#but my english lit class may have paid off in the end

[al-and-her-hyperfixations]

I should have read Romeo & Juliet more seriously because no nightingales??

Bear with me ok? so, I guess in the play the nightingale means Romeo can stay a little bit longer with Juliet, it's still the evening and they can be together a little more

When the lark sings, it's already morning and the lovers have to part, time is counted.

Juliet pretends that it's the nightingale that sings the last time she and Romeo meet (before his exile), she wants Romeo to stay with her.

But it's not the nightingale, it is the lark and Romeo has to leave, both Juliet and Verona. He leaves and live instead of staying with his love and dying

Now imagine Crowley as Romeo and Aziraphale as Juliet.

"No nightingales" they've seen Shakespeare's plays, Crowley can't stay.

Even if it breaks both their hearts, it is time to part because obviously they can't be together and staying is risking discorporation or whatever Heaven plans to do to Crowley.

"-I can't hear anything" You're free to choose, nobody is forcing you to stay or to leave, we can be free

"- That's the point, no nightingales" Yes we are, but the parting is inevitable now because you made your choice and I made mine and we still can't be together and I have to leave

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Serenade (Daniela Dimitrescu/Reader) Pt. 7

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: None? I think? Please let me know if I missed something Notes: This is incredibly dialogue heavy, and I actually don't feel as confident about this chapter as some of the past ones? Hopefully y'all like it, I mean at least the ending is cute (or cheesy, depending on who you ask). PS: Not sure how many chapters there will be in total, other than at least 3 more (one of which ill, in fact, get a little h*rny again. actually, h*rnier). Past Chapters: Pt. 1: Nocturne, Pt. 2: Overture, Pt. 3: Accelerando, Pt. 4: Toccata, Pt. 5: Poco a Poco, Pt. 6: Elegy

Chapter 7: Harmony

“We need to talk, yeah?” Daniela asked, nearly stuttering, a sort of nervous that you had never seen her exhibit before. The first thing you think is that she’s really, really cute when she doesn’t know what to do. After that you actually process what she said. Relief floods your chest, followed by warmth, and you make a mental note to thank Bela the next time you see her. In the meantime, you were unable to contain your happiness. Out of instinct you move closer to Daniela, smiling softly, quietly reaching one of your hands towards hers. There’s no hesitance in her response. Instead of taking your hand she pulls you in for a hug, opting to rest her chin against your shoulder. Admittedly you’re a little surprised, but you return the motion nonetheless. “Oh, little songbird…”

Heart racing, you softly press against Daniela, turning your head so that you could place a single, brief kiss against her exposed collarbone. For a moment the two of you just stay like that, holding each other close. When you pull away, remembering that you still hadn’t said anything, you find that Daniela is blushing from the neck up. In turn, the sight makes you blush. You can’t help but reach out and run your fingers through her hair. Though you can’t see yourself, you know your eyes are filled with affection.

“I love when you look at me like this,” Daniela whispered, not entirely meaning to voice her thoughts. Then you’re blushing harder, smile small but sweet. “Mmm, you’re just darling, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly as much as yourself, my Lady. To be in your company is to be the luckiest soul in the world. I cannot even begin to describe the feelings of which you inspire in me,” you replied, trying not to stumble over your words, barely able to process any thoughts other than ‘pretty lady likes me ahh’. Thankfully, you still remembered a few tricks from language arts class. Who knew studying the classics could make you more romantic? At least one English teacher, probably. “I’ll have plenty of time to try, though… after we talk about things, that is. Is there somewhere private we can talk? I’m not terribly eager for your mother to overhear.”

“Are you sure we can’t talk about how much you like me for a while longer?” Daniela asked, faking a pout. When you perk a brow at her antics, she shifts a little, forcing herself to be a little more serious (at least for the time being). “If you insist, my sweet thing. I’d suggest my room-” she winks at you- “but I doubt we’d stay talking for long, would we? Maybe the library? Neither of my sisters tend to go there around this time of day, and I can hardly remember the last time mother went there.”

“Well, no one from the day shift is scheduled to organize things until later this week, so… sounds like a date to me,” you chimed, enjoying the way that Daniela’s face lit up in response. “There’s just one thing I have to take care of first. Wouldn’t want my roommates to think something has happened to me, now would we?” With that said you linked your arm with your partner’s, setting off towards the servants quarters.

