husband and I."

"Maybe I can help."

Logan looked at him as Janus puts an arm on Logan's back.

"If you help me, if you can. Either way, I'll help you." Janus continued. Logan smiled and said, "Thanks, Janus. So, what do you need help with?"

Janus pull out a picture and showed it to him. It was a picture of a younger Janus, probably at the age of fifteen years old, a man with sunglasses, and a nine year old boy.

"This is my papa, Remy." Janus said, pointing at the man with sunglasses. Janus then pointed at the nine year old boy. "This is my little brother, Emile." Janus paused for a moment. "This was taken a week before papa got the bullet and my brother was kidnapped by the same man.."

"So, you're trying to find the man and your brother?"

"Yes. Can you help me, if you can?"

Logan looked at the picture more. "I'll reach out to some friends that I know and see where they are."

Janus smiled big and gave Logan a hug. Logan didn't push him away. He just hugged him back as Janus quietly cried.

•

A two to three weeks later, after work, Virgil still stayed in the restaurant, trying to figure out how to get the the money. The next day was the day. They were having a donation to help them, but it wasn't enough.

Virgil sighed as he rubbed his forehead. 'We can't lose this place.' he thought to himself. Then a glass was put next to him. He looked up at the person who put the glass next to him.

"Janus?"

"Hey. It looks like you needed a drink."

Virgil looked up at Janus then back at the glass. "Yeah, I need a drink."

Virgil took the glass and drank it as Janus sat next to him with his own drink. "So, what's gettin' you down like everyone else?" Janus asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Virgil looked at him. "Why you want to know?"

"I want to know what's going on, alright? Because you're stress. Logan is very up set. The twin performers, they act like their performance is like their last one by tomorrow. Patton isn't his up beat self, that's saying something. And for everyone else, they're in the dumps."

Virgil sighed. "Well, you've been here long enough, that you should know."

"So, what's happening?"

"We may or may not lose the restaurant tomorrow."

Janus looked at him surprised. "But the bills and taxes have been already been paid." he said, setting his cup down.

"Well, to Mr. Oliver Sun, we need to pay $43,110 dollars by tomorrow or we lose this place." Virgil said, resting his head on his hands.

"Mr. Oliver Sun?" said Janus. Virgil looked at Janus. He looked like he was trying to remember something or someone. "Does he have orange eyes?"

Virgil nodded.

"I know him. And I have a plan."

"Okay, what is it?"

•

Mr. Sun was smiling when he arrived at the restaurant while the coworkers were scolding him or had fear in their eyes as he walked by them. When he got to the table where Logan and Virgil were, he counted the money that was collated.

“Well,” he said, looking at the amount. “It looks like you didn’t get the amount.”

He turned around to face Logan and Virgil. 

"So, you've both lost this-"

"Wait." Janus said, walking over with a chess board. "How about we play a game?"

Mr. Sun chuckled and said, "What are you betting if one of us wins, young man?"

"If you win, you can take this place. If I win, you better leave this place and everyone else alone."

Mr. Sun thought about it, then said, "Deal."

Logan and Virgil walked to the others with the money to watch Janus set up the board and pieces. 

"So, black or white?"

•

They were playing for about thirty minutes. 

Janus looked calm while Mr. Sun was sweating. 

Then Janus moved a piece in front of Mr. Sun's king.

"Check mate." Janus said, smiling. 

Mr. Sun was in shock.

"You- you cheated!" Mr. Sun yelled. Then he looked back at the others. "Right?! You all saw him cheat!"

"Actually," said Logan smiled as he walked up with Virgil. "He played the game fair."

"It's over, Mr. Sun. We won and you lost." Virgil said, his arms crossed. 

Mr. Sun looked like he was going to attack Janus, but Janus gave him a 'do you want to get in trouble' look as he put his hand out to shake. Then Mr. Sun shook his hand and got ready to leave. “You know,” Mr. Sun started, putting his coat on. “You remind me of a man, he was a game man as well.”

"I know who you're talking about, his name was Remy Dean." said Janus, standing up. “It was the game; poker, and he won that game. Because of that game that you two played, you said that he cheated and gave him the bullet after he won. And you kidnapped one of his sons.” 

"How did you know that?" asked Mr. Sun, staring at him with fear as he backed away. 

"Because you're talking to his other son. A just to let you know, the cops will be here any minute. So, I suggest that you run if you can."

Mr. Sun started to run out of the restaurant, but Remus, one of the twin performers, knocked him out with a wooden bat. 

“See? Told ya that we needed this.” he said to Roman, the other twin performer. “Yeah, we’re still not using it to hit each other for the performances.” Roman replied to his brother.

Patton got zipties to binded Mr. Sun’s hands and legs together when some of the other coworkers got him into a seat.

•

The cops came in, got Mr. Sun in one of the cop cars. 

Before the cops left, Janus walked up to Mr. Sun. They stared at each other. Then Mr. Sun asked, "Well, what do you want now?"

"I want you to tell me one important thing that I want to know." Janus said sternly. "Where's my brother, Emile?"

Mr. Sun laughed. "He's probably on a boat to Iraq by now. So, he’s long gone."

Janus backed away as tears formed in his eyes. Virgil walked up to him and gave him a hug. 

He'd never broken down in front of someone and getting comfort like this for a long time.

"Hey," Virgil started, rubbing Janus' back. "There's someone that my husband and I think that you're going to like."

"Who is it?" Janus sniffed, letting go of Virgil. 

Logan came out with a fithteen year old boy with some bruises and had a blanket over him. Janus felt his heart almost stopped when the fifteen year old boy made eye contact with him.

"Emi?!"

"Janny!"

They both ran to each other and gave each  other a big hug.

"Where have you been?! I've been looking for you!" Janus cried as Emile cried, "The man put me in a cellar! I'm very glad that I was found!"

They both fell to the floor and cried more. "I'm glad that you're safe now." whispered Janus to Emile. 

Janus looked at Logan and Virgil after crying for a bit. 

“Thank you both, for finding my brother.” he said standing up and hugging his brother. 

“Actually,” Logan started, looking at Virgil then back at Janus. “Thank you, for helping us to keep our restaurant.”

Then Janus got a big hug from them. “Maybe we could celebrate a bit and talk about the money.” said Virgil. "If that's alright."

Janus smiled. "That sounds great.”

After getting their drinks, Logan asked, "So how did you win?" "You did your magic, didn't you!" said Emile smiling big. Janus nodded.

"Magic?" said the married couple, looking at the siblings.

"I have a great mind with games." Janus said, taking a sip of his drink.

[show-choir-gal]

“Pinky Promise?” Oliver Wood Imagine

Guide: Y/N: Your Name Y/F/F: Your Favourite Flower

Words: 3,098

*************

Every now and again, I like to reflect on Oli and I's friendship; how we started and how we got here.

*Flashback*

It was our first year at Hogwarts, we met each other on the Hogwarts express. I had gotten a booth early, since my parents hated being anywhere near late for anything. Oliver had hopped on and was looking for a place to sit. I was sitting and reading this week's newspaper of Quidditch Weekly. "Mind if I sit here? I love Quidditch!" He said with bright eyes. "Of course! I'm Y/N McCormack, what is your name?" I asked as I reached out my hand. "I'm Oliver Wood. Wha- Wait, did you just say that your surname was McCormack? Is Cartiona your mum?" "Why yes, she is." You replied with a chuckle, "I didn't expect someone my age to know who she is." "She was an amazing Chaser for Pride of Portree and absolutely nailed herself a place on the Scottish Quidditch Team and a place in Quidditch Hall of Fame! How could I not know her!?" Oliver replied. We spent the whole train ride  talking about our love for Quidditch. You could just feel the pure happiness radiating off of us and our newly found friendship. *End Flashback*

Oli and I had only grown closer and closer with each passing year. He has been my best friend in the whole known universe. We both made the Quidditch team our second year, not much of a surprise for either of us. We were a package deal, like George and Fred Weasley. Oliver was a Keeper and I was a Chaser. We killed it on the pitch each and every single practice and game. We were, and are, unbreakable. Pretty much from the moment we woke to the moment we went to bed, we were together. Nothing could break us apart. In our Fourth Year, Oliver was chosen as the team captain, which made me a bit disappointed because I really thought I was going to get the position. I was a little hurt, not going to lie, but still... my best friend was the captain. He ended up appointing me as his "second in command" aka, his assistant captain.

I remember the moment like it was yesterday, the moment I realised I was in love with Oliver. It was the end of our fifth year. It was our last match of the year, we didn't win but Oliver gave us a killer speech about how proud he was of all of us. Once we were all changed, Oli and I walked back to the castle, but he stopped suddenly. "Oli... Is everything okay? Are you ill?" I asked, walking closer Oliver grabbed my arms and pulled me in for a hug. Butterflies started  flying inside me. I didn't understand the feelings at first so I brushed them off. "Thank you for dealing with me, thank you for being you." Oliver said to me, I hugged back. "Oli, it's no problem. You're my best friend, it's the least I could do...Someone has to put you in your place." I replied with a chuckle as we let go of each other. We continued our way back to the castle for dinner, "Do you want to come over this summer? My parents wanted to know if you wanted to come on holiday with us." Oliver asked. "I would love to, I'll just have to ask my parents." I replied. "Oh no worries, I have the Wood charm. Who could say no to this smile?" Oliver said, flashing that world winning grin at me. He's right, who could say no to that smile.

Summer was around the corner, and the school was really trying to do a "secret admirer" thing to get spirits up. Oliver was getting flowers left and right, as well as giggles from girls of all houses. Oliver was bragging to Fred and George about it, and they were just fuelling his ego. Oliver and I weren't together, but I was jealous. All of a sudden I was jealous, and not in the way I usually was. I was suddenly hit with all these feelings for him, feelings I have never really felt before. Every girl sending him flowers and flirting with him and him flirting back...stung. It stung like I had just been stung by a handful of wasps on the pitch during a practice. It never stopped. In class? Nope. In the corridors? Nope. In the middle of a conversation with me? Apparently that stopped no one. It wasn't even time for lunch and I already just wanted to sleep the rest of the day away. Oliver and I finished our last Charms exam for the year and we headed to lunch together, we just about reached the dining hall when a group of sixth year girls came up to us and gave Oliver all their flowers and hurling flirts in his direction. Oliver was so preoccupied with those girls that he didn't even notice that I had walked away and entered the dining hall by myself. I walked to my usual seat and sat down and started to put food on my plate. Just as I was about to take my first bite, a yell of my name made me jump out of my skin and I looked towards Fred whose voice I recognised. "Oi, you're not eating yet." Fred said. "What's going on?" George chimed in. "I don't know what you are talking about." I said as I took a bite of my sandwich. "Oliver isn't with you." The twins said in unison. "Oh, yeah. A group of sixth year girls stopped him and were just gushing their feelings about him. I'm annoyed so I walked away." I replied as I took another bite, seeing out the corner of my eye that the twins shook their heads at each other and then fixed their gaze on me again. "Sounds like someone is jealous..." George said with a wink. "Jealous that other girls are giving ol' Oli attention." Fred said as he nudge George. "Me? Jealous? As if! Why would I be jealous?" I asked with a cocked eyebrow as I turned to face them. "Be honest Y/N." George said. "It's obvious you like him." Fred chimed in. "You like him and want him for yourself." George continued. "It's quite obvious, you can't fool us." They said in unison. "You two are just ill. Should I take you two to Madam Pomfrey?" I said as I tilted my head in "concern". "Believe what you want," George started. "But trust us." Fred finished. "Make him jealous back." They said in unison and gave me a wink. Their attention quickly went to the front of the dining hall, I turned my head to see Oliver walking in with those girls trailing behind him. I rolled my eyes and just kept eating. Oliver went on and on about it, and I just slowly started to feel sad. It was so bad that Fred and George were trying to signal Oliver to stop. They didn't want to see me this sad. He would not get the hint though. He was too absorbed in the euphoria he was feeling. I decided I had heard enough and was getting ready to get up when Professor McGonagall came rushing into the dining hall. "Ms.McCormack, this is.." Professor McGonagall started, but was then cut off. "Mr.Carneirus, I'm a big fan of you and your mum," He said as he started to shake my hand, "This is the photographer Adrian. We're both here for the Daily Prophet." I gave a puzzled look. "Although Gryffindor didn't win the last match, all we can say were that all eyes were on YOU. There were Quidditch scouts here to scout out who they might want on their teams in the coming year, but eyes never left you. We want to write an article about you, the new and upcoming Quidditch star!" He said with a smile. "Oh...wow! I'm extremely flattered!" I replied, in awe of the situation in front of me. "No need to thank us! Thank yo-" He was cut off by your mother, who had a new broom with her, which she threw in your direction. "Thank me." My mother said with a smirk as I caught the broom. My eyes widened, "Wow! Is this a new broom.?" I questioned. "It's more than new," My mother said with a smile, "It's one of a kind. A Firebolt Supreme. My buddy patented this design and wants to see it in action. It won't be out for a few more years." We all talked for a few and then I realised the time. Fred and George brought my broom down to the changing rooms and Oliver and I went to class. We were discussing how the paper wants us to have a game against Slytherin to test out the broom...and make me look good.

Dinner came around, and everything was back to normal. Well, now the school was buzzing over me. Fred, George, Oliver, and I were mid conversation when Fred and George went silent and stared behind Oliver and I. Oliver and I made eye contact and we looked behind us. "What do you want Flint?" Oliver said aggressively. "Relax Wood, I'm not here for you, I'm here for the beautiful girl right next to you." Flint said with a smirk, and I immediately started to blush. Marcus removed his hand from behind him, revealing a beautiful bouquet of Y/F/F, "I've been quite interested in you for a while now and would love to know if you would want to go on a date in Hogsmeade before the year ends?" He asked, with a smirk as he slightly blushed. " I would love to." I replied with a smile and he handed me the flowers and took my hand. "I will see you tomorrow beautiful." He said before he kissed my hand and walked away, but not before he sent a wink to the group of boys around me. Oliver and the twins started to stand up but I grabbed them to stay down. "He just wants you for the spotlight." Oliver said, face becoming as red as a tomato. The twins were about to say something but Angelina chimed in before they had the chance, "He's been interested in her since second year. I hear about it ALL the time in the classes we share." Those words shut the boys up. Eventually we finished dinner and Oliver had the team head to the pitch for a practice. Just because it was to test the broom and show me off, doesn't mean Oliver won't have us go in blind.

The morning rolled around and I had to be down at the pitch extra early for pictures and the interview. The whole team decided to come down early as well to support me. Once I was in full game wear, I walked out onto the pitch and was greeted by the editor, photographer, and my parents. While pictures were being taken, the Slytherin team  was walking in to change. Marcus and I made eye contact and he sent a wave and wink over in my direction. I saw that Oliver almost went over to do something but the twins held him back. I will admit, it did make me giggle. After the pictures, the interview went off without any issues. Apparently I had been deemed as "The Mini McCormack", I like the nickname not going to lie. All the stands were filled to the brim with people. From students to their parents, fans of my mother to Quidditch Scouts. Not an empty seat in the stadium. As soon as the Gryffindor team emerged from the sideline, applause roared through the stands. I was going to let Oliver lead the team up for a few laps around the pitch, but he wanted me to lead with a few fast laps by myself to show off the Firebolt Supreme. And that's what I did. I mounted my broom and went up to see all my peers. My eyes laid onto my parents who hugged and waved at me. I braced and took about 3 laps to myself, going as fast as this new broom allowed me (which was very fast). I was met by my team and slowed down to stay in formation, having Oliver lead the team like we normally did. We lowered ourselves to let Slytherin do the same. The game was well underway, and we were beating Slytherin, but not by much. As we witnessed a Quaffle go through Slytherins middle hoop, I went up to Angelina and the other Chaser and whispered "Parkin's Pincer". We all smiled and as soon as Marcus had the Quaffle, Angelina got on his right and I on his left. "You're quite handsome when you play." I said with a wink, trying to distract him. "It's all for you love." He replied, but before he could send me a wink back, our other chaser was heading right for him. He got nervous and released his grip on the Quaffle. Angelina grabbed it right out from under him and flew up, all the Slytherin chasers went up to follow her, but I knew what she was doing. I flew as fast as I could towards the Slytherin hoops. I looked up and she threw it ahead of me without climbing down. I flew and caught it and went straight for the hoops. I threw and I scored. This game went on and on until we had caught the snitch! This wasn't real game, but it sure did feel good to win against Slytherin. I took a victory lap around when a stray Bludger came hurling my way. Without thinking I grabbed a bat from Fred and got my angle right and hit the Bludger with all my might into the open box Madam Hooch was holding. I came back down to see Oliver's mouth open. "I- I didn't know you could hit..." Oliver somehow sputtered out. "My dad was a Beater, I'm not entirely my mum. Now close your mouth before flies get in." I said as I shut his mouth myself. I was about to walk away into the changing when I felt hands wrap around my waist, I looked and saw it was Marcus. I smiled. "She's quite a woman, Wood. Isn't she?" He said with a smirk. Oliver almost swung at Marcus' head, but I stopped his hand. "Get in the changing room. NOW!" I said sternly to Oliver. "You better listen to her or else you'll end up like the Bludger." Marcus said with a chuckle. I playfully slapped his arm and shot him an apologetic look before I made my way into the changing room.