—————————————–

“Oh thank goodness, we were starting to get worried!” Daphne exclaimed as you quietly ducked into your room. For a second you freeze in place, hoping to whatever higher powers may be that she hadn’t seen Daniela behind you. Certainly the vampire would have moved out of sight?... Despite your assumption, you do see Daphne hesitate for a moment, gazing at the now closed door. Thinking quickly, you give a little wave to draw her attention elsewhere. Seemingly it works like a charm, with her attention returning to you, and so you release an internal sigh of relief. Now you just had to think of an excuse for why you’d be staying up late.

“It’s fine- I’m fine, really. Just had to carry something for one of the Ladies,” you lied, trying not to be specific enough to possibly contradict facts you weren’t aware of. “I, uh, kinda have to go back out, though? There are some piano books I need to find before tomorrow morning. I’ve already found a few, but apparently there’s at least one that goes over some technical practice songs, and I think D-” you almost wince, but lean into it, stuttering instead- “th-think that Lady Daniela would enjoy the variety. Not sure how long it’ll take me to find the books, so don’t stay up waiting for me. I promise I’ll still get enough sleep to function tomorrow.”

“So the lessons haven’t been canceled? That’s good to hear,” Daphne said, nodding slowly. The words catch you off guard, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion. Noticing your expression, your roommate is quick to explain. “After whatever happened yesterday… we weren’t sure if we’d ever hear you play again. Not that we know what happened, just that Lady Daniela was, well, upset, and you stopped playing sooner than usual. But I suppose if the lessons were canceled completely… I doubt Lady Dimitrescu would let you go that easily, huh?”

Again, you shift awkwardly, wondering how Daniela must feel hearing all of this. But just like that Daphne shakes her head, clearing her thoughts, and gives a little shrug.

“Don’t stay up too late, okay? I know you already promised, but we both know you’ll lose track of time if you aren’t careful. If you aren’t in bed by the time the sun reaches its peak, I swear we are gonna have words!” Both of you laugh before Daphne waves you off with a smile. Still, you wait to open the door until she (and the other maidens) has her back to you. Better safe than sorry, right?

—————————————–

Somehow the room felt different in a million ways, now that you were here with Daniela. There was something about the way she moved, freely, eyes and fingers running down the spines of familiar books. Even if you had not seen it before, it felt like the library was overflowing with magic. What I would give, you think, to see the whole world tinted in shades of her. Again you find yourself blushing as you followed Daniela towards a small sitting area. One of the chairs is practically a recliner, with plenty of space, and you realize what she has planned mere moments before she acts.

Next thing you know, you’re being pulled closer to her, practically lifted into the air. Then you’re falling back, right on top of a giggling Daniela. By the time you’ve regained your senses, you’re in her lap, held just tight enough to keep you from getting up. She’s watching your face closely, smirking with pure satisfaction.

“Are we going to be able to talk like this?” You asked, a little unsure yourself, already distracted by the soft curve of her jawline. Even as you speak you’re eying her, imagining what it would feel like to trail kisses along her skin until she was restless… Thankfully she responds before your mind gets too carried away.

“Of course we are, little songbird. Probably. If you behave,” Daniela teased, gently playing with your hair as she did. You can’t help but laugh when she suggests that you are the one who needs to control yourself. “Alright, alright, I get your point. I just… I think that it’s easier for me to, fuck, I don’t know. Relax? It’s easier for me to relax like this, holding you, getting to kiss that lovely neck of yours-” she pauses to demonstrate- “and that means I won’t freak out like last time. Or so goes my thought process, anyway.”

“In that case…” You’re sitting perpendicular to her now, still holding on tight. One hand cups her cheek, gently caressing the skin, before you lean in for a kiss. The two of you enjoy yourselves for a minute, glad to have this time together, more glad to be reassured of each other’s affection. To think that you wouldn’t even be able to meet her gaze if not for Bela’s intervention… Eventually you pull back, knowing that you did need to talk. “I care about you, firefly, and I want things between us to be real, and healthy, but I…”

The words died in your throat, a lump you couldn’t quite swallow, when memories sprung up like weeds in your brain. Communication mattered to you for a thousand reasons, and you weren’t blind to the irony of one of those reasons making you freeze up.