It was September 1st, the first day of our Sixth Year. I boarded the train first, like I had every year previously. Fred and George joined me next, they were filling me in on how their summer was and how their youngest brother was a first year. Oliver followed not super long after the twins. He sat down beside me and we told the twins of the holiday we went on with Oli's family, and how we made some amazing plays for the upcoming Quidditch season. Suddenly, there was a knock on the booth's door. We all looked, and it was Marcus. I excused myself and went to talk to him outside, out of earshot of the boys. Soon after, Marcus and I kissed and he went to the Slytherin car. Oliver was a little weird after that, but nothing too bad. The year continued to just get better and better, until two days before the House Cup match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Marcus broke up with me, well, I confronted him about cheating on me and he admitted to it. I had a tutoring session with a third year but rescheduled it due to "personal reasons". I went down to the pitch and just let everything I could out. I grabbed my broom and flew around the pitch. Eventually, I grew tired of flying aimlessly, so I decided to just watch the stars and hoping Merlin showed me some help and sympathy.

I heard someone come onto the pitch, but I didn't move. I stayed staring at the stars. It wasn't until Oliver was right in front of me that he was the one who had entered the pitch. "Why weren't you at dinner?" He asked, concern grew in his voice. "Personal reasons." I spit out, trying not to cry. "You're my best friend, what is wrong Y/N?" He practically begged me to give him an answer. I started to let it all out, "He cheated on me." The anger grew inside Oliver, but this wasn't the time to be angry. He brought both of us down to the pitch and just grabbed me in a hug to comfort me. I had my best friend back, the man I was truly in love with.

The day of the match came and went. Gryffindor had won because I rewrote a play last minute, I was so happy for Oliver. This was the moment he had been waiting for. I let him enjoy the glory he had been wanting for so long. The Gryffindor party started without a hitch. I kind of just stayed on the sidelines while my team was off flirting with whomever their heart desired. I didn't mind being alone, I wanted everyone else to have a good time. Oliver was heading my way despite the army of girls trying to get his attention. He grabbed my hand and dragged me to the front of the common room. "Oliver wha-" I started but before I could finish, Oliver had one hand on my waist and the other grabbing my face and pulling me in for a kiss. This was a kiss of pure love. Don't ask me how I know, I just know. This was love. I was in shock, mixed in the same silence from the whole room looking at us. I was speechless. "I love you, and I have since we first met that September 1st of our first year. Now can you promise you'll be mine forever now?" Oliver asked, with tiny tears swelling his eyes. "Pink promise?" I asked with a smirk. "Pink promise." He replied as we pinky promised and kissed again. The twins roaring for us in the background.

[honorbound-to-the-pen]

Fictober Day 5

Prompt number:5 (I’m not saying I told you so...)

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Teen

Warnings/Tags: Alcoholism (slight), hallucinations, implied torture (slight), implied self-harm (slight)

Maybe Next Time You’ll Listen

Groaning as he came to consciousness, Sam rolled onto his back to stare at the dingy motel ceiling. Blinking his eyes several times and rubbing them with the heel of his hand, Sam let out a long sigh, trying to figure out what had woken him. Judging by the light weakly filtering in through the motel window, barely interrupted by the gossamer-thin curtain that covered it, it was getting to be 5:00 am, and yet Sam still felt as if he’d been woken up just as he fell asleep. Exhaustion weighed heavy on his body, a bone-deep tiredness that he should have been used to by now, after years on the road, running from one emotional devastation to another. Recently, though, the heaviness seemed to be getting stronger, harder to carry.

Looking over towards the other side of the small room, briefly glancing at the clock on the nightstand (which confirmed it was indeed 5:17 am), Sam saw Dean, who was still asleep, curled up deep in his blanket, his face pressed into his pillow. In sleep, as it sometimes was, Dean’s face looked years younger, and he looked at peace, not actively scared and fighting something in his mind— a look he had on his face almost constantly now.

Smiling to himself and continuing to rub sleep out of his eyes, Sam turned over to face the wall and had to suppress a scream. Snapping his arm back to grab his gun and level it at the figure sitting in his bed, the sound came out more as a punched out whimper as his breath left him and he slammed his teeth down on his lip.

Sitting cross legged, leaning against the wall and reading a book with a pair of ridiculous glasses perched on his nose, was Lucifer. Shaking his head and clicking his tongue softly, Lucifer moved the muzzle of the gun to the side with a finger.

“C’mon Sammy, is that any way to greet your best friend?” Sam was frozen, his eyes wide and his breath coming fast, the gun pointed back at Lucifer but trembling noticeably.

“Sammy? Are you ok?” Dean asked, sitting up groggily and rubbing his eyes, turning towards Sam and immediately tensing and reaching for his gun.

“I’m fine, Dean, just had a really realistic nightmare. Go back to sleep.” Setting the gun down on the nightstand and digging his nails into his palms to hide the shaking and to try and banish Lucifer from his head, Sam stood up and walked to his suitcase.

“Going for a walk. Can’t sleep, too much adrenaline.” Dean huffed and flopped back down onto his pillow, tossing his gun onto the nightstand. Sam winced at the loud noise, and again at Lucifer’s quick chuckle.

“Aw, Sammy, I’m hurt. Don’t wanna let big brother Dean know I’m here? We could all have a little chat, a little family reunion. Now all we need is my hopeless brother, and it’ll be a real one.” When Sam didn’t respond, staring determinedly into his suitcase as he pulled on his jacket and a pair of jeans, Lucifer sighed and uncrossed his legs, tossing his book and spectacles onto the bed on the side where Sam had been sleeping, walking over to stand behind Sam.

“That’s not very nice, Sammy, ignoring me like I’m not real. If you’re not going to be nice to me, I don’t think I have to be nice to you, either,” he said, leaning in over Sam’s shoulder, his breath hot on Sam’s cheek and neck.

Straightening quickly and walking back to the nightstand to grab his gun and stick it in his waistband, Sam then strode quickly for the door, patting his pockets once to check for his room key and wallet. The small parking lot was dark and cold, and Sam could see his breath in the air. Turning to glance behind him, he could also see Lucifer’s breath, who was ambling casually after Sam, his hands tucked in his pockets.

Striding to a picnic bench surrounded on two sides by a small line of trees around the back of the motel and sitting down, Sam stared resolutely into the woods, digging his nails into his palms. When he looked up and saw Lucifer sitting on the picnic table, feet on the bench, he dug the thumbnail of his right hand into his left palm, closing his eyes and trying to settle his breathing.

“Brrrr, it’s cold out. Why did you have to pick a picnic table in the woods? Couldn’t you have taken me to a coffee shop or a library, like a nice date? C’mon Sammy, you know that’s not going to work. And as much as I like to see you in pain, it’s no fun if you’re the one causing it. You can’t get rid of me, you let me in. You let this happen, Sammy. Time to deal with the consequences.”

Opening his eyes, Sam saw Lucifer sitting as close to him as he could without touching him, rubbing his arms with his hands without rolling down the sleeves on his olive green button-up. When Lucifer saw Sam looking, he put on a sad, pouting look and gave a performative shiver.

“There he is! And here I was, thinking I would have to resort to much more crude measures. Though of course, I will anyway; it’s so much more fun.”

“What do you want, Lucifer,” Sam ground out, moving to the end of the bench and digging his nail harder into his palm.

“I should be asking you, Sammy. You’re the one who let me in, after all. Almost as if you wanted me here…”

“No! I don’t want you here, I never asked for you to be here. Just leave me alone.”

“No can do, Sammy. I’m inside your head; much harder to get rid of than escaping from the Cage. Very annoying, by the way, leaving me alone with Michael.” Rolling his eyes dramatically, Lucifer threw his hands up. “I thought we were friends, Sammy, and then you left me with my self righteous, stuck-up older brother. I would never do that to you; here I am! Wouldn’t want you to be alone with Dean, everything would be doom and gloom all the time. And I like doom and gloom, but yeesh, he’s a bit much for me sometimes. Maybe if he was a bit more...I don’t know, peppier? Think I should suggest it to him? Do you think he’ll listen to me? Hey, where are you going? It’s a bit rude to walk away from someone who’s having a conversation with you.”

While Lucifer prattled on, Sam stood up and turned back towards the motel, jogging towards the parking lot and back into the room. From behind him, he could hear Lucifer yelling after him.

“You can run all you want, Sammy, but you can’t hide!”

  As soon as the sun rose enough for it to be reasonably considered morning, Sam woke Dean up and dragged him out on a case. Lucifer had left him alone for the hours since their scene at the picnic table, but when Sam sat down in the passenger seat of the Impala, his eyes connected with Lucifer’s in the rearview mirror. His breath picked up and he tensed up, resisting the urge to turn around. In the mirror, Lucifer smiled widely and opened his mouth, looking like he was about to say something.

“Are you alright, Sam? You’ve been acting weird ever since this morning,” Dean said, sliding into the driver’s seat, managing not to rumple his suit in the process. He looked at Sam quizzically in between turning the car on and checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. To Sam, it seemed like he made eye contact with Lucifer, who stuck his tongue out at Dean, but Dean didn’t react, still focused on his hair.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a really shitty nightmare. Working on the case should help take my mind off of it.”

“Alright, so here’s the deal,” Dean said, already focusing on the day ahead of them as he backed out of the parking spot and into the lot.

Throughout the day, Lucifer followed Sam and Dean around on the case, always just at the edge of Sam’s vision but never speaking. Whenever he dared to look over, Lucifer was always leaning against the wall, staring intently at whoever the brothers were talking to, or picking at dirt under his nails with a knife. The knife always made Sam pause, for several seconds taking him back to the brief moments he could remember of what happened in the Cage. After the times where he looked up and saw Lucifer with a knife, he made a point of throwing himself even harder into the case, stopping himself from looking over at Lucifer for as long as his curiosity could manage.

After 12 hours of interviewing witnesses and convincing police officers to let them into crime scenes, Sam and Dean headed back to the motel. Once inside their room, Sam threw himself down on his bed, grabbing his laptop, phone and headphones, desperate for some kind of distraction. Across the room, Dean was changing into jeans and a flannel, running his hands through his hair a few times.

“I’m going to the bar to see if I can hustle pool. You wanna come, Sammy?”

“No thanks, Dean, I’m going to do a bit more research on the case and prepare some more questions for the witnesses we’re going to interview tomorrow.”

“Alright, suit yourself. Don’t wait up, there should be leftovers in the fridge, make sure you eat something.”

“Thanks mom, I will.” Sam rolled his eyes but smiled affectionately at Dean. “Have fun.”

As soon as Dean left the room, Sam dropped his smile and turned to face Lucifer, who was sitting at the small round table that demarcated the living room from the bedroom and bathroom, tapping his fingers.

“Finally ready to give me some attention, Sammy? I was nice and quiet all day, went around with you and Deano on the case, didn’t stab anyone or set anything on fire.”

“You’re not real.”

“Come ON, Sam. You don’t really believe that, do you? Or maybe you do, and you’re trying to protect yourself from all the other possibilities. What if you’re still in the Cage? Never made it out, still stuck here with me and Michael.”

Sam stood up and walked to the table where Lucifer was sitting. Lucifer perked up for a minute, but when Sam picked up his gun and the bottle of whiskey Dean had left on the table, he slumped back down. When Sam pointed the gun at him, he simply rolled his eyes.

“Come on Sam, you know that won’t work. I’m a hallucination, I’m in your head. If you shoot me, all you’re going to do is draw a bunch of attention to yourself, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we? I don’t think you could keep up a confident and controlled FBI persona right now, with how skittish you are.” To emphasize his point, Lucifer jerked forward in his seat, making like he was going to lunge at Sam. Sam stumbled back with a shout, clutching the gun with both hands. Settling himself back in his seat, Lucifer laughed and shook his head.

“See? You really are a kicked puppy, aren’t you, Sammy. I can see why everyone says it: the hair, the eyes, the attitude. Oh don’t give me that face, you’re making it too easy!”

Sam clenched his jaw, turning to toss the gun on the nightstand before slumping down on his bed again. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he opened the bottle of whiskey and held it to his mouth, taking several deep swigs. It burned going down, but it was a welcome distraction from the devil sitting at the kitchen table.

“You can’t escape from me that way either, Sam. I told you, hurting yourself isn’t going to get me to go away, as amusing as it is to see you try. But of course, you’re not going to stop just because I told you that, because why would you listen to me? I’m just the big bad devil, and you’re a Winchester, you’re so big and strong and smart, you always know what to do.”

Sitting up and reaching for his headphones, Sam plugged them into his phone and pulled up his music library, scrolling until he got to an AC/DC album he had listened to when he was a kid, whenever his dad and Dean had gone out on a hunt together and left him behind.

With the music playing, he couldn’t hear Lucifer, and with his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling he couldn’t see him, either. The liquor was already giving the world a pleasantly fuzzy feeling, making him a bit less surprised when someone grabbed his arm.

He flailed in the direction of his gun, but stopped and groaned when he saw Lucifer, sitting on the bed next to Sam, poking him with the handle of his knife.

Throwing his arm over his eyes, Sam took several more mouthfuls of booze, swallowing quickly. After lying there for a few minutes, surprisingly uninterrupted, Sam started to drift off to sleep, but something stopped him. Was the room getting warmer?

Opening his eyes again, his gaze settled on the ceiling after a few seconds. He didn’t understand what he saw, so he kept staring for a few seconds, before his brain caught up with his eyes. Sitting up did two things: confirm to him that the room was on fire, and make him feel violently nauseous. He could feel the fire burning him as it swept across the floor and onto the bed, but he forced himself to stay seated, closing his eyes and concentrating on the music in his ears. It wasn’t real, there was no way a fire could have started in the minutes since Dean left. And the fire alarms would be going off, drawing the attention of the entire motel.

Looking up proved that the fire alarms and smoke detectors were all silent, even though the fire was still climbing up the walls and smoke was filling the room. The heat was starting to sear Sam’s skin, even through the heavy haze of alcohol covering his brain and body.

Laying back down on the bed, Sam stared at the ceiling. Did he really care if it was a real fire? If this was how it would be every day from now on, with Lucifer always there, waiting for him to let his guard down, was it really worth it? Even after one day, the exhaustion he had woken up with was already almost unbearable, and he felt isolated, scared and alone. He could tell Dean, but Dean had only just started to forgive Sam for being soulless and for drinking demon blood, and he had a feeling the hallucinations of Satan weren’t going to help his case.

“Alright, Sammy, fine. You win this one. Have fun drinking yourself to sleep tonight, I’m sure you’ll love that decision tomorrow. Have fun with all those nightmares you’re going to have; my treat. I’ll still be here in the morning, don’t worry.” Sam didn’t stop to wonder how Lucifer was talking to him, seemingly in his head, definitely through the rock still blaring in his ears. Lucifer was right, after all: he was trying to drink himself to sleep, in the hopes that Lucifer would be gone in the morning and the day would prove to be a sort of sick joke, or a one-off thing.

As Sam got deeper into the bottle, his thoughts got more and more muddy, until the room looked as if it was spinning from where he laid on the bed, and he couldn’t remember why he had started drinking in the first place. Setting the bottle down on the nightstand, he pushed it over towards Dean’s bed, tipping it over in the process and splashing whiskey onto Dean’s sheets. He stared at it for a moment before turning onto his back and closing his eyes, falling into an alcohol-induced stupor.

  Sam could tell he had regained consciousness, reluctant as he was to come back to the world. AC/DC was still screaming through his headphones, sending thousands of nails into his foggy brain with each chord. Yanking the earbuds out of his ears and throwing them onto the bed next to him, he looked to his right and saw Dean, asleep in his bed, on the opposite side as last night.

After staring for a few seconds, waiting to see if Dean would disappear, if he was part of a dream too, Sam groaned softly and turned over, facing the wall. Just as the morning before, there sat Lucifer, who looked up and fixed Sam with a simpering look.

“I’m not saying I told you so…”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34308391

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Nicole’s rambling: In the defense of Oliver Ulliva and age gaps

Okay, first let me remind you - this is my POV on the book as a whole. Everyone has their way of understanding of what exactly happened in Call me by your name (the novel) and you don’t have to agree with everything I am about to say - WHICH IS TOTALLY FINE.

Second thing - I’m going to be using translations and page references to my copy of the book - that being the first Czech edition from the year 2018, translated by Lucie Podhorná because it varies from the OG book itself (for example, when Elio talks to Vimini, my copy says "when did he tell you?" instead of "when had he tell her?"; it's just small nuances). Also, that's why I'm referring to Oliver as ‘Oliver Ulliva’, because my copy canonically confirms this being his last name - it refers to his last name being ‘Ulliva’ a few times since Mafalda cracks his egg open.

What made me even wanna write this rant? I don’t wanna in any way talk about the author or the director, or the actors. But... Well, quite a few things - especially the statement that their relationship was predatory since the very begging (simply because Oliver is seven years older) and that it was practically a ‘consensual ra*e’ and... Listen.

1. The Age Gap

Most of these were from the American audience who viewed the movie - but let me explain why Europeans might view this relationship differently and why you might change your opinion about it as well. I am not saying Americans don't do these things as well, but from what I've seen on the forums, etc., it seems to me that European x American view on age gaps is way different.

For the sake of this statement, I interviewed 10 of my European friends - of which were mostly all Czech. Europeans do not see a problem with having a seven-year (and more) age gap between the partners - you rarely find a couple of which both are the same age; three-years being the “standard” gap.

Young people, around 17 - 19, at least in my country, are attracted to older partners for various reasons - some like the intellectual potential of their partner, some are searching for a form of certitude in an older partner having their priorities sorted out and figured out their lives and what they want to do with themselves; whether we are talking about m/m, w/m, w/w or a non-binary relationship. One of my friends told me she searches older partners solely because they feel more protected by them. It's the sense of serenity, a different feeling of connection and different understanding to your other half.

I've talked to four of my friends, who both have partners of the same age or max. 1-year gap and even they told me they absolutely can see themselves dating a partner older by minimally five years. So, it's not a controversial thing here, really.

Maybe it’s more common in here, but rarely anyone frowns upon such relationships. At the time of my first relationship, my first partner was five years older than me - and I honestly couldn’t see myself with someone my age. From my experience, the relationships and bonds have a higher probability to last longer (we had a beautiful relationship of three years), it isn’t only driven by hormonal side of things and such, the feelings can develop into something more meaningful than just simple and shallow lust. More for that matter - most of these age-gap relationships didn't end extra-bad breakups and the partners tended to continue seeing each other as friends.

When I interviewed my friends, asking them about the length of these relationships, it was never less than a year. Usually, they said that they learned a ton of new stuff about themselves and having a healthy, normal relationship than from dating someone their age. So... Yeah. I guess that personal, first-hand experience is what makes us see the relationship for its good and bad, but still assures us not to perceive the relationship as predatory.

Now, you might say that while were living in the 2020s', Call me by your name took place in 1983 - and guess what? It was written in the year 2007. Does that mean something? The answer is - no. My grandma met my grandpa in the 80s' (I asked her about this as well and they have 14 years gap; my other grandma and grandpa met at the end of 80s' and the start of 90s' and they, as well, have 8 years between them) and by this, you can see that the situation is more or less the same as it was.

For all of the above, I can see why Elio fell for Oliver so quickly. First and foremost - he mentions Oliver being older like... Three, four times in a book that has word count 76.996? Elio doesn't care about age - it's a story about two human beings falling in love. It's not trying to research the problem of age and such. Stop judging the story for the wrong reason, ffs.

2. The 'consensual ra*e' argument:

Another thing I've encountered is the audience calling the story 'consensual ra*e'... Let me elaborate and tell you why you're wrong. In America, the age of consent is 16 - 18. In Europe, we have the age of consent established at 15 (the lowest being Estonia with 14) and you are a lawful adult at 18 years old. Given that Elio was 17 in the summer and 18 in November, he was already perceived as an adult; given what were his parents like and what relationship they had to him. (Again, I am looking at the story from today's perspective since the audience did as well). He was a man at the time Oliver came to Italy, he was a man at the time he had sex with Marzia, he was a man when he had sex with Oliver and he was a man when he traveled to Rome.

Elio should be perceived as an adult who carries most of his personal responsibility on his shoulders (since you're more than partially punished for the laws you break from the age of fifteen) and if he decides that he wants to be in a sexual relationship with an older man - he can rightfully do so. Surely, the relationship had another big B U T (for some people) - homosexuality and homophobia. And from the historical standpoint, I don't wanna spend too much time over it. The LGBT movement foundation ties back to 1969; given that Italy was in the capitalistic pro-American part of Europe (Czechia was under the Communist regime at the time, so homosexuality was barbarically punished in my country), I think there wasn't a problem with a subtle, not-too-obvious gay relationship. Sure, you couldn't walk into the open and hold hands and such, but you wouldn't get you beheaded.

Yeah, I mean, I'm not an expert on Italian war history and I don't particularly know what happened with Italy after WW2, but I know that in 1985, first LGBT organization got founding from the republic and from that I assume the situation, especially if it would be a subtle relationship, wouldn't be as bad.

In the story, it is hinted that both Sami and Anella were aware of the whole relationship - I mean, come on. Sami knew (since he had the big speech about being corrupted at the age of thirty, ("I think he's better than me, dad".; "And I am sure he would say the same about you, which both of you makes seem like good people." - Call me by your name, page 221)) and Anella perfectly knew at least in the movie - I mean, the car-ride home? Oh, she knew very well and she even told Marzia at the dinner, IMO.

Now tell me why would the relationship be a consensual ra*e? Because it is not bent to accommodate American laws? Because it not an ordinary every-day relationship? In which way is it ra*e? At the age of 17, you are taken as A D U L T who has their responsibilities to fulfil, at least here in Europe.

3. Oliver didn't love Elio as much as Elio loved Oliver:

... What? I mean... What?

Sure, you are seeing the whole story from Elio's eyes and for that, you are more likely to take Elio's side in this matter. In the end, it was Oliver who was getting married, right? And he was the first one to reach out, right? Well... It was a both-sided thing. At the first few pages, Elio says “"Do you want to look at them? "Not now, maybe later." Polite indifference, as if he noticed my out of place zealous effort to make him like me as he pushed me away briskly."; page 12 and on page 18, Elio states "We started - he must've seen the hints way sooner than I did - to flirt.", let alone that Elio describes that probably, Oliver visited his room while he was asleep.

I can see where the opinion that Elio loved Oliver more could've come from - he was young, hasty and captivated by the entirety of Oliver. Since we see the story by his side, Oliver can seem to be the less active out of the two. But trust me, he loved him the same amount, if not more. This was confirmed by both Sami and Vimini -

Page 92, a conversation between Elio and Vimini, Oliver went to the sea with Anchise:

"Do you know where Oliver is?" "I don't know. I thought he went fishing with Anchise." "With Anchise? He's crazy! He almost killed himself the last time!" No response. She was looking at the sun slowly setting down. "You like him, don't you?" "Yes," I responded. "He likes you too. More than you do - I think." You really think so? - No, Oliver does. - When did he tell you? - Not too long ago.

and page 220, when Sami and Elio talk about their trip to Rome:

"Oliver may be very intelligent—," I began. Once again, the disingenuous rise intonation announced a damning but hanging invisibly between us. Anything not to let my father lead me any further down this road. “Intelligent? He was more than intelligent. What you two had had everything and nothing to do with intelligence. He was good, and you were both lucky to have found each other, because you too are good."

Which obviously shows that both of the people who are indirectly watching the relationship between Elio and Oliver blossom in front of their very eyes are aware that both were very much in love. And Vimini, even if she said 'Oliver does think he loves Elio more', she could see that these two are very much attracted to each other. She was spending a lot of time with Oliver throughout his stay in Italy and she was beyond intelligent - these two were an incapable pair idiots compared to her.

So, no, Oliver doesn't love Elio more; he's just not being as childish about it as Elio is. Once more, the age gap is tying into this topic; while Oliver has his 'hot-headed' days, he already went through the phase of being obsessed by someone (or at least the phase being obsessed and letting the surroundings know). He is slightly more mature than Elio, so he just doesn't let himself go that easily.

And I think that he maybe suffers from internalized homophobia - page 224, Oliver talks with Elio as he comes back for Christmas:

"You should leave then. They (Elio's parents) know about us." "I figured so," he responded. "How?" "By the way your father spoke. You're lucky. My father would have me carted me off to a correctional facility."

In this short piece of dialogue, you can see that Oliver's father isn't okay with LGBT (not too much to wonder about, the American society was different than it is now, it wasn't a safe space for queers). And it's plausible that if Oliver had listened to this as he grew up, he got scared when his mind and body reacted to Elio in this way. We can see that for Elio, he lets go for some time; as they sleep in the 2nd part of the book and visit Rome together in the 3rd part of the book. He tried to overcome the fear and simply because he was in love with the boy, he did overcome it.

But you can see the broken shell (which was tore down in Italy) slowly getting together as Oliver gets back to the USA. He, once more, is under the pressure of American society who is not LGBT friendly at the time, his own father would've never supported his decisions regarding his love life, it could cost him his academic career... And for all of these reasons, it was more logical for Oliver to get married. It was his way of putting order back into his life; it was his way of being good as he says Elio.

So, yeah. Here you have it. Oliver was in love, the relationship could benefit both parties and it wasn't a consensual ra*e, thank you very much.

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares

General summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary:  Jon and Martin head back to the Magnus Institute, where Martin goes on an interview outing with Tim and Jon starts to catch up with Sasha’s “statements.”

Chapter 4 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read above at AO3 or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to earlier chapters

***

Shortly after Martin’s phone flickered to life, he found a lot of messages waiting for him—and they were almost all from the same person.

     Are you ok?

     Message soon please.

     Do you need anything?

     Answer when you can.

     Still worried…

He glanced at Jon, sitting on the other side of the bed and looking through his own phone.

“Sasha been messaging you too?” Martin asked him.

“Yes. And I’ve got one from Tim.”

Martin had that one also. “Telling you to answer Sasha?”

“Yes—and calling me something I won’t repeat.”

Ok, so he didn’t have exactly that one.

“All right,” Martin said a few minutes later. “Let’s do this, then. I’ll message Sasha back.”

“Wait—what are we doing? What’s the plan?”

He typed out a simple message to Sasha telling her they were ok and he was sorry for not answering sooner. “We lie to them.”

“Hm.” Jon seemed uneasy.

“Did you… want to tell them the truth?”

“Well…” Jon thought. “Obviously, we can’t. I’m just concerned that—”

“Exactly. And even if we did tell it to them, they wouldn’t believe it.”

Jon still looked doubtful. “Martin, I’m not sure if I—”

“Look, sometimes there are good reasons to lie. We just need to keep it simple, make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.” He read the message one more time and hit send. “Anyway, don’t act like you don’t know how. You’re actually quite good at it when you want to be.”

He didn’t mean to add that last part; it just came out, and it came out bitter. He looked at Jon again and regretted it immediately. He had come to realize he much preferred Jon’s anger to his sadness, especially when he was the cause. He opened his mouth to apologize, but as he did his phone began to buzz. They stared at each other.

“Jon, I didn’t mean that. I’m—I’m sorry—forget it, ok? I have to—hang on.”

He answered Sasha’s call on speaker, turning away to concentrate.

“Hey, Sasha.”

“Martin? Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t answer you sooner. It’s been—”

“How is Jon, do you know?”

“Yes, he’s—he’s with me. We’re both ok.”

“Oh, thank god.” Her relief was clear, even over the speaker, and Martin felt a pang of something in his gut. He hadn’t had a moment to consider how much he’d missed Sasha, how unfair it had all been, and how much it felt like she’d somehow come back. It would have been so easy to think that way—except their Sasha was still dead, and he may very well have been responsible for the death of the person she thought she was talking to.

“You do sound better,” she continued. “Look, I really didn’t want to tell you what to do, but—tell me you went to a doctor or something?”

Martin cleared his throat, aware Jon was listening to the conversation. “We did, actually. We did end up going to the hospital. I think we were maybe in a bit of shock after all.”

“No kidding. What happened? What did they say?”

“Physically, we’re—we’re all right.” He thought about all the blood again, and decided he should add a little more. “I mean, we were very dehydrated. They put us on a drip for a bit. And—and antibiotics, just in case. But they said we’re healing well, I guess?”

“That—that’s good. What else? What about—not physically?”

“Well, they did a lot of tests. The kind where they asked a bunch of questions. They didn’t want to call it amnesia, exactly, but we’ve—we’ve got some memory loss.” Experience told him the less specific the lie, the better. “Neither of us really remembers what happened. And it’s possible… we might have forgotten some stuff from before, too. We don’t really know how bad it is yet.”

“Oh. That’s terrible.”

Martin looked over his shoulder at Jon, who had crept closer to hear better. He nodded, and Martin turned back.

“It’s not great, but the good news is they don’t think there are any deeper issues. I mean, they’ve got us signed up for all kinds of therapy, but they don’t think there’s any—how did they say it—no lasting cognitive impairment.” Cognitive impairment was a phrase that maybe came to him too easily after caring for his mother; he felt like he was maybe pushing it a little.

“Well, that part’s good. How are you feeling, though?” Sasha asked.

“A lot better.”

“Did they feed you? Do you need anything? Can I bring you something?”

“No, that’s all right. We’re—actually, Sasha, we were wondering if we could… maybe come back. To work.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Martin cringed and held his breath through it; he didn’t look at Jon. He might have gone for it too soon.

“You want to come back? Already?”

He exhaled quietly, away from the phone so Sasha couldn’t hear it. “They said the more we could normalize things, it might—help? I mean, I know there might be some issues rehiring us—but maybe if Elias hasn’t replaced us yet—"

“No, I mean—you know Elias, he hasn’t even taken you off payroll. It just seems… fast. Are you sure you want to?”

“Well, if you’re worried, we don’t have to come back right away.” Jon grabbed his arm and Martin frowned at him, shrugging him off. Wait, he mouthed. “I know we might not be up to our usual workload, and we’re going to have to take some time off for therapy and all… I’m really only bringing it up because they thought it would help, but it’s completely fair if you don’t want to take—”

“No! No, I don’t mind.” She sounded upset, and he felt bad. “That’s not it at all. And we could use your help, honestly, but I really don’t want to put pressure on you while you’re recovering. Do you promise you’ll let me know if it’s too much?”