“I haven’t… done this before, not for real,” Daniela replied, mistaking your paues for uncertainty. “Apparently being an immortal, blood-drinking princess is only attractive in the realm of fiction. Maidens only ever seemed interested in a fleeting rush, or a fraction of a chance at an escape. They didn’t care for romance.” Now her tone gets bitter, and her eyebrows furrow. You can see her shoulders tense up, raising a little, making you try to snap out of your own thoughts for a few moments. By the time she speaks again, you’ve started to gently rub her back. “Maybe I should have paid more attention to my novels. How often does the monster actually get a happy ending?” She says the words with a hollow laugh. Still, she’s relaxed a little under your touch, even leaning into it.

“You’ve… done some bad things. Hurt a lot of people, and I can’t pretend that doesn’t scare me,” you started to say, ignoring the heartache you feel when you see Daniela’s hurt expression. “But you’re more than that. You’re soft, cute, and mischievous. More than that… I can tell that you want something beautiful. We can have that, we can make that, for ourselves, with our own hands and our own desires. But we can’t use stories as a blueprint. We can’t rely on what we’ve read, not when everything the two of us do is brand new. Not when-” you close your eyes, fighting back tears, glimpsing fragments of your last relationship- “not when I’ve already been hurt by my own misconceptions. The things we read aren’t always real, or right, or anything like what we need. What we deserve.”

“Something tells me you’re holding back a little,” Daniela murmured, barely able to get the words out. It almost looks like she’s close to crying, but her cheeks are dry, and her voice is steady. “But you’re right. What we have is better than anyone could write, anyway. You’re my little songbird, and I’m not letting you go anytime soon. Even if I have to figure out this whole ‘communication’ thing. I suppose that means I should… come clean. About a few things.” There’s a clear hesitance to her voice, like she’s embarrassed, and she’s speaking slower than usual. A blush rises to her cheeks before she takes a deep breath.

“We don’t have to talk about everything right now, if you aren’t ready. We’ve already made good progress, I think, even if half of it might be because of your sisters. Well, sister, singular. Cassandra throwing me into that wall really didn’t help anyone. Except maybe the chiropractor I will inevitably need to see,” you joked, remembering your earlier conversation with Bela.

“Hold up for a fucking second, Cassandra did what? I’m going to replace all her paint brushes with stained carpet strips, and that’s if she apologizes. Nobody fucks with my baby,” Daniela snapped, expression as serious as can be. Normally you found her anger to be terrifying. Now that she was directing it at someone else? And on your behalf?... Maybe it was a tiny bit cute. Which you tried to show, by gently bringing her in for another kiss. Of course, Daniela isn’t quite as gentle, instead kissing you hard, holding you as closely as she can. There’s a bit of possessiveness in her grip, and it makes you tense up. But as soon as you do she’s pulling back, breathing hard, eyes weighed down with concern.

“Y’know, I think she was just mad that I made you cry. And if I found out someone made you cry, I would be pretty angry. Not that I’d throw someone, partially because I don’t think I could, but still. It’s… almost cute how much your sisters care about you. Almost, just not quite,” you said, eager to draw the attention away from your reaction. Like you had told Daniela, it was okay if you weren’t ready to talk about everything. “Speaking of that, I can’t believe I haven’t apologized yet. I panicked so much, I didn’t even realize I was yelling until you picked me up. No matter how frustrated I was, I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t, please,” Daniela interrupted, eyes closing for a moment. “I can’t believe you’re apologizing. I pinned you to the wall, and not for the usual reason!” There’s a bit of panic in her expression, and you get the feeling that she’s beating herself up inside about it. Which, based on what you had thought about what you had done, was understandable.

“Consider this: We both fucked up, and we’ve both acknowledged it now, so we could just… not talk about our regrets? At least for now,” you countered, glad to see Daniela relax and nod in response. Leaning in, you shift to rest your head against her shoulder, wanting to enjoy her proximity more. “Hey… if I’m your songbird, and you’re my firefly… are we, I don’t know… officially a couple now?”

“I was under the impression that we already were,” Daniela said, clearly a little confused. While you technically agreed with her… there was another part of you that wanted to have a little fun.

“You never asked, and I know I never did either, so…” Now you’re looking up at her, smile wide, heart beating faster than normal. “Lady Daniela, firefly of house Dimitrescu, lover of romance novels, player of pianos, keeper of my heart… Will you do me the honor of allowing me to court you? To be yours, officially, in the pursuit of affection and happiness like the village- nay, the world- has never before seen? Will you be my girlfriend?”