“Yes,” Martin answered. “Yes, of course. Jon too.”

“Well…” said Sasha, “When are you thinking about coming in?”

Um… hang on.” He muted himself and turned to Jon.

“What do you think?” Then, before Jon answered, he added, “And do not say today. It’s already after 2 pm and that would just be weird.”

“Fine. Tomorrow, then.” Of course. He sighed.

“Sasha?” He said, unmuting the phone. “Jon says—Jon says tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Really?”

“Yeah. Yeah, actually. If you’re all right with it.”

There was more silence.

“And I mean Sasha, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t mind being around people. It would be nice.” That wasn’t even a lie.

“Ok. Sure, Martin.” It had done the trick. “Take your time getting in though, ok? And get some sleep tonight.”

“Will do. Thanks, Sasha.” He hung up, and turned his head slightly in Jon’s direction. “Happy?”

“Thank you,” Jon answered, putting an arm around Martin to press his mouth briefly to his cheek. Martin couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, all right. Just don’t exhaust yourself. Remember, you’ve got to eat real food and sleep real sleep now.”

“Mm.” Jon was already headed out to the sitting room where his desk was.

“What did I say, Jon?” he shouted.

“Eat and sleep,” Jon shouted back.

Martin grumbled to himself.

The rest of the day was spent washing the one set of clothes that he had, and going through the phone to learn what he could about his current situation. His passwords and fingerprints opened all the apps, but that didn’t faze him anymore. He was able to figure out from email and voicemails that the apartment building where this world’s Martin had been living had indeed kicked him out, but thankfully his belongings were being held in storage. He could pay two months of back rent and a late fee if he wanted to reclaim them, although it wouldn’t be until the following week.

Fortunately, Sasha had been correct that they hadn’t been taken off payroll—not only had they not been taken off, but Martin had been paid his full salary for the last two months. If he hadn’t already been convinced that Jonah Magnus was not running the institute, that certainly did it.

***

Although he didn’t successfully get Jon off the computer for it, he did manage to get him to eat most of a meal that evening at his desk. And while Jon didn’t get in bed at the same time he did, Martin was still up to hear him come in.

“Hey.”

“Sorry,” Jon said softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, that’s all right. You didn’t. I actually—something’s been bothering me. I wanted to apologize for what I said right before Sasha called today. About… you. Lying. I mean, we need to talk about it—what happened—but not like that.”

“Martin…” Jon shifted under the covers. “I want to talk about it. I do. You deserve that. I’m just…”

“You’re not ready yet.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll—I’ll try not to push,” Martin answered, closing his eyes again. “I want to do this right. Or at least better than we’ve been doing things. Just… you try too, ok?”

There was a moment of quiet before Jon answered. “Ok.”

***

Going back to the Magnus Institute in the morning already felt much easier than it had the first time. It didn’t hold the same sense of discontinuity—it felt less like déjà vu and more like returning to a place he had genuinely spent a lot of time. Rosie was away from her desk when they arrived; Sasha and Tim were in Sasha’s office with the door closed, and they could hear muffled conversation through the door. Jon sat at his desk, but Martin decided he’d wait for Sasha before he even pretended to do something, and sat on the sofa instead.

“So,” he asked Jon, “how are you feeling, now that you’re here?”

“Good, I suppose,” he answered. “Well, not bad, anyway. I’ll feel better once I can start looking through some of Sasha’s statements.”

“They’re not statements, Jon. I expect you’re going to be disappointed if—”

“I just meant that I’ll feel better once I have some understanding of…” He trailed off. “Why do I need a pin?”

“Hm?”

“My laptop. I need a pin.”

“Wait, didn’t you have one before?”

“No. Sasha kept telling me to set one, but…” Jon sighed. “This would be a lot easier if we could remember things about this place when we wanted to.”

A thought occurred to Martin, something they hadn’t talked about yet. “Are you going to be all right, Jon? With Sasha being the archivist here?”

“She’s not the Archivist. There is no Archivist here. Not even me, right now.” Martin could hear him typing, trying different combinations of numbers, and could also hear his frustration growing.

“Hang on, let me try a couple things before you go getting all worked up.” He got up and went to join Jon at his desk. “And no, you’re right, of course—I just meant, are you ok with her being the head archivist here? At the Institute?”

“I don’t care.” Jon leaned back from his desk so Martin could reach the number keys. “Wait—is that the sofa that Tim brought in when—”

“Yes, it is. And it was a good idea.” The pin would have to be something Jon would easily remember, and knowing Jon, probably also too easy for someone else to guess. He tried Jon’s birthday; it didn’t work. He tried the street number of Jon’s flat, and that didn’t work either. “Hmm…”

“Well, I suppose professionalism isn’t as important when your entire area of research is—”

“Jon, hush.” Last four of Jon’s phone number?... Nope. He stared down at the keys and a wild thought entered his head. No reason he couldn’t try it, though. He typed the four-digit combination and was surprised to find that it worked.

“Oh.” Jon leaned forward. “What did you type?”

“I don’t know,” Martin lied. “I was just trying things. I don’t remember what I did.”

“Well, how am I supposed to get back in next time?”

“You’re going to have to change it.”

“I don’t want to change it.”

“Sasha’s going to make you change it.”

“How is Sasha going to know that—”

“Because I just saw Martin type it in for you,” Sasha said from the door of her office, smiling.

“Hey, Sasha.” Martin let himself smile in return—it was easy, if he forgot the last four years of his life. “Thanks again for letting us come in today.”

“Honestly, I’m already wondering if it was a mistake. I told you to take your time and really, it’s first thing in the morning.”

“Well, Jon just couldn’t wait to get back,” he said, reflexively rubbing the back of his neck. “He—hang on.”

He snatched the mouse away from Jon and clicked through to the screen where he could change his pin, while Jon did his best to appear extremely inconvenienced. “Oh, stop. Type the new one, I’m not looking.”

Jon grudgingly did as Martin instructed.

“So why were you so eager to come back, Jon?” Sasha asked.

“Oh.” Jon cleared his throat. “I, um…”

Martin interceded. “He’s actually been very concerned about—about the things you said have been happening here since we were gone.”

“I wondered if that was it. I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Sasha said. “I know you don’t remember anything, but the timing was just so… Jon, I know you’ve always been a skeptic—”

“And I still am. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for everything.” Martin thought maybe Jon would catch on after all. “But it would be quite the coincidence if it were unrelated. I was actually wondering if I might review some of the notes you took during your—interviews.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Sasha replied. “To be honest, I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with them. They aren’t exactly typical archive material. Maybe you can help me—”

“Morning, everyone.” Tim cheerfully disrupted the conversation as he slipped into the room behind Sasha. “How are we all feeling?”

“All right,” Martin answered, when no one else did.

“Great. Especially coming from you, Martin, because we are going on an adventure today.” Tim made his way to his desk and picked through a few papers.

“Oh?” Martin looked at Sasha.

“What Tim means is that if you are up for it, there were a few people who contacted us but couldn’t come in, and we haven’t had a chance to get back to them. I haven’t felt comfortable sending Tim to interview people alone, and well—it’s not really our job, and I’ve got more than enough actual work to take care of since—well, we’ve gotten a bit backed up.”

“What do you think, Martin?” Tim asked, waving the papers toward him. “Up for it?”

“Oh, well, I—I guess I could, yeah.” He glanced at Jon, who was suddenly sitting up very straight in his chair.

“Martin, I—are you sure?”

“I think so,” Martin replied.

“I’m just thinking that if something were to happen…”

“What—what sort of thing?”

“Yeah Jon, what sort of thing?” Tim echoed. They both turned to look at him and found him with a curious look on his face. “Oh look, if you two need to consult about this, please go ahead. Don’t mind me.”

“Yes, thank you, Tim.” Jon spoke through gritted teeth, indicating the sarcasm hadn’t escaped him. “Martin, just—come talk to me.” He stood up and took Martin by the arm, leading him out into the reception area and closing the door—but not before Martin saw Tim bite back a grin.

“Jon, what—”

“Martin, we have no idea what’s going on, or who or what could be out there, or—”

“Do you want Tim to go by himself?”

“Well—no, but—”

“Look.” He took Jon by the arm now. “I know we haven’t been apart since—well, not for a long time. And I know every time we have been apart, it’s been bad. But things are different now. This is different. You’ll be all right here with Sasha, and I’ll be with Tim and—”

“And with anything else that’s shown up since we got here. And if something happened, I—” Jon stopped and looked toward the floor. “I wouldn’t know about it.”

“Yeah, well, welcome back to being a normal person.” He squeezed Jon’s arm. “Look, if you’re really worried, I’ll come up with some excuse. But Jon, we’ve got to—we’ve got to try and be functional here. Plus, if you really want to figure out where things are—if you’re here going through the interviews, doesn’t it help for me to be out there? Talking to people? You know—like I used to do for you by myself all the time?”

Jon pressed a hand to his own mouth, thinking.

“Jon, I’ve got my phone.”

“Technically you had your phone when you went to look for Jane Prentiss.”

“Ok, I see why that’s not that reassuring, but do you realize how long it took for Jane Prentiss to—become what she was? And I will be with Tim, and—”

“Yes, you’ll be with Tim. Great.”

“Jon.” Martin sighed. “He’s just concerned. Ok, what if I—what if I look through the contact forms before I leave? Make sure I don’t recognize any names on them? Like—no bad names?”

“We don’t even know if it works like that.” Jon thought for another minute, but Martin could see his resistance starting to come down. “Look, I don’t want to… maybe I am being overprotective.”

“You think?” It didn’t really bother him to hear Jon say it; in fact, he got a bit soft knowing Jon felt that way, but it wasn’t going to help the situation to admit it.

Jon finally gave in. “All right. Do look at the names though—and if anything happens—”

“I’ll let you know right away. I won’t do anything dumb.”

“I know. Martin, I—” Jon looked up at him again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He leaned down for a quick kiss, which Jon returned. “I’ll be fine, ok?”

Jon nodded, reluctant.

***

Despite another look from Tim, Martin did check the names as promised; there were only three for that day, and he didn’t recognize any of them. By the time they left, the thought of spending time alone with Tim made him more nervous than their actual task. He imagined that as soon as they were out the door, Tim would start peppering him with questions about where he and Jon had been, what had happened between them, or both.

As it turned out, though, their time together was quite enjoyable. Martin had forgotten how easy it was to be around Tim—that he had that thing he could do that just made everyone comfortable when he wanted to. They took the tube out to a suburb, and on the way, they talked about the weather a little bit. They talked about a new café that had moved in down the street a few weeks ago; Tim said it was all right for an occasional something different, but nothing special. They talked about what Tim had been up to in his free time. As it turned out, his brother Danny was getting married soon to a girl Tim absolutely adored. Martin suddenly remembered when Danny had come into town and visited Tim at work one day a few years ago, and he’d been amazed by how similar the two of them had been when they stood side by side.

I’ve met Danny Stoker. The urge to smile hitting alongside that awful catch in his throat was becoming a strangely familiar feeling.

Their first interview was with an older woman in her home. She had gotten in touch with the Institute after receiving their information through a friend of a friend, who’d heard a story from yet another friend. Martin really thought there wasn’t anything to it. Well, he supposed it was possible there was a ghost living in her television set that just happened to have moved in after her daughter had tried to help her set up a new voice assistant—but in all fairness, it seemed unlikely. The second interview was equally unimpressive.

Once they finished up, Tim made a phone call to their third interview subject, and announced they were headed back to central London. The man didn’t want to meet at home, but he was willing to meet them somewhere public; Tim arranged to meet him at a deli not far from the Institute. The ride back was pleasant enough, if a bit quieter.

“It’s getting late,” Tim said, after glancing at his phone. “We have time to eat first, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Martin was pretty hungry again by the time they sat down with their food. He supposed he’d missed being able to enjoy food, but having to eat multiple times a day was sort of annoying when it came down to it. He was just wondering if he should send Jon a reminder to eat, when he realized Tim was staring at him; he hadn’t touched his sandwich yet.

“Everything ok?” he asked.

“What happened?” Tim asked. “To you and Jon.”

“Oh, I—” Martin swallowed the bite in his mouth. “I assumed Sasha told you. We don’t—”

“Don’t remember.” Tim cut him off. “Really, though? Like—nothing?”

Well, here goes. “Really. Nothing.”

Tim regarded him thoughtfully. “We looked for you. Me and Sasha, we looked everywhere, for weeks. Well, everywhere we could think of.”

“Tim, I’m—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” That was the truth. In fact, he was sorrier than he was going to be able to explain.

“Sasha took it really hard, you know?” Tim said. “I mean, you were at work when it happened. She felt responsible. Like it was her fault.”

That sounded familiar.

“It wasn’t,” Martin replied. “It wasn’t her fault. It had nothing to do with her.”

“I told her that. Every day. I don’t think it made any difference, though. And I’m sure it hasn’t really sunk in yet that you’re back.” Tim picked a small piece of crust from his sandwich bread and chewed it carefully before swallowing. “I mean, it almost seems impossible, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were gone for two months, you left no sign of what had happened or where you were—and then you just show up again one day, making out on the landscape, covered in your own blood.”

“We were not making out,” Martin snapped.

“You were too,” Tim answered. “What’s that about, anyway?”

Martin didn’t answer him.

“Look, I have no idea what happened, but… I’ll admit, I’ve always wondered if you maybe had a thing for him. I mean, the man’s always been a bit of a wreck, and I’ve watched you defend him and try to take care of him ever since we all started working together. And it’s not like you got along that well, but I know you and it just seems like the kind of thing you’d go for. But I never thought—”

“You really don’t like Jon, do you?”

“What? No, I like him just fine. You know that. But I like him for who he is, and this just seems like… it seems like a lot after two months.”

“Tim, it’s complicated, and I don’t know how to explain it. You don’t—you don’t know what we’ve been through. What he’s been through, or what he’s—”

“I thought you didn’t either.”

Martin’s heart skipped, and then beat double to make up for it. “I just meant—look, I don’t know what happened, but I—I feel things I can’t explain. And I can say that it feels like it’s been a lot longer than two months since—since we disappeared.”

“Is that so?” Tim asked. “Just tell me. Do you not remember, or do you actually not remember?”

“I—I really don’t remember.”

“Why did it sound like there were quotes around that?”

“There weren’t.”

“Right.” Tim said. “Well in that case, I ‘believe you’”—he paused to make large air quotes— “and I ‘definitely won’t keep asking.’”

“Tim—”

“It’s fine,” Tim said as he finally took a large bite of his sandwich, then continued with his mouth full. “Whatever happened, I am glad you’re back—and whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.”

As hungry as he was when he’d sat down, Martin couldn’t touch the rest of his sandwich. He kind of resented the way Tim was able to keep eating. Tim had always been that way though, hadn’t he? Able to say what he thought without worrying about the consequences. It had taken on a different flavor after he’d found himself trapped at the Institute, of course, but even then, he’d stood up to Elias without any fear of what might happen. Even when he’d died, he’d gone out the way he’d wanted too—no regrets.

Martin wanted so badly to tell him the truth in that moment. Instead, he sat in silence and watched him eat.

A short time later, Tim grabbed a napkin to wipe his mouth. “I think that’s him. Our interview. Yellow shirt, black jacket.” He raised a hand toward someone coming through the door behind Martin.

“What was the name again?” Martin asked as he turned around.

“Hang on—” Tim pulled out one of the contact forms. “Here we go. Antonio Blake.”

Wait. Wait, there was something familiar about that name—shit. He’d thought about it too quickly that morning. He’d completely forgotten about the alias.

Jon is going to lose it when I have to tell him this.

“You’re—you’re Oliver Banks,” he said to the man now standing directly in front of him.

Oliver looked suspiciously from him to Tim and back again. “I didn’t—how did you know that?”

“I—don’t know. It just came to me.” Given what Oliver had to be going through, maybe there was half a chance he would find that plausible.

Tim gave him a look. “You know him?”

“Not—not really. Please, sit.”

Oliver continued to hesitate. “I’m not sure I want to.”

“Look—I am sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’m Martin Blackwood, from the Magnus Institute. This is Tim Stoker.”

Tim stood up and offered his hand in that easy, open manner he had, and Oliver tenuously accepted it.

“Please,” Martin said. “Whatever you have to say—we’d like to hear it. It might be important. Maybe we could… help.”

He didn’t feel great about himself for adding that last part.

Oliver slowly pulled out the third chair at the table and sat down. Martin didn’t know what he’d expected him to be like, but somehow this wasn’t it. He felt sad for this man. He looked so tired, but at the same time so ready to run. He reminded Martin a bit of Jon, actually, during the year after Jane Prentiss had come to the institute and before they’d realized that Sasha had been murdered. He supposed that made a lot of sense, the more he thought about it.

Tim spoke again. “You didn’t leave a lot of detail in your message, so—do you want to just walk us through what happened to you?”

“Well…” Oliver looked from one to the other of them again. “I’m really not sure you’ll believe me. To tell the truth, I’m not sure anymore that I’m not going crazy. I’ve—I’ve not been sleeping much, and it’s…” he trailed off.

“You don’t want to sleep because you’re afraid you’ll dream again.”

Oliver re-focused on Martin. “How do you keep—”

“It’s all right.” Martin said. “I just want you to know that I’ll believe you. If you want to tell us.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Martin didn’t want to say anything that might send Oliver back out the door, and Tim followed his lead. Finally, Oliver spoke, quietly enough that it took some effort to hear him.

“It was a dream. Or it started with a dream. The first time, I dreamed that I was walking near Canary Wharf—I used to have a job there years ago, and—well, I don’t need to get into that, do I… The point is, I know the area. There were people around me, people I don’t actually know, like happens in a dream, but they all had these—I don’t know—tendrils.” He paused and made a motion with his hands, like he was holding something heavy. “I don’t really have another word for it. Like snakes, almost, but not alive like snakes. Just tendrils, everywhere, and they went through these people—like their hearts, or their heads, or around them somewhere. I really didn’t like it, you know, but also I think I knew I was dreaming. Everything was sort of pulsing and—and I was trying to ignore all of it, but when I headed home in the dream… Well, it was my landlady. She had lots of them, like black veins, running into her chest, or her lungs, really, somehow I knew it was her lungs. I woke up not long after that.”

Martin tried to keep his expression neutral. This was so much like the statement Oliver had made years ago in their world, to Gertrude, but it was also so different. Most obviously, it wasn’t a statement at all, it was just Oliver talking. That made sense. There was no Archivist here, either with them or in general, which Jon had so intently pointed out that morning. The words weren’t just pulled out like Martin was used to, thank god. And certainly, the people Oliver had first dreamed of in their world would have passed years earlier. The basic story, though, was the same.

“OK.” Tim nodded, scratching down some notes. “But I assume there’s more?”

“Well, the thing is—not even two weeks later, she—she died. Lung cancer. It was sudden. Undiagnosed. I’d almost forgotten about the dream, to be honest, but that… it shook me.”

“Understandable.” Tim nodded again. “So you think your dream was a—a warning?”

“Well, I mean—of course I was sort of struck by it, that day, but after a little time, it didn’t seem like such a big thing. She smoked her whole life. I know sometimes people know things they aren’t really conscious of, and maybe I just—knew she was sick. But then… it happened again. A man at the bakery near the shop where I work now. I barely knew him. It was his heart. And I—I dreamed it again. The whole thing. A week before it happened. And I just started wondering if—if every person I see in that dream…”

Tim frowned and looked toward Martin, which prompted Oliver to do the same.

“What do I do?” Oliver asked, and Martin swore a shiver ran through him—maybe it was from nerves or too much coffee or not enough sleep, or maybe all three. “I thought maybe you would—know something about this. Maybe you’ve heard of it before. Do you think—do you think I could help them? If I found them, if I talked to them—”

“No,” Martin answered. “I mean, I have heard of it before, and… no. You can’t help them. I’m—I’m sorry.”

Oliver worried at his lip. “I’m not—I’m not causing it somehow, am I? I was thinking that maybe—if I keep trying to stay awake—”

“No.” Martin shook his head. “No, you’re not causing it.  You—you should know it’s not your fault. And if you sleep, or if you don’t sleep—they’ll still… they’ll still die.”

Oliver nodded his head, digesting the information. “So I can’t do anything. I just get to know they’re going to die, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“I’m sorry.” Martin wondered what he would have said if he’d had time to think about it. Would it have been any different? Would he have thought of something better to say, something that didn’t fall so flat the moment it left his mouth, something that could have actually helped?

Would Jon have said something better?

“All right,” Oliver replied softly, bringing Martin back from his thoughts as he stood up from his chair. “Thank you for listening. I—I think I’m going to go.”

“If you need anything—if we can help—you know where to find us.”

Martin wasn’t sure if Oliver even heard him.

“What the hell was that?” Tim asked loudly, once Oliver was out of sight.

“Nothing,” Martin answered.

“That wasn’t nothing. You knew that man. You knew what he was going to say.” Tim pointed at the door, waving his finger for emphasis. “And then you…”

“Tim, I can’t explain it right now.”

He turned his finger on Martin. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like this.”

“I’m sorry. I wish—” His phone, which he had set on the table, buzzed at him. It was a message from Jon, asking if everything was ok. “Let’s go back now, all right?”

Tim shook his head in disbelief. They didn’t speak on the walk back.

***

Jon jerked up from his desk when they walked in, which was now covered in numerous hand-written notes and manilla folders. Martin suspected he’d maybe been taking an unintentional nap. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Martin answered. “Did you eat?”

“Not—not yet.”

“Here,” Martin said, tossing the rest of his sandwich onto Jon’s desk. “I didn’t finish it.”

“Oh.” Jon peeked under the wrapper. “You barely ate this at all. Are you sure you don’t—”

“Yes.”

“All right, well—thank you.” Jon took a quick bite and set it aside as he resumed reading.

“Well?” Tim said.

Martin ignored him.

“Are you going to tell him about your friend?”

“What friend?” Jon asked, eyes still on the paper in front of him.

“I didn’t catch his name, actually,” Tim replied. “But I do know it wasn’t”—he pulled out the now-crumpled contact form— “Antonio Blake.”

“What?” Jon immediately stopped what he was doing.

“Jon—”

“You saw Oliver Banks.”

“Oliver Banks.” Tim deliberately overpronounced the name. “That’s right. Thank you, Jon.”

“Tim—”

“How could you miss that?” Jon stood up.

“It was fine! Nothing happened. I would have—”

Jon didn’t even need to speak to cut him off; the look in his eyes was enough. “We need to talk.”

“Please,” Tim cut in. “One of you talk, at least.”

“In private. Come on,” Jon said, once again taking Martin by the arm. Rosie was back at her desk now, but Sasha had temporarily stepped out, and they spoke in her office with hushed voices, without bothering to turn the light on.

“Jon, it really was fine, I—”

“Stop.” Jon reached up to take Martin’s face in his hands. “It’s ok. I just want to know what happened.”

“Nothing, really. He—he’s had a couple dreams, that’s all. He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do to—to help them. I told him he couldn’t. I felt bad for him.”

Jon closed his eyes and breathed out, then opened them to look at Martin again.

“Jon, I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, what does he even do? He sees people’s deaths, and wakes up other people’s”—he paused— “Archivists.”

“It’s not funny. Or that simple.” Jon let go and turned to face the wall. “Martin what if—what if he had seen your death?”

“Well then—at least I’d know? I guess?”

“Or what if he’d seen Tim’s? Or—or mine?”

Martin could sort of see Jon’s point then—but only sort of. “Ok, but—I still think we weren’t really in any danger. Yes, I messed up, and I should have caught that, but—”

“It’s too dangerous,” Jon interrupted. “You can’t do this again without me. And—and neither can Tim.”

“Oh really,” Martin responded. “And why do you—”

“It’s not just Oliver,” Jon broke in again. “I found some things in the—in the interviews Sasha did. Do you remember the thing we called the Anglerfish?”

“Yes?”

“And do you remember Laura Popham?”

“Um—”

“She went caving with her sister and—”

“Oh, right. Lost John’s Cave.”

“They’ve… they were in there, in the interviews. Already. In just two months.”

Martin was starting to understand Jon’s reaction.

“And I was hoping it was just those sorts of things,” Jon continued, “and no… avatars, but if Oliver Banks is already connected to the End—”

“I see.” Martin stepped closer to Jon to put an arm over his shoulder. “All right, I get it. Things are happening fast.”

“Well… most things.” Jon sounded a little offput.

“Wait.” Martin almost laughed, but not because he found it funny. “Wait, are you upset because you aren’t connected to the Eye yet?”

“Upset isn’t the right—”

“Now who’s jealous of Oliver Banks?”

“Technically that would be envy, not jealousy—”

“Technically yes, but that isn’t the—”

“—and I’m not,” Jon finished. “I just—I feel like I know it’s coming, and I’d like to get it over with.”

“Right.” Martin rolled his eyes, but only because Jon couldn’t see it in the dim office. “So what do we do now?”

“First, if there are more interviews to be done, they could be important, but… we do them together. You and me.”

“There are. And… if Sasha is ok with it.”

“And then I keep going through Sasha’s notes. And then I go back before that, just to—”

“Jon, you’re going to exhaust yourself.”

“Then I do.”

“No. It doesn’t do anyone any good if you—”

They were interrupted by Sasha’s voice.

“Jon? Martin?”

“Yes,” Jon answered. “Sorry, I needed to speak with Martin, so we borrowed your office.”

“That’s fine, but you didn’t need to do it in the dark,” she said, switching on the light. “So I was just talking to Tim, and it sounds like today was… eventful?”

“That’s not exactly what I said, but I suppose that’s the polite version.” Tim followed her into the office.

“Well, I have something to report, too.” Sasha sat down behind her desk. “I know I said I was going to get back on regular archive things today, but… well, let’s just say I got curious, and may have found a back door on the web to access certain matters of official police business.”

“Really?” Tim’s grin was back. “That almost sounds like someone’s misbehaving.”

“I’d feel bad about it, but let’s also say I wasn’t too pleased with the way a certain missing persons case was handled.”

“Good for you.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Sasha did seem very pleased with herself. “But that brings me to my next point. Tim, I know you have some… contacts at some of the local police stations who might be able to—supplement the information I’m getting? I could use your help with that.”

“Sure, boss,” Tim said. “And that should work perfectly, actually, because I believe Jon was just getting ready to forbid Martin from going on any more interviews with me.”

“That is not—” Jon started over. “I would like to go with Martin on any further interviews, if that’s agreeable.”

“I mean—that’s fine, and I certainly don’t want anyone going out alone,” Sasha answered, “but what about catching up with everything here? It seemed like you felt that was pretty important.”

“I’d like to keep doing that too. I might need to put in a few extra hours.”

Sasha sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. Maybe? Let’s see how you’re doing next week.”

“Sasha, I’m—”

“—already worn out, and a very bad judge of your own health.” Martin nodded in agreement, and shrugged without sympathy when Jon glared at him. “For the rest of this week, if you come in, you’ll both stay here. Jon, you can keep going through my notes, and Martin—would you mind helping me catch up on some of the filing and patron requests? I don’t even want to think about how far behind we are. Those other interviews have waited this long, they’ll wait a few more days. Especially if Tim is able to help follow up with the police angle.”

“Of course,” Martin answered. Even if Jon didn’t think he needed to take it a little bit easy, Martin was more than willing to acknowledge his own limitations—and sometimes Jon’s, even if it wasn’t appreciated. “Oh, and Sasha—we’ve got therapy tomorrow morning, so we’ll probably be a little bit late.”

“Good,” Sasha replied. “And for now, don’t take any of those notes home, Jon.”

Jon stared daggers at Martin, but he didn’t regret it—especially not after Jon fell asleep on him on the couch during dinner a few hours later.

[back-and-totheleft]

INSIDE a flimsy temporary office on a dusty movie lot here, a young man sits in front of a computer, showing off a three-dimensional rendering of the collapse of the World Trade Center. It was assembled by merging the blueprints for the twin towers — the before-picture, you might say — with a vast collection of measurements, including some taken with infrared laser scans from an airplane 5,000 feet above Lower Manhattan, just days after 9/11.

With a few clicks, Ron Frankel, who has the title pre-visualization supervisor for Oliver Stone's new 9/11 film, begins to illustrate the circuitous path that five Port Authority police officers took into the trade center's subterranean concourse, until the towers above them fell, killing all but two.

As Mr. Frankel speaks, behind his back a burly man has wandered through the door. He is Will Jimeno, one of the two officers who survived. He has been a constant presence on the movie set, scooting from here to there in a golf cart, bantering with the actor playing him and with Mr. Stone, answering questions and offering suggestions — a consultant and court jester. But he has never seen this demonstration before, he says, pulling up a chair.

Mr. Frankel, continuing with his impromptu show-and-tell, says the floor beneath Mr. Jimeno, Sgt. John McLoughlin and their three fellow officers dropped some 60 feet, creating a 90-foot ravine in the underground inferno. The difference between instant death and a chance at life, for each of the men, was a matter of inches.

Mr. Jimeno sits quietly, absorbing what he's just seen and heard. His eyes moisten. "I didn't know this," he says. "I didn't know this. I didn't know there was a drop-off here. This is an explanation I never knew about." He pauses. "We try not to ponder on it, because we're alive. But it answers some questions. That, really, played a big part in us being here." The countless measurements taken and calculations made by scientists and government agencies helped ground zero rescue workers pinpoint dangerous areas in the weeks after the attacks. The data also provided a fuller historical record of how the buildings collapsed and lessons for future architects and engineers.

Only a movie budgeted as mass entertainment, though, could harness all that costly information to reconstruct the point of view of two severely injured and bewildered men, who didn't even know the twin towers had been flattened until rescuers lifted them to the surface many hours later.

Their story, and those of their families, their rescuers and the three men killed alongside them, is the subject of Mr. Stone's "World Trade Center," which Paramount plans to release on Aug. 9.

The quandary that Paramount executives face is a familiar one now, a few months after Universal's "United 93" became the first 9/11 movie to enter wide theatrical release: How do you market a movie like this without offending audiences or violating the film's intentions? Carefully of course, but "there's no playbook," said Gerry Rich, Paramount's worldwide marketing chief. In New York and New Jersey, for example, there will be no billboards or subway signs, which could otherwise hit, quite literally, too close to home. And the studio is running all of its materials by a group of survivors to avoid offending sensibilities.

But Paramount, naturally, wants as wide an audience as possible for this film.

Nicolas Cage, who plays the taciturn Sergeant McLoughlin, says the movie is not meant to entertain. "I see it as storytelling which depicts history," he says. "This is what happened. Look at it. 'Yeah, I remember that.' Generation after generation goes by, they'll have 'United 93,' 'World Trade Center,' to recall that history."

Whether Mr. Stone set out to make a historical drama or a dramatic history isn't entirely clear. Mr. Jimeno and Mr. McLoughlin, who have both since retired from the Port Authority, say the script and the production took very few liberties except for the sake of time compression.

"We're still nervous," Mr. Jimeno said last fall, after shooting had shifted from New York and New Jersey to an old airplane hangar near Marina del Rey. "It's still Hollywood. But Oliver — it's to the point where he drives me crazy, trying to get things right."