“How’s this for an answer, songbird?” Daniela cooed. Then she was lifting your chin from her shoulder, turning her head and bringing you closer. Your lips touch, as gentle as can be. It’s a short kiss, but one radiating with love, that ends with your foreheads pressed against each other. In this moment, you feel like you could stay in her arms for the rest of eternity. “Yes. Absolutely yes, obviously, a thousand times. I could never say no to you, especially not now, with your eyes so desperate for the sight of me, and your lips so begging to be kissed. Now, how about we celebrate, hmm?”

Just as Daphne had predicted, you end up staying awake far too late, but you were all the happier for it.

[sometimesiwrite]

Hooked on a Feeling

The Witcher: Modern Academia AU

Essi/Eskel

A/N: Inspired by this lovely art piece and my general ongoing obsession with Lit Prof Eskel, I bring you this—whatever this is. It came about largely because I want to explore Essi more thoroughly through different pairings, various different planes of existence, etc. The best way for me to think about and develop a character is to put them in with other characters and see what happens. This may or may not become a series, this also might stay where it is. I chose a modern AU because I wanted a challenge. I believe characters change with context, and this has been an interesting time spent with Eskel in this context as well. I’m not sure how I feel about him in this universe (aside from the love and affection I will likely always feel for that man); more specifically, I’m not sure I’ve done him justice, but I suppose I’ll let you decide for yourself. Feedback is usually helpful and always welcome. Cheers, friends! 

Warnings: bit o’ smut, age gap, academic power structures, dialogue-heavy

MASTERLIST

Enjoy!

Strong hands held her steady, warm and luxurious through the cotton-poly-spandex of her skirt as it bunched around the tops of her thighs. A breathless roll of her hips left a spot blooming slippery dark on the red cotton of his boxer briefs, and a hungry moan escaped his throat as he explored the tender flesh and tendons of her neck. Papers crumpled under foot, previously housed on top of the desk, but now relegated to excess carpeting. Roget’s Thesaurus, Crabb’s English Synonyms, Shakespeare’s Lexicon, and other reference materials splayed open helplessly on the office floor as he toed off his shoes and sloughed off his pants. 

She clutched him to her, feeling the shift and flex of his torso beneath her hands as she pressed her right cheek to his. She was overwhelmed with the urge to be closer, to know better, dig deeper into the possibilities of what they could mean to each other. But she could also feel the hesitation lingering between his fingers and her skin like a mirage over hot pavement, and the desire to ease and reassure took over. “You’re holding back,” she whispered, pausing their fervor. “Is this not what you wanted?”  

Her hot breath against his ear sent a rushing tingle down his spine that made him falter, ever-so-briefly, before he regained his composure. He was breathing heavy against her, hair a mess, glasses askew, every muscle in his body quivering as he stood; caught between following the raw satisfaction of impulse, and listening to the unwelcome logic echoing loudly in his head that this was a bad idea. “No, no, believe me, this is very much what I want. I just—I need to make sure tha-ha-ha-haaaaa,” no one, not even him, got to know the end of that sentence as her palm dragged along the bulge in his briefs.

She blinked at him with certainty, pale cheeks blushing from her own boldness. But she wanted him to know that he was wanted: his mind, his body, his whatever-else-he-chose-to-give-her. Slender fingers nimbly worked the pearly buttons on his dress shirt. “You need to make sure that I don’t feel coerced by the difference in our ages or your institutional status.” She ran her hands over the crisp white cotton of his undershirt and smirked, “or your strength.” 

Gods the way she talked sometimes, like her fucking soul belonged somewhere else, the way she just spoke words and meant them like it was the easiest thing in the world to be straightforward. It felt… safe. He could drift in the current of her transparency and never question whether she was holding something back or saying something merely for the sake of placating his insecurity. This woman had no subtext. It was liberating and, if he was perfectly honest, acutely arousing. 

“Yes, of course I want to make sure,” he ran a hand through her hair, smelling sea salt and verbena. “And I want to make sure that you…”

She took his face in her hands and washed his honey-hazel eyes in her startling sea-glass-blue, “I want you.”