There are many people of course who have been driven a little crazy for other reasons by some of Mr. Stone's more controversial films, "JFK," "Natural Born Killers" and "Nixon" chief among them. But in several interviews, sounding variously weary, wounded and either self-deprecating or defensive, Mr. Stone spoke as if his days of deliberate provocation were behind him.

"I stopped," he says simply. "I stopped."

His new film, he says, just might go over as well in Kansas as in Boston, or, for that matter, in Paris or Madrid. "This is not a political film," he insists. "The mantra is 'This is not a political film.' Why can't I stay on message for once in a while? Why do I have to take detours all the time?"

He said he just wants to depict the plain facts of what happened on Sept. 11. "It seems to me that the event was mythologized by both political sides, into something that they used for political gain," he says. "And I think one of the benefits of this movie is that it reminds us of what actually happened that day, in a very realistic sense."

"We show people being killed, and we show people who are not killed, and the fine line that divides them," he continues. "How many men saved those two lives? Hundreds. These guys went into that twisted mass, and it very clearly could've fallen down on them, and struggled all night for hours to get them out."

By contrast Paul Haggis is directing the adaptation of Richard Clarke's book on the causes of 9/11, "Against All Enemies," for the producer John Calley and Columbia Pictures.

Asked if that weren't the kind of film he might once have tried to tackle, Mr. Stone first scoffs: "I couldn't do it. I'd be burned alive." Then he adds: "This is not a political film. That's the mantra they handed me."

Mr. Stone says he particularly owes his producers, Michael Shamberg and Stacy Sher, for taking a chance on him at a time when he had gone cold in Hollywood after a string of commercial and critical disappointments culminating in the epic "Alexander" in 2004. "They believed in me at a time when other people did not, frankly," he says. " 'Alexander' was cold-turkeyed in this town, I think unfairly, but it was, and I took a hit. Nobody's your friend, nobody wants to talk to you."

Mr. Stone came forward asking to direct "World Trade Center" just about a year ago. He decided it would require a different approach from, say, "JFK." "The Kennedy assassination was 40 years ago, and look at the heat there, a tremendous amount of heat," he says. "I was trying to do my best to give an alternative version of what I thought might have happened, but it wasn't understood. It was taken very literally. 'Platoon,' I went back to a Vietnam that I saw quite literally, but it was a twisted time in our history.

"This — this is a fresh wound, and it had to be cauterized in a certain way. This is a very specific story. The details are the details are the details."

The details that led to the movie's making began in April 2004, when Andrea Berloff, a screenwriter, pitched a story about Mr. Jimeno's and Mr. McLoughlin's "transformation in the hole" to Ms. Sher and Mr. Shamberg. Ms. Berloff, who had no produced credits, was candid about two things:

"I didn't want to see the planes hit the buildings. We've seen enough of that footage forever. It's not adding anything new at this point. I also said I don't know how to end the movie, because there are 10 endings to the story. What happened to John and Will in that hospital could be a movie unto itself. Will flatlined twice, and was still there on Halloween. And John was read his last rites twice."

The producer Debra Hill, who had optioned the rights to the two men's stories, was listening in on the line. When Ms. Berloff was done, she recalls, Ms. Hill said, "I don't want to speak out of turn, but I think we should hire you."

Ms. Berloff and Mr. Shamberg headed to New York to meet with the two officers and their families, and to visit both the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where the men had once patrolled, and ground zero. In long sessions with the Jimenos in Clifton, N.J., and with the McLoughlins in Goshen, N.Y., Ms. Berloff says, she quickly learned that both families, despite the nearly three years that had elapsed, remained emotionally raw. "Within 20 minutes of starting to talk they were losing it," she says. "We all just sat and cried together for a week."

Before leaving, Ms. Berloff says, she felt she had imposed on, exhausted and bonded with the two families so much that she warned them that in all likelihood she would not be around for the making of the movie. "I had to say, 'The writer usually gets fired, so I can't guarantee I'll be there at the end,' " she recalls. "But I'd recorded the whole thing, and I said they shouldn't have to go through this with a bunch of writers. They'd have the transcripts to work from."

Ms. Berloff returned to Los Angeles, stared at her walls for a month, she says, and then wrote a script in five weeks, turning it in two days before her October wedding.

Ms. Hill died of cancer the following March. Mr. Shamberg and Ms. Sher moved ahead, circulating the script to Kevin Huvane at Creative Artists Agency, and to his partners Bryan Lourd and Richard Lovett. Mr. Lourd gave it to Mr. Stone, Mr. Lovett to his client Mr. Cage.

The agency also represents Maria Bello, who plays Mr. McLoughlin's wife, Donna, and Maggie Gyllenhaal, who plays Alison Jimeno. Ms. Gyllenhaal, who'd just seen "Crash," suggested Michael Peña, who made a lasting impression in a few scenes as a locksmith with a young daughter. (Mr. Peña did a double-take, he confesses, upon hearing that Mr. Stone was directing a 9/11 movie: "I'm like, let me read it first — just because you're aware of the kind of movies that he does.")

Given the need to shoot exteriors in New York in September, the cast and crew raced to get ready for shooting. The actors aimed for accuracy in different ways. Mr. Cage says he focused on getting Mr. McLoughlin's New York accent right, and spent time in a sense-deprivation tank in Venice, Calif., to get a hint of the fear and claustrophobia one might experience after hours immobile and in pain in the dark. Mr. Peña all but moved in with Mr. Jimeno.

Ms. Gyllenhaal had her own problems to solve. That April she had stepped on a third rail, saying on a red carpet at the Tribeca Film Festival that "America has done reprehensible things and is responsible in some way" for 9/11. She apologized publicly, then met privately with the Jimenos, offering to withdraw if they objected to her involvement. "We started to get into politics a little bit, and Will said, 'I don't care what your politics are,' " she recalls.

With Mr. Jimeno and Mr. McLoughlin vouching for the filmmakers, more rescuers asked to be included, meaning not only that dozens of New York uniformed officers would fly to Los Angeles to re-enact the rescue of the two men, but that there were more sources of information to replace Ms. Berloff's best guesses with vivid memories.

Ms. Bello, who had gone to St. Vincent's Hospital on 9/11 with her mother, a nurse, and waited in vain for the expected deluge of injured to arrive, contributed a scene after learning from Donna McLoughlin of a poignant encounter she had had while waiting for her husband to arrive at Bellevue.

Some of the film's most fictitious-seeming moments are authentic. Mr. Jimeno's account of his ordeal included a Castaneda-like vision in which Jesus appeared with a water bottle in hand. But Mr. McLoughlin recalled no hallucinations, or nightmares, or dreams: only thoughts of his family. "He kept saying I'm sorry — 20 years in the job, never gotten hurt, and here we go and I'm not going to be there for you," Ms. Berloff says. "So we tried to dramatize that."

Nearly everything else in the movie is straight out of Mr. Jimeno's and Mr. McLoughlin's now oft-told story: the Promethean hole in the ground, with fireballs and overheated pistol rounds going off at random; the hundreds of rescuers, with a few standouts, like the dissolute paramedic with a lapsed license who redeems himself as he digs to reach Mr. Jimeno.

And the former marine who leaves his job as a suburban accountant, rushes to church, then dons his pressed battle fatigues, stops at a barbershop for a high-and-tight, heads downtown past barricades saying he's needed and winds up tiptoeing through the perilous heap calling out "United States Marines" until Mr. Jimeno hears him and responds. Mr. Stone says he is adding a note at the end of the film, revealing that the marine, David Karnes, re-enlisted and served two tours of duty in Iraq, because test audiences believed he was a Hollywood invention.

Reality can be just as gushingly sentimental as the sappiest movie, Mr. Stone acknowledges, especially when the storytellers are uniformed officers in New York who lived through 9/11. And particularly when it comes to Mr. Jimeno and Mr. McLoughlin, who have struggled with the awkwardness of being singled out as heroes when so many others died similarly doing their duty, and when so many more rescued them.

"You could argue the guys don't do much, they get pinned, so what," Mr. Stone says. "There will be those type of people. I say there is heroism. Here you see this image of these poor men approaching the tower, with no equipment, just their bodies, and they don't know what the hell they're doing, and they're going up into this inferno, they're like babies. You feel saddened, you feel sorry for them. They don't have a chance."

Mr. Cage says he once mentioned to Mr. Stone that their audience had lived through 9/11: "That it's not like 'Platoon,' where most of us don't know what it's like to be in the jungle."

"He said, 'Well what's your point?' " Mr. Cage says. "And my point is that we all walk into buildings every day, and we were there, and we saw it on TV, so this is going to be very cathartic and a little bit hard for people."

Despite its fireballs, shudders and booms, Mr. Stone's film is also unusually delicate, from the shadowy intimacy of the officers' early-morning awakenings to the solemnity of their ride downtown in a commandeered city bus, to the struggle of their wives to cope with hours of uncertainty and then with false reports of their husbands' safety.

"It's not about the World Trade Center, really. It's about any man or woman faced with the end of their lives, and how they survive," Mr. Stone says. "I did it for a reason. I did it because emotionally it hit me. I loved the simplicity and modesty of this movie.

"I hope the movie does well," he adds, "even if they say 'in spite of Oliver Stone.' "

-David M. Halbfinger, "Oliver Stone's 'World Trade Center' Seeks Truth in the Rubble," The New York Times, July 2 2006 [x]

[the-navistar-carol]