__________

Not even a third of the way through the semester, and Essi had already given up on the idea of making coffee and having a “pleasant wakeup” at home before class. It took no less time to roll out of bed and walk all the way to the cafeteria, but at least there was always a blueberry danish for her trouble, and the walk ensured she wouldn’t be tempted back into the warm bundle of blankets on her bed. She blinked heavily and shivered a little, her eyes still bleary from not-enough-sleep. She gripped her contigo travel mug and tried to remember the first two chapters of Gadamer that she’d half-read the night before (earlier that morning) as her eyes drifted closed.

...can I get for you?

Good morning… Miss?

The man in front of her gave a wry smile to the cashier, “Almost seems a shame to wake her up.” He gingerly reached out and nudged Essi’s elbow. She startled and her eyes—her two spectacularly blue eyes—blinked open. “Sorry,” the man said with an endeared smile, “You, uh… you alright?”

Essi blinked herself alert as a piece of strawberry blonde hair escaped a silver clip at the back of her head. She brushed the loose piece back behind her ear. “Yes. Sorry, just… uh, house blend in this, please. Double-double. And a blueberry danish.” She paid the cashier and stepped to the side to wait for her order. The man in front of her, she assumed, was also waiting on his. He leaned to the side, still facing forward.

“Long night?” he asked, clearly still mildly amused by the situation.

She conducted a surreptitious survey of her chatty companion, “You could say that. Philosophy reading got away from me this week.” A keycard was clipped to his breast pocket: Dept. English, E. L. Varga, Ph.D. The lack of photo indicated it was at least a year old if not more—photo IDs had only just become mandatory with the rapid growth of the campus and certain programs. She reckoned he was maybe 37-ish, from the way his hazel eye crinkled a little at the corner and the few bright silver streaks in his dark auburn hair. He looked… distinguished, but without the stiffness of someone whose entire adult life had been fully committed to academia. Post-doc? Assistant Professor?

“Full day ahead?” Essi couldn’t help but think the world of radio was missing a key contributor, his voice was so striking—deep and rich, but without being flashy, an unassuming timbre that came from somewhere deep within and carried a vulnerability with it. 

“Oh, a little. Philosophy seminar followed by Contemporary Poetry this afternoon.”

“Two on a Friday. That’s a bit unkind.” 

“I like them both and the professors are very engaging, it’s just, well…”

“Abrupt end to the week.” 

“Yes exactly…” This unexpected morning companion was an excellent conversationalist. So much so that Essi hardly noticed she’d only seen the left half of him the entire time they’d been standing in line. She didn’t have much time to ponder on it, though, as her travel mug appeared at the same time as Dr. Varga’s order (a coffee and a cream cheese bagel). She glanced at the time and hastily lidded her thermos, hoping to get a bit more reading done before class began. 

“Oh look, we have the same one!” she said, pointing to the turquoise blue, double-walled, spill-proof (as if) container as she tightened the seal on her own. “Funny coincidence.”

“Or maybe,” he offered suspensefully, tucking his bagel into his shoulder bag and lidding his own, “it’s not.” 

Essi offered a sleepy chuckle, “Divine intervention in the form of coffee?”

“You’re the philosopher,” he smiled warmly, and moved to face her fully but stopped himself, instead opting to stare at his hand where it rested on the lid of his thermos. His left eye caught Essi’s inquisitive head tilt as he cleared his throat, “Have a good day.” He pursed his lips in a halfhearted smile and turned away. No doubt he has places to be, she concluded. But a small part of her couldn’t get over his sudden shift. He’d gone from being so open, so warm and charming to being—well, distant. 

Essi’s musings about the mysterious E. L. Varga, Ph.D. were quickly dissolved by her professor’s introduction to Hermeneutics followed by a lively discussion about the nature and qualities of knowing. At the halfway point, the class dispersed for a ten minute break as they all stretched their legs and went to the bathroom. Essi gambled that her coffee would have cooled down to a drinkable temperature, and took a sip. What the—? 

“Oh, damnit!”

“Hm? What’s the matter?” Julian asked, through a mouthful of pita and hummus. 

“This isn’t mine,” she said, half-befuddled, half amused. 

“How do you know they didn’t just get the order wrong? You’re telling me you took a stranger's coffee thermos which just happens  to be identical to your own?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what happened,” Essi stated with certainty, staring into the middle distance. “I should find him after class and give it back.”

“Well, unless you can see through walls now, you’ll need to track down his office. Which,” Julian took another sizeable bite of pita, “I doubt you’ll be able to do without knowing his name, so I say just leave it and—“

“E. L. Varga, Ph. D., English department.”

Julian stared at his cousin, “You’re a little scary sometimes, you know that?” 

________

Essi combed the halls of the English department after her seminar. Several times, she thought about going to the admin office to ask (it was the logical thing to do), but she felt suddenly shy about looking for him. Perhaps Julian was right, perhaps this was more trouble than it was worth. Her head was spinning with questions about whether she was imposing or perhaps impinging on his boundaries, disrespecting his privacy. Perhaps she should just leave the thermos with the Admin office and trust that it would get to him. She could just buy a new one for herself, no problem there. But then a part of her wanted to see him again, make a good impression. He intrigued her, and the small taste of conversation he’d given her that morning made her want to talk with him more about anything at all, no matter how trivial. 

She wasn’t infatuated. Rather he’d made an impression, and something about him—the way he carried himself, presented his thoughts, his general affect—drew her to him in a way she couldn’t explain. Suddenly he mattered, and she was trawling the seemingly-endless network of almost-identical hallways in the hopes of returning what was his, and retrieving what was hers. She finally found the right office, impossibly small, and tucked away at the far end of a cul-de-sac. She knocked quietly. 

“Come in?”

 E. L. Varga, Ph.D. had his back to the door, ankles crossed on a corner of his desk with a stack of papers in his lap. “Just.. one second,” he finished underlining a scrawled turquoise notation in the margin and spun around to face the door, setting his papers down as he turned. “Yes, what can I do for—” he froze, coming face-to-face with dazzling blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair pulled up in a silver clip. “Ah.” 

Essi tried hard to avoid the look of shock that rippled across her face and made her big blue eyes even bigger. Three jagged scars trailed angrily from the corner of his eye and past his mouth, coming to a final stop on the side of his chin. He cleared his throat and gave the same wry smile he’d parted with earlier that morning, adjusting his rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“I imagine you’ve come for this,” he said, placing Essi’s thermos on the edge of the table. 

“I—yes, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention and, well,” she fished his out from her bag, “here.” She handed it to him and he accepted with a lighthearted raise of his eyebrows. She paused for a moment, meeting his eyes intensely. There was a sadness behind them that made her want to stay, made her want to ask questions, find out the source of his pain and eradicate it. Instead she smiled a little more stiffly than she meant to and lingered in the doorway. 

E. L. Varga scratched at the lines in his cheek, “Was there, uh… something else?”

Essi shook her head pleasantly, “No. I suppose I’ll go now.”

Another pause, “Alright. Well. Enjoy your weeke—.”

“Why do you mark in blue?”

“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Varga blinked, nonplused. 

“When I came in, before you turned around, I saw you leaving a comment on someone’s paper. I assume you were marking?” (he nodded), “You use turquoise. Most professors use red.”

He huffed a small laugh, spinning his marking pen in its cap, “I prefer to use a colour that’s a little less foreboding. It’s still bright and easy to notice, but it doesn’t mean instant panic for those students who, like me, have a Pavlovian panic response to red ink. That and red is my favourite colour, so the last thing I want is to associate it with constructive criticism and a never-ending trail of ‘see me’s.”

“That’s very generous of you. Most professors don’t think about it that hard.”

“The extent to which many professors don’t think is shocking, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m glad for your students. They have a thoughtful instructor.” 

Dr. Varga smiled warmly and removed his glasses, “Thank you. Was there something else?” 

“You hid from me this morning,” Essi answered calmly, not knowing how else to bring up something like that—clumsily had been the only other option. 

He answered slowly, “Yes. I did.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

There was a pause as Dr. Varga tried to wrap his head around what exactly was happening. Part of him was feeling exposed and a little too noticed for his own comfort. Another part of him, however, found this straightforwardness refreshing. Most people pretended to ignore the massive scars on the side of his face—which he always thought was a bit ridiculous and usually led to more awkwardness than if they just stared like he knew they wanted to. It wasn’t that she was staring, either, or asking unwelcome questions, but she wasn’t avoiding acknowledging the obvious. He liked that, he decided, even if it did make him feel a bit raw. 

“It depends how you define ‘need’, doesn’t it?”

His averted glance was all Essi needed to realize it wasn’t her he had been trying to spare somehow; rather, he was trying to spare himself from her unpredictable reaction at 8:30 in the morning. A wave of sadness crested inside her at the thought of this warm and charismatic man having to strategically orient his face because he didn’t want a pleasant conversation suddenly filled with maneuvering and overcompensation. He’d just wanted a normal moment of small-talk to start his morning.