Marinette Self-Care Songfic: Why Should I Worry? from Oliver & Company

AKA: my fix-it fic to the ML angst and salt plus Chloé redemption

AKA^2: Marinette has run out of fucks to give about the Miracu-class

Note: halfway through writing this, I realized it had more Chlonette than I expected it to have. whatever. mild cursing.

~~~

One minute I'm in Central Park

Then I'm down on Delancey Street

Marinette’s heart was soaring for the first time in weeks. Or had it been months? Either way, she was floating on cloud nine, and couldn’t bring herself to concern herself with the new sob story Lila spun that morning about how she couldn’t possibly take her own tray, God forbid, by herself.

Audrey Bourgeois had taken her designs and was going to put them in her newest fashion show! Her designs and ideas would be put on TV, for people across the world!!

She practically skipped downstairs, giddy.

From the Bowery to St Mark’s

There's a syncopated beat

She was up early, much to her parent’s welcome surprise, and bouncing off the walls as her amused Maman handed her a fresh croissant.

The Adrien pictures had been long coming to be gone, now that she thought about it. As he became closer and closer to Lila, she shunned him. That promise of being a team had fallen as soon as it was put under any strain.

Whatever.

I'm street-wise

I can improvise

For once, Marinette wasn’t in a rush. She skipped to school, her sketchbook safely in her room. Any designing inspiration she had, well, there were notebooks for that.

Chloé, surprisingly, had edged her way closer to her side. It really looked like there was change. Redemption, even.

The two of them had transferred to Ms. Mendeleiev’s class as soon as Lila’s grip on the class had been a stranglehold, and it was perhaps the best decision she had made in the past few months.

I'm street-smart

I've got New York City heart

She bumped shoulders with the now-familiar blonde, lips curving up into a brilliant grin. “I forgot to tell you! Your mom is taking my designs to her stage! If you don’t already know, y’know, since you’re her daughter...” And there she went rambling. Shit.

Chloé glanced her way, still somewhat surprised that Marinette would even bother to make friends with her in the first place. After a beat, she nodded. “Of course. She has standards, after all. God forbid she goes and wears Gabriel.”

The snotty tone was harder to lose than her attitude toward her, Marinette reflected, but it was better than nothing. She grinned even wider at the dig at the boy who had once taken up so much of her life.

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

“How’s your mom’s fashion show coming up?”

That made a smile tug at the blonde’s lips. “She’s doing well. Everything’s going smoothly. She’s even letting me model.”

“You deserve it,” Marinette smiled. None of it was fake. If there was one thing she and Chloé got along with, it was that lies would not be tolerated.

The compliment made her perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up for a second, sky-blue eyes flicking over at her as a faint tint of pink colored her cheeks. “Of - of course I do,” she returned quickly, at an attempt to return to her normal haughty mask.

Marinette merely grinned at her in response.

I may not have a dime

But I got street savoir faire

Afterschool, she could feel Alya’s eyes boring into the back of her skull as she and Chloé entered her chauffeur's car and drove away.

The blonde in question smirked out the window, making Marinette huff a laugh. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Chloé.”

“Who says it’s necessary?” she crowed, and held her phone up to the noirette’s face. “You’re coming to my mother’s fashion show, since you’re the talent behind her production. And we’re going to model.”

Waitwaitwait—what?

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. We’re modeling in your fashion show.” Chloé’s smug grin stretched from ear to ear. “Who cares about Lila’s lies when you could be walking the catwalk?”

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

After homework, her brain was still buzzing. We’re modeling. In Audrey Bourgeois’s—my—fashion show. Together.

“How did you get your mom to agree?”

A shrug, and Chloé sprawled back on her larger-than-necessary bed, scrolling through Instagram. “She loves your designs, it wasn’t hard. Besides. You’re the reason she’s even putting this thing on.”

But the split-second glance she took in Marinette’s direction said more.

“Thank you,” Marinette smiled. “I’m glad we could model together.”

Chloé choked on her spit, sitting bolt upright. “Who said anything about together?”

“You did,” she pointed out. “You said we’re going to model. We, Chloé. Not you and I, we.”

“I… I guess I did. Yeah. We’re modeling together.” She flopped back on her bed, almost hiding behind her phone case.

It's just bebop-ulation

And I got street savoir faire

The original plan had been for Marinette to sit on the sidelines next to Audrey, and watch her ideas get paraded on live TV to millions.

But that had gone sideways, and now Marinette was going to be modeling her own designs.

And she was going down the catwalk hand-in-hand with Chloé Bourgeois. That, in of itself, was something she would have scoffed at mere months ago. Now, she looked forward to it with a smile.

“Hey, Marinette.” Chloé threw her a glance, which she returned, looking up from her new sketchbook. “Do you actually know how to walk a catwalk?”

…No.

The rhythm of the city

But once you get it down

The next few hours consisted of Chloé stuffing her in high heels and parading her down the hotel hallways and stairs, a good number of times causing her to fall.

“Chlo, I don’t think I’ll be in six-inch heels!”

“Ridiculous,” her friend huffed. “If you can walk in six-inch heels, you’ll be fine in kitten heels. I don’t think you’ll be in stilettos anyway.”

“Chlooooo…”

The blonde rolled her eyes, Marinette’s hand clutching at hers whenever she stumbled. “You’ll do fine. If you can do a back handspring, you can walk in heels.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

A cheeky grin flashed its way onto Chloé’s face. “You know I’m right, Marinette.”

“…Hrmph.”

Then you can own this town

You can wear the crown

The fashion show was way more extravagant than she’d expected.

“Shit,” she’d breathed, eyes flying open wide. “Your mom is extra.”

Chloé merely grinned in response, scanning the crowd. “Whoa, Beyoncé!”

“What?! No way!!”

“She’s talking to my mom. Let’s go say hi.”

And with that, she snatched Marinette’s hand and practically dragged her over to her mother’s side. “Hello, Mommy. Hi, Ms. Beyoncé!”

“Hi,” Marinette squeaked, now very aware that she was wearing nothing as dazzling as the queen Beyoncé.

But the infamous woman merely grinned and held out a hand dripping in diamonds. “Pleasure. You’re miss Dupain-Cheng? Audrey tells me you’re the brains behind all this.”

She knew her name. Beyoncé knew her name.

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

The show had gone off without a hitch. She and Chloé had paraded the final two (the best, actually) outfits she had designed side-by-side and arm-in arm, posing back-to-back to the cameras. Almost like siblings.

Chloé had been proud to flaunt the fact that she had been interviewed for multiple magazines and fashion shows, and they were going on Teen Vogue.

“Who needs Lila?” she crowed when they left the building, throwing her hands up in the air. “Who needs her when we’re the real deal?!”

Then she sobered, and turned her head to face Marinette. “Actually, I take it back.” She bumped shoulders with the noirette. “You’re the real deal.”

Marinette flushed, blinking rapidly. “Oh. Oh! Thanks, Chloé. Really, I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Ridiculous,” Chloé snorted. “I just made it easier. Your designs would have made it up there anyway.” But there was a faint dusting of pink at her cheeks that could not be denied.

I may not have a dime

But I got street savoir faire

The next day, they’d planned their outfits with care, Chloé snickering. “Just wait for the look on Lie-la’s face. We’re famous and she’s not.”

“I don’t think that argument’s going to work every time,” Marinette laughed, aware of the fact she was dressed in top-of-the-line fashion, looking fresh off the runway. “But this time, I’m not stopping you.”

Her best friend smirked. “Good. Then we’re definitely wreaking havoc.”

“Look out world,” Marinette grinned, “we’re here to take it by storm.”

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

As the bell was close to ringing, they practically strutted into school with all eyes on them, arm-in-arm. They were already trending on Instagram, as Chloé had told her at least ten times.

Marinette inwardly smirked at the sheer looks on her former classmates’ faces.

Alya looked like someone had smacked her in the face with a rotting fish. Adrien’s jaw was hanging just an inch off the floor.

And Lila. Lila looked positively furious, eyebrows drawn together and face in a positive snarl.

Sucks to be you, she sang inwardly. ‘Cause I’ve just blown your whole grand plan to bits.

And the fact that it was Chloé at her side just blew them away more.

Who cared? People changed.

It's just bebop-ulation

And I got street savoir faire

They were sure to discuss the details of the show in loud overtones whenever anyone was near, biting back positively evil grins when eyes were on them (which was always).

Of course, it didn’t necessarily help Lila that Marinette had outed her for trying to destroy her sketchbook’s designs and for bullying on live TV.

She was not above being petty.

They could crawl back if they wished.

Everything goes

Everything fits

With Chloé at her side, the world suddenly seemed less hard. She wasn’t alone. She had a girl who was at her side through thick and thin, and wasn’t afraid to yell at people who would oppose her.

Who needed a plethora of friends when she had one good one at her side?

Nibbling on a croissant, she watched in idle glee as students exploded at Lila, one by one. She watched as the daughter of a diplomat cowered beneath their glares and fury, and never lifted a finger to help her.

She was done being a welcome mat for people to wipe their feet on to have a better day.

Let them wipe their own feet on the stones.

They love me at the Chelsea

They adore me at the Ritz

Now she was known across France, across the world. And with her head held high, she would go even further. This was just the beginning.

People would be wearing her designs. People would be wearing MDC, people would be wearing Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

As the months sped by, she allowed a select few of the old class to trickle back into her circle. Nathanaël, for one. He, Alix, and Marc had never joined in on the drama, instead stuck to themselves. He was a great help in designing, and she would admit it wholeheartedly.

Her friendship with Kitty Section didn’t diminish in the slightest, despite her becoming distant from the rest of the school.

Was she becoming colder? Or had the world pushed her to become so?

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

At the end of the day, she was much happier than she had been. She had true friends to support her through no matter what. She had a design career waiting for her as soon as she finished université, or even lyceé.

And maybe she would have people who meant more than best friends.

The future was uncertain, but one thing was.

She was going to come out of every setback better than before.

And even when I cross that line

I got street savoir faire

[dailytomlinson]

“There were times I struggled to find my place in the band,” Louis admits today.

But it’s often the quiet ones you’ve got to look out for.

Behind the scenes he was very much centre stage: Louis was the mouthpiece, constantly fighting the boys’ corner and acting as chief negotiator between band and management.

“Being from Doncaster,” he says, “I’ve never had a problem with telling anyone ‘no’.”

“There was a while when I was worried I was getting left behind – some of the boys are on to their second album now,” he says, taking a draw onthe first of several cigarettes. “At times, I’ve been swimming against the tide, working out who I am. I was trying to find a way back into the industry, thinking of it mathematically rather than going off feeling and emotion.” 

He’s referring to collaborations with Bebe Rexha and Steve Aoki in 2016 and 2017 respectively, which, although successful, weren’t where his heart lay. With Kill My Mind – the exhilarating ’90s-inspired opening track of the album Walls – he sets his stall out with a clear departure from anything he’s done before.

Walls is about regret, reflection and ultimately, hope, and feels like Louis, who sings in his still-broad Doncaster accent, has finally found his voice.

“I’ve always wanted to be autobiographical and honest. And in the last six months the songs I’ve written and recorded are of a better standard because there’s an honesty there,” he says.

Honesty certainly characterises the album, sometimes devastatingly so. There’s no escaping the fact that Louis, 28, has faced unimaginable pain over the last few years.

“It wasn’t until after I’d written it that I realised how much vulnerability I’d put in there,” he says. “When I first performed it… I had fans coming up to me in tears telling me their stories, and that’s not something I’ve ever had before. And to do it on that level about something so delicate… It was really cool to take something so dark and make people feel like that.

“I had to get a song like that off my chest. It was difficult writing about things that felt trivial compared to what was going on in my life. There was, I think, a necessity to write that song before I could move on creatively.”

Understandably, Louis won’t talk specifically about Félicité. But when asked about how grief has shaped him both as a man and an artist, he pays tribute to Jay.

“I think it’s a credit to how my mum brought me up that I have a resilience,” he says. “There’s nothing I want less than to have people feel sorry for me, so having that mentality has helped me through the hardest of times.

"I’ve also felt a real support system through my fans. I’d always felt it on a lower level, but when it’s something so impactful and life-defining, I really did feel it from them.”

Days after Jay’s death, Louis appeared live on The X Factor to perform Just Hold On with Aoki.

He was clearly in pieces and it was hard enough just watching, but somehow he held it together, presumably thanks again to that resilience.

“Sometimes it’s fight or flight,” Louis explains. “And the way I was brought up and because of where I’m from, I only see one option in that situation. I also wanted to put myself second and do it for my mum.

"That moment was bigger than me and it was actually incredibly liberating. It used every bit of strength and power and I look back on that performance as one of the proudest moments of my career.”

He says he tends not to suppress emotion and is able to share his darkest points with those he’s closest to.

But as the eldest of Jay’s seven children (five girls and two boys), he also feels a huge weight of responsibility towards his younger siblings and hasn’t had any professional therapy himself.

“No, no, nothing like that. That might be down to a bit of Northern pride, but I have a lot of responsibility on my shoulders and that drives me. I’ve got siblings who look up to me and I’ve got my grandparents as well. So all those things keep my head screwed on.

“My mum had a massive influence on me and I lived with a lot of sisters in the house, so I do find it easier to speak about my emotions. But I’m also from Doncaster, where to be a guy is to be tough and traditional and I feel like [there are] times where pride kicks in and I just say I’m all right.

"I’m lucky that I’ve got good people around me who I can trust and who I can be completely vulnerable with and say how I feel. Nine times out of 10, I don’t bottle things up. I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

They sold 20 million albums worldwide, earning over £40million each, but the pressures of fame were, at times, intolerable. Louis says they were only able to keep their heads screwed on because they had each other.

“You can never be prepared for that. It was such a head f**k. But we grounded each other so the minute one of us acted like a d**khead one of the others would say: ‘Stop being a d**khead’. I see people in this job surrounding themselves with superiority and they lose the concept of the real world.”

He remembers doing a shoot with the band for Pepsi over in the States with American footballer Drew Brees.

“This guy was like a god and we were insignificant when he was around, which we understood. But I’ve never seen anything like it. Every sentence that came out of his mouth he’d have an audience of hangers-on in hysterics.

"These people were so far up his arse and he didn’t have one good joke. He had no banter! I still hang around with my boys from Doncaster and I hear real stories all the time, which helps me understand the world that unfortunately I don’t get to see. Having empathy with people and a connection with the world is imperative for any songwriter.”

Harry Styles recently said that he never touched drugs during his time in the band (although he’s made up for that since), because he didn’t want to “mess it up”. Louis smiles as he confides that he can’t say the same.

“All I’ll say is that I did my fair share and enjoyed my time in the band. It’s right what Harry said and it was smart of him, but I definitely had a lot of fun in the band. I was always aware of how amazing the opportunity was, but also enjoying the moment for what it was. I lived like anyone else my age – the difference was that I was in One Direction.”

He’s in touch with Harry, Niall and Liam “sporadically” (we’ll come to Zayn shortly), but they’re all on very different paths for now.

“If we all went to a pub tomorrow it’d be like we’d never left. The enormity of what happened in One Direction creates a massive bond and we’ll always have that.

"There have been times when we’ve done each other’s heads in. There might be something I say in an interview that bugs Liam or vice versa, but we all know what each other is like and we can call each other up and say sorry for being a d**k. We’re like brothers.”

But that’s not necessarily the case with Zayn, who quit in 2015 and with whom Louis has had a turbulent relationship since. He was hurt when Zayn was the only one not to turn up at the X Factor studio to support him through his performance after Jay’s death, despite promising to be there.

Then there’s Zayn’s apparent repeated digs. In one interview he branded 1D’s music “generic as f**k”. There’s a difference between making a break from the past and dismissing it completely, and it’s a line Zayn perhaps hasn’t always managed to walk.

“Hmm,” agrees Louis, cautiously. “Other than maybe Niall, there is no one who is prouder of the band and the songs we created than me. But while what I did with One Direction is relevant, it doesn’t define who I am and I don’t struggle to make that dissociation.”

Does he think some of what Zayn has said has been disrespectful?

“Yeah, I do. But I can understand it. We have a lot of situations where we’re sat in interviews and if you’re in a certain mood you might run your mouth. The older you get the more you can tell if these things actually carry any malice or if they’re just a prod in the back. That’s life, innit? Sometimes people chat s**t and that’s the reality.”

He’s not ruling out resolving their differences in the future, but there’s no olive branch on the horizon.

“No, but I’ve not actively tried. We’ve all got a lot on our plates and there might be a day where I wake up and think: ‘OK, I want to right that wrong’, but not yet.”

After being in his company for a while, it’s not hard to see why Louis was 1D’s driving force backstage. He’s thoughtful, articulate, open and self-aware, but there’s a steeliness to him and the requisite pop-star swagger, which doesn’t seem to spill over into arrogance.

And that is reflected in his music, which is heavily influenced by the Arctic Monkeys, The Smiths and Oasis. In fact, the title track and latest single Walls sounds so similar to Oasis B-side and fans’ favourite Acquiesce that Louis’ manager flagged it as a potential issue.

“These kinds of things happen. There are only so many melodies you can write and if you listen to a band all the time like I do with Oasis…”

Anyway, says Louis. He had to make a choice.

“I was ready to risk it, but everyone said we should get in touch with Noel [Gallagher] so we did. Often the industry, and especially Noel’s world, can be a bit snobby and say: ‘F**k you you’re not using this song’. But he was really cool about it, signed it off no problem and although I’m sure he’s not happy about this, I f**king am, I’ve got a writing credit from Noel Gallagher on my album. That is some sick s**t so I’m buzzing.”

Is he nervous about going it alone? “I think I’ve got a good record so I’m confident. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t little bit nervous – there’s three and half years work gone into it so there’s a level of anticipation.”

The most overwhelming emotion though, is relief.

“Because it’s taken such a long time. I’m excited to go on to the next phase of my career.”

[wiinterrose]

          ( xavier serrano , cis male , he / him, 23 ) no way ! i swear i saw 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒 walking down danforth avenue ! i just saw a post about them on 6secrets ! i think it said something like “𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝟓 𝐀𝐌 : 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ?”. isn’t that wild ? i guess that makes sense since they’re apparently 𝐃𝐔𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐒 and 𝐂𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆. fans will claim that they’re 𝐎𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 and 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂.  i mean , it’s not like i know them personally — they’re a famous 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐁𝐄𝐑. whenever i think of them, i think of 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓-𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐒, 𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒, & 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒. i wish i would have asked for an autograph ! ( oliver, they / them, 22, est ).

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

— mikey was born and raised in winnipeg because i think it’s funny when characters are from winnipeg. if you’re from winnipeg i’m so sorry. definitely was born on the coldest day of that year ( so like some point in january )

— but because of those long, cold harsh winters, mikey found himself in a dance studio a lot. his aunt was a dance teacher and with rather absent parents who meant well but both had long hours at the local hospital, he spent a lot of time with her. he fell in love with dance pretty early on, always having a certain fluidity and grace even when he was young.

— random but he also played hockey up until he was like 16 or whatever because he’s canadian and i’m not stupid. it happened. he can still skate tho. in a slightly different life he probably would have been a pretty good figure skater huh 🤔🤔🤔 but anyway...

— also feel like it makes sense that he did gymnastics. and trained in classical ballet.

— he went to university of toronto for college, studying kinesology and dance, and danced at one of the prestigious studios in the city.