“I’m sorry,” Essi said. “Navigating others’ reactions must be exhausting. You deserve better.” 

E. L. Varga shrugged and steered the subject to something a little less eat-pray-love. “Unexpected things surprise us. Like you, finding my secret gremlin office for the sake of two identical thermoses we could just as easily have dumped out and used as our own.”

“But I would have known it wasn’t mine,” Essi answered with an overly-earnest, wide-eyed expression.

He leaned back in his chair, hands folded contemplatively in his lap, ”Would that bother you?”

“Some of the colour has worn off the bottom rim on yours, probably from swirling it on your desk while you think. Whereas mine has a shallow dent in the side from when I dropped it last semester on my way to the library. Yours got the way it did because of you, just like mine did because of me. They both have stories connected to them. I can’t walk around carrying my coffee in someone else’s story. It wouldn’t feel right.” 

Dr. Varga tilted his head, considering this shrewd young woman with seemingly no filter and unnecessary depth. It was a coffee thermos, for Christ’s sake. But she was genuine, poetic, and her eyes were the most alluring shade of blue he’d ever seen.

“Well,” he tapped his pen, “thank you for bringing it back to me safe and sound. Yours should still be drinkable if you unscrew the top. I only took one sip, but in case you’re afraid of cooties…”

“Same with yours, I’ll probably just rinse mine or…” she trailed off, realizing that saying ‘leave it’ would sound a bit strange. “So, Dr. E. L. Varga. Was it a coincidence after all?” Essi asked, a small enigmatic smile pulling at her lips. 

“Eskel,” He said. “My name is Eskel.”

“Essi Daven. Until next time.”

With a little nod, she closed the door behind her, leaving Eskel to release the half-breath he’d been holding. 

_______

The weekend passed all-too quickly. Essi and Julian played a double set at the campus bar—a standing invitation they never missed no matter how busy their schedules were. They both had double lectures on Friday, and nothing quite staved off the risk of burnout like good music and an enthusiastic audience. The rest of the weekend was spent more-or-less curled up in the livingroom with stacks of notebooks, JStor printouts, and dog-eared anthologies as they got to work on their readings for the coming week.

It was Wednesday by the time Essi made it back to the campus cafe, this time a good 45 minutes early and significantly better-rested than she’d been the previous Friday. Still, it didn’t stop her from nearly jumping out of her shoes when… 

“Awake this morning, I see.” 

She turned abruptly at the familiar voice to find Dr. Eskel L. Varga standing behind her, smiling welcomingly. She grasped the outside of his arm while she caught her breath, “Well, if I wasn’t awake before, I am now. Good morning!”

A rich chuckle came from the professor’s throat as he offered her elbow a brief touch of reassurance. “You know, most people do that after they’ve turned around.” 

“You know, I’m not sure how to respond to that,” she answered lightly.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to. It was just—”

“That’s alright, I know what it was,” Essi blinked warmly up at him and Eskel got the distinct feeling she was checking him somehow, the way her eyes hovered and flickered between his own. Satisfied, she turned to the cashier and placed her usual order, stepping aside to wait with Eskel for his bagel. 

“We’ll have to keep a close eye on the twins today,” he said, tucking his wallet into his pocket.

“I think any amount of attention from either of us will be enough to prevent another mishap. But, then again, it’s a shame we won’t have an excuse to distract ourselves with an early afternoon mystery.” Essi thanked the young man behind the counter as she accepted her thermos and blueberry danish.

“Hm, I imagine you’ll be glad not to have to find my office again, though. Cheers,” Eskel held up his own travel mug before taking a sip and lidding it. “I should be off. Busy day today. Good to see you, Essi.”

“I can walk with you if you like.” 

Eskel slowed and turned tentatively back to her, “Sure, alright. If it won’t make you late.”

“No, no, I have time. My class doesn’t start until 9:30. That is, if you want company. You might…  prefer to walk alone?”