— his big break moment was when in his sophomore year at ut, he made it onto the second season of world of dance in early 2017 ( lets pretend that show has been on longer than it has bc i don’t want it to be the first season of it sldk ). he made it all the way to the finals and quickly become a fan favorite along the way. though he ultimately placed second and missed out on the million dollars, that was the beginning of many doors opening for him. ( for those who, might have the vaguest clue what i’m talking about : i’m highkey feeling like, michael dameski style which is an idea i had after i named him michael so don’t @ me for him having the same first name ).

— millions watched that show, including some prominent agents and scouts who were able to help him launch a professional dance career : something he never thought he’d see himself actually doing. his first big gig was making the dance team for some singer’s north american tour, and he ended up not returning to ut to pursue a professional dance career full time. since then he’s danced in a few music videos for some uber famous musican ( same one he went on tour with or not idk ?? also a wc ?? maybe ?? ), a tv show, couple movies, and other various gigs around the city. he works part time at a studio when he has time, and has been honing his choreography skills as well.

— he makes enough dancing, but certainly not enough to make him RICH. no, that come from an impromptu vlog he did while on tour with aforementioned singer. having already garnered a following from world of dance, he soon rose to youtube fame as well, something he never could have predicted. i feel like his videos are very just, day in a life with various random athletic challenges mixed in, and various workout and flexibility tips. he also still does pieces and duets with other prominent dancers just for fun too. his natural charisma and attitude really just carries him through easily lmao.

— mikey developed a bit of a habit of sleeping around when he left for college, all the newfound freedom was just intoxicating and well. he was hot so. it wasn’t like it was hard alsdkjf. that stuck around well into his blossoming dance career. nothing that was enough to be scandalous, but he made his way around. and then a year and a half into this unforeseen new life, he met matthew glass.

— he’d had a couple serious relationships before, one in high school, one his freshman year of college but neither of them could hold a flame to what he felt when he was with matt. perfection wasn’t something mikey believed in, but he almost did with what they had.

— it was like for over a year and a half he lived in this insane dream, and then mikey and matt broke up and he was devastated ( behind closed doors and with curtains pulled tightly shut ).

— he then proceeded to broadcast how perfectly fine he was doing by going back to his old ways and sleeping around obsessively, this time with very little regard as to how many headlines he was making. as far as coping mechanisms go, i guess sex is better than alcohol ?? not to say he wasn’t also drunk at times l o l.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂

— mikey gets around. has definitely been trying to forget matty with other warm bodies but honestly it’s not working

— very bi. very much does not care. if the world didn’t know he was before, it definitely does now lmao. he hasn’t come out in the sense he’s like posted a video about it and said “i’m bisexual” but it’s pretty obvious from the media and maybe he has gotten asked in interviews and has just shrugged and been like does it matter ?? i’m sorry he’s not the vocal bi ally we need. perhaps we will work on that.

— hasn’t dated anyone since matt bc he’s highkey lowkey still hung up on him but no one needs to know that right. outwardly, he’s very much the same : seemingly happy, but he’s a lot more careful with his heart and letting people close to him. if anything he’s become a bit of a two-way mirror, always seeing out but never really letting people see in, just what they want to see.

— probably goes without saying but extremely flexible. idk if any of you know who juuse saros is but apparently he can twerk in a split and i’m not saying mikey can but like. he just might be able to...

— straight up does not get cold. never wears more than a hoodie, probably danced shirtless in the middle of winter just fine. at least being from winnipeg is good for one ( 1 ) thing.

— i feel like people call him flower. idk guys. maybe im just thinking too much abt hockey goalies.

— always posting on instagram stories. u kno the type.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

— he tends to be extremely underestimated as he comes across a bit dumb and generally has a pretty positive outlook on life which people confuse for him being naive when that isn’t the case. but he’s found he can use that it his advantage and that sometimes, people will tell him things they think he can’t understand but he hears and remembers everything. it’s helped him out of a few difficult situations before.

— i feel like he has a bit of ethan dolan’s personality & dumbass energy idk guys...

— live in the moment kind of dude. his motto is probably like : you just gotta know what you want to do next. i mean looking back on his life it’s been pretty crazy and that’s only solidified his outlook that like, you really can’t control too much. just let it go where it takes you.

— people do like him though and they like talking to him for whatever reason. generally has pretty trustworthy vibes but he’s more slippery than he comes across. he’s a selfish person at heart and always has his own best interests in mind, even if it doesn’t seem that way at first.

— extroverted. i think ??

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

— 6′1″. chocolate brown eyes. curly brown hair. he has a lithe but extremely fit build due to his career. his core strength is especially impressive.

— he has a monochromatic lineart tattoo of a rose on his left forearm / wrist and a butterfly ( again monochromatic & just lineart ) on his right shoulder. small scar at the base of his neck by his ear from an unfortunate hockey accident.

— needs glasses but usually only wears contacts unless he’s in his apartment late at night.

— he’s not overly fashionable, going more for comfort than how he generally looks. on a regular day, he’s probably got the whole... college athlete look going if you know what i mean. a big fan of mirrored aviator sunglasses. wouldn’t know what dressing up meant even if it slapped him in the face.

— PINTEREST BOARD

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

first and foremost i want to say that i like to vibe and brainstorm with people to come up with unique connections between our characters but here are a few ideas :

— ( f ) a close friend he has had on his channel a few times and fans passionately ship them but they’re really just good friends. maybe they play into the drama a few times as well tho. — the singer whose tour he danced on — singer whose music videos he’s been in — mayhaps even actors for that tv show / movie he was in ( v small role but whatevs. maybe they just Vibed yknow ) — flirtationship 😔 — always ye ol good hookup l o l — we keep running into each other idk maybe we should talk ??

TAKEN CONNECTIONS PAGE HERE

𝐎𝐎𝐂

         hey guys, i’m ollie. my intros are either written really eloquently or a big mess bc im trying to rub together a couple braincells at 1 am and whatever comes out, comes out. no need to guess which category this one falls into lmAO. anyway, i’m a slow plotter bc i’m easily overwhelmed trying to do too many things at once but i swear i will try to get to as many people as i can. and yeah this entire character is inspired by my love of world of dance don’t @ me... if u made it all the way down here u should watch this bc 😳 & mikey has the same athleticism and strength.

[arabellaflynn]

Text of a test monologue. Would you like to see me deliver this on camera, with no makeup, no lighting equipment, and using Notepad as a TelePrompTer? Head on over to my https://www.patreon.com/ArabellaFlynnPatreon, and for a dollar a month you too can see me waffle on in real time.

Hi, all. You may notice that I am on video now. I was going to shoot a couple of tests and apologize for the poor quality of the footage, and explain that I want to start vlogging and streaming in addition to writing, but I need some equipment to do it properly and for that I need to raise some funds... But fuck it. This is going out first instead.

As I record this, it is the fourth of July. You can probably hear the fireworks outside my window. I know I can. There are a lot of those, because we've all been inside and bored for the past four months. 

I know a lot of people who have opted not to observe the holiday this year. The 4th of July is often viewed as a celebration of the American institution, which is a little bit on fire right now, with a few people determined to squirt lighter fluid all over the flames like a bored suburban dad at a barbecue. On the other hand, it's also Independence Day, and marks the end of the long, painful process by which a population broke free of distant, uncaring overlords who cared mainly about the financial dividends of their colonies, and ignored the grievances of the people until they started breaking shit. So YMMV.

I would comment on some of the details, but I don't know them. The Late Show is on hiatus, and John Oliver doesn't air until tomorrow. I, like a lot of my demographic, get most of my current events from comedians. There's a reason for that.

I actually watched a lot of news as a teenager.

Well, "watched" might be too strong a word. It's easier for me to fall asleep if there's some sort of droning noise in the background. When I was about fifteen, I discovered that, unlike the main CNN channel, which has actual shows and documentaries, CNN Headline News just runs the day's top stories over and over again in an unending 30 minute loop. Interesting enough to keep me from falling into a train of thought that will prevent me from sleeping, boring enough that I don't want to stay up and listen.

I have no memory of the desk anchors. I'm sure they were consummate professionals, but they also had no distinguishing human characteristics whatsoever. I know they were updating the loop live, because occasionally a story would be added to the list and another one would drop off the back, and occasionally one would flub the text on their prompter, but other than that there was no hint that the face at the desk was attached to a living, breathing person.

I do remember a couple of the correspondents. One was Christiane Amanpour. Her voice stood out; CNN is an American news station that was originally restricted to American cable networks, and the vast majority of the staff is from the US. Amanpour is British-Iranian, having split her childhood between Tehran, before the revolution, and London, after. They liked to send her to the bowels of Eastern Europe to report from the war-torn streets of Citygrad in Countrystan. She had already caught some criticism on her reporting of the Bosnian War, for advancing the apparently controversial opinion that genocide was bad. I didn't know that at the time; I just thought she sounded more like she told real stories than read off lists of facts.

Another was Anderson Cooper, who was not nearly such a big deal then as he is now. Cooper, a self-described adrenaline junkie, was a war correspondent at the time, with a habit of ducking only briefly for explosions before standing back up to continue his piece to camera. He wouldn't be infamous until his coverage of Hurricane Katrina years later, both for the overall stellar job he did, and also for that one time he got tired of getting non-answers from some government toad in a live interview and very professionally flipped his shit at the lady, asking if she realized how tone deaf it was to sit there thanking other politicians for doing essentially nothing while there were still bodies in the street.

I quit watching the news when I moved away to college. It wasn't necessarily that knowing was worse than not knowing, but I felt a lot of pressure to be "adult" about it at that point, and watching proper news shows made me anxious to the point where I wouldn't sleep. I outright avoided it to the point where I made it to a canceled class at 4 pm, Mountain Standard Time, on September 11, 2001, before anyone told me what was going on.

I wasn't able to put my finger on why I found the news so horrible until many years later. I can't remember what rabbit hole I'd fallen down, but I ended up sitting on YouTube watching segments of the live news coverage of the 1981 assassination attempt on President Reagan. Reagan was shot in the side and later recovered without complications, but his Press Secretary, James Brady, was struck in the head and sustained considerable neurological damage. Brady, together with his wife Sarah, later went on to be a noted advocate for gun control, but at the time was reported to have died on the scene. 

I wound up watching a lot of one of the news desks -- ABC, I think. It started out like all the others, until the anchor tripped up a couple of times and referred to Press Secretary Brady as "Jim", and I realized: He knows these people. Personally. He's a member of the White House Press Corps, or a friend of the Bradys, or both. I'm watching a journalist reporting on a moment of historical significance to the American people, and a human being who has to tell the entire nation about someone's personal tragedy. His investment did not make him any less professional or informative than any of the others, but it did make his coverage feel very grounded in reality in a way that most news, then and now, does not.

The older I get, the more disquieting I find it to have a talking head behind a shiny desk read me a list of horrible things that have happened today without any apparent reaction. It makes it seem like these things are a randomized representative sample of the cruelty of the universe, rather than what they are, which is a list of things so unusually terrible they made the news. I realize that this is part of an effort to remain impartial so that the viewer can decide how they feel about events, but it's also disturbingly normative. Yes, everything is on fire, everything is always on fire, this is nothing new. 

I can't say I'm any more enamored of the opposite, either, the more recent style where the news anchor's entire job is to tell you that entirety of human existence is awful and here's what you should prioritize being afraid of this week. Everything around you is on fire, the fire is racing right at you, and here's whose fault the fire is.

A lot of Americans, especially younger ones, have taken to getting their news mostly from political satire because-- well, one, because for about the past twenty years, our comedians have been better at fact-checking than our actual newsrooms. You can thank Jon Stewart for getting a bee in his bonnet over that. But also because their coverage of major issues takes neither of those paths. The Daily Show alumni write up stories like they actually live on the planet they're reporting from. You're on fire? They're on fire too! Holy shit, let's all find some water! 

The conceit behind the comedy of The Daily Show and the Colbert Report and Full Frontal and Last Week Tonight and now the monologues on The Late Show is not that this is a normal amount of fire for everything to be on so it's fine, nor establishing that someone has set you on fire on purpose and here's who should be punished for it. It's bewilderment and frustration at the way we somehow keep catching on fire over and over again. Yeah, they crack jokes, because it's their job, but all the jokes are predicated on the idea that this is, above all, just very, very, inexplicably stupid. We can, and we should, be better than this. And the hosts stubbornly refuse to just give up and internalize as immutable all the reasons why we aren't.

You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Jon Stewart has accumulated "fuck you" money from his time on The Daily Show, among other things. I really hope the rest of them are doing the same. Because we need some figureheads who are able to say "fuck you" to a lot of authority figures right now without having to worry about how their family is going to survive the next month. John Oliver has HBO backing and I'm pretty sure Last Week Tonight has roughly equal budgets set aside for handling lawsuits and shoveling money at charity. Stephen Colbert has been insulting Donald Trump as hard as he possibly can since day one, and he just re-upped until 2023. Samantha Bee has her husband holding the camera to shoot her monologues out in the woods. 

They've all figured out how to produce their show over the internet, so at least we have something to watch in the After Times.

I really hope the neighbors run out of fireworks soon. Aside from not wanting the neighborhood to be literally on fire at any point, one of my housemates has a dog, and the dog has epilepsy, so this has been an interesting evening. Sorry about the fireworks, sorry about the camera, sorry about the country, sorry about the state of the world. Imma go find my Xanax. G'night.

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[dcmeterwrites]

timeline 1 + anne uwu

ALTERNATE TIMELINE ; the timeline in which they live an ideal life, had no opportunities taken from them, were subjected to nothing terrible, where they grew up to fulfil their full potential.

          “ oh, ollie, angel, no — don’t eat that — ” she gently pries the toy car out of her son’s hands. ever since he’d gained object permanence, he’d decided that the rightful place of anything and everything was inside his mouth. as she hoisted the one year old up, she scrunched up her nose at his eye level. “ we don’t eat cars, okay ? ” she cooed, her enunciation deteriorating into baby speak. 

          right behind her came the crisp clicks of italian shoes on marble floors, and she breathed a dull sigh of relief. “ everything good to go ? ” said will.

          “ mm-hm, ” she assented, her eyes still fixed on little ollie. he had replaced the car with his own hand, which she plucked out gently. “ you ready, bee ? ready to see some art ? ” will laughs behind her. 

         “ all of new york’s ready to see some art, love, ” said her husband coolly, and the graceful rumble of his voice was still enough to make her face feel red-hot. oliver begins to squirm in her arms, a sure signal that she needs to get moving before he gets antsy. in that sense, he has taken a great deal after her dad — and perhaps her sister, in terms of patience. 

         the drive to the gallery feels like a matter of seconds. one minute she’s in the car, oliver in his little wool cap and butterfly sweater, bouncing in her lap, and the next, there are cameras pointed at the two of them, and handshakes to be exchanged after handing ollie to will. she allows herself one drink and one drink only, prosecco in a flute. it’s bizarre to see her paintings in such clean surroundings, not among other unfinished canvases or jars of paint. no, clean, and by themselves, and worth looking at. 

        as she views the one she made in marseilles, something tugs at the ends of her hair, and she doesn’t need to turn before she knows who it is and laughs. “ ollie, honey, don’t eat mama’s hair. ” she pulls it out of his little fist, which gives away easily, and exchanges a short, small glance with her husband. 

        seeing their faces together makes her realise why they said he was a perfect mix of the two. he had his father’s blue eyes, rather than her green ones, but his hair was much lighter than will’s dark brown — recessive genes, she supposed. 

        “ you good ? ” will asks her then. “ you look a little dazed. ”

       “ yeah, yeah, don’t worry, ” she says with a neat little smile. poppy couldn’t make it — but that was alright. more cases, after all, and poppy had had her fun with the sabbatical in europe, but now it was back to work on a friday afternoon. 

       “ mrs laurent ? ” ventures a young woman in front of her, with deep brown skin and neat, close-cropped hair. “ i just wanted to say that your style is just— incredibly enigmatic. really blurs the line between realism and impressionism. ”

       anne covers her mouth as her cheeks turn hot. gosh, never in her life did she think she’d ever be blurring the line between — well, anything! “ that’s really too kind, please ! ” she laughs, drawing the woman into a hug. “ what’s your name, honey ? ” 

      “ andrea, ” she offers. “ i’m actually a student of fine art at riverbank university. ”

      “ oh ! ” anne racked her brain for any information at all that she could find on riverbank university, and found scraps. athens, georgia, stunning campus, decent arts faculty. of course, sva would look down on any arts department that wasn’t theirs, but riverbank was churning out some pretty snazzy work. “ wow, i’ve seen some of the stuff you guys make there — really, really, brilliant stuff. ”

      andrea nods, a wavering smile coming and going from her face. “ we’d really love if you could — i mean, totally up to you, but we’d love if you could take a seminar or two in athens. ”

      anne’s brows rise. it’s a wonderful proposition — she’s always wanted to take a trip down south, but as luck would have it, she’d always hover in the east coast: boston, philly, new york, and back home in greenwich. “ i’ll definitely think about it, ” she offers mildly. “ who should i get in touch with ? ”

      the girl perks up unbelievably, such that even anne’s shoulders rise. “ you don’t have to contact anyone mrs laurent, we’ll send you an email with a listing of available dates. ”

     “ sounds good, thank you. ” just as andrea leaves to check the rest of the exhibition out, will reappears at her side. “ gimme, ” she coos, as ollie is gently handed back to her. he’s nearly asleep — a good thing, considering he’ll pull on far less if he’s out for the count. 

      “ what was that ? ” asks will, his eyes bright through the tom ford eyewear.

      “ riverbank university wants me to hold a couple of seminars. ”

      “ in new york ? ” 

       “ in athens. georgia, ” she says, slowly realising how far away that really is. “ could be a nice week away. ”

       will smiles, but it’s that sad kind of light smile with eyebrows turning up. “ sounds fun, but i don’t really think we have the time to be away from new york for a week. once auctioning starts — we have to be available. ” 

       anne purses her lips. he had a point. they’d talked about her teaching art, and had more or less agreed that it wasn’t worth it unless she was teaching at a specialised art academy — the royal college in london, chicago institute of arts, something like that. or an ivy league — yale, harvard. riverbank wasn’t either, and it was quite far away on top of it all. 

       “ i guess you’re right, ” she sighs. 

       “ keep the option open, ” he insists quickly. “ if auctions clear up soon we can go. ”

        alas, he knows as well as her that auctions never cleared up that easy, and in his sad smile are the words it’s not feasible, in his businessman manner. and she knows it, but she sighs, and draws her attention back to ollie’s legs, hooked over and carefully supported by her arm. 

        “ shall we ? ” says will, pointing vaguely in the direction of the larger hall. “ some magazines are waiting to interview. ”

         anne nods, letting him tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before he heads off to clear some space. ollie makes a little snorting noise, and she tries not to laugh. perhaps he is awake, and just biding his time, knowing he’ll be safe. 

        safe here, in her arms, in the city that doesn’t sleep.