Eskel smiled again, the friendly distanced smile of someone who wanted to avoid any and all misunderstandings. You see, there was something about Essi that set this post-doctorate professor on edge—not because she made him uncomfortable. On the contrary: she made him feel surprisingly comfortable. Comfortable in a way he was not accustomed to feeling around someone he’d only just met, and briefly at that. But even the brief few minutes they’d spent in each others’ company had been enough for Eskel to feel strangely drawn to her. There was an inherent intimacy in the way she interacted with him—with everyone, he assumed; the way her large blue eyes blinked slowly and inquisitively at him, the way they penetrated without piercing and lingered on his without darting away. It only served to enhance the subtle, self-possessed sensuality she exuded, and it made Eskel slightly-less-than-comfortable (insofar as he found it unavoidably appealing). 

“I don’t mind a bit of company from time to time,” he offered, having opted for ‘Intriguing Conversation with Interesting Potential Future Student’ as his intention for this and all future encounters. They walked for about a minute in silence, neither quite knowing where to begin. Without the crutch of mistaken coffee-identity, the realm of conversational possibilities seemed a bit daunting. Eskel decided to ease the tension, “So, Essi. You know that I teach in the English department and where my office is. What’s your major? Or are you just doing general studies?” 

“Well, I did do general studies my first year of undergrad,” a small piece of Eskel’s uneasiness eased. So she’s a grad student… “Now, I’m finishing off the first half of my Poetry MFA.”

Essi watched as his face immediately opened, eyes lighting up like a kid at DisneyLand, “Really? What’s your focus?” It was unbearably endearing. 

“Affect and Poetic Performance. I’m examining the relationship between lyric and melody through the lens of Affect Theory.”

“Affect Theory…”

“It’s a way of talking about our ineffable responses to different environments. It’s all well and good to say, ‘well this or that has a certain vibe,’ or ‘something about that person feels off,’ when we’re speaking colloquially, but how do we talk about it in a broader, more objective way for the purposes of research? It’s a kind of philosophy of sensing if you think about it.”

Essi’s entire demeanor had changed on the turn of a dime. She was effusive, incisive, and talking a mile a minute, her gestures captivatingly eccentric as she spoke—Eskel thought it looked like her thoughts were physical things she was trying to pull out of her so she could arrange them properly. He wanted to see more of this side of her. Not just because he was amused and impressed, but because he was genuinely fascinated by where all this discussion of affect was going.

“And so affect itself is…”

“Affect is the thing that happens before emotion; a gut feeling or an intuition. It’s all those feelings we don’t have words for yet still sense acutely and precisely.” Her footsteps were becoming shorter, as though they were trying to keep pace with her thoughts, and her cheeks were starting to flush a pretty shade of pink beneath her light layer of foundation (or powder or whatever it was that made her shimmer slightly). 

“This all sounds very elusive, Essi.”

“Exactly! It is! It’s incredibly elusive! And yet, what is it about a certain song that we can all agree sounds ‘melancholy’? How do we, as artists—poets, actors, sculptors, writers, musicians, gallerists, interior decorators—curate affect in a way that’s consistent and predictable?” 

“Hm…” Eskel had forgotten about being charmed by his companion and was now fully invested in the inquiry at hand. He felt confident that he’d pieced it together so far. “So: how do lyrics and melody work together to form a cohesive, wide-reaching atmosphere...”

“—And how does the singer or musician facilitate that? Precisely.”

“It sounds like you’re digging into some interesting corners. Are you enjoying it?”

“I’m finding it invigorating,” the pink of her cheeks only served to intensify the blue of her irises as they flashed brightly up at him. 

“I’m happy to hear that. It isn’t always the case,” Eskel stopped, having reached the top of the hallway leading to his office. “I should get to work, but. Thank you for the company. You’re thinking about a lot of interesting things.”

“A roundabout way of saying I’m interesting, perhaps.” There was no flirtation in her voice, no slyness on her face, but Eskel felt his face grow warm all the same. He couldn’t decide what was worse: that she wasn’t flirting but stating the obvious; or that her stating the obvious had the same effect as flirting. 

“Yes, well. Duty calls,” he gave Essi a polite wave and turned towards his office.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

He stopped. “Sure” he replied stiffly, privately bracing himself for the inevitable question. Fine. Alright. It’s natural to be curious. 

“What’s the L stand for?”

Eskel turned back to face her, eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion. “Sorry?”

“Eskel L. Varga. What’s the L for?”

“Oh! Sorry I thought…” he scratched gently at his right cheek and Essi’s heart sank. How many callous people had imposed their curiosity on him? A spark of protective anger shot up inside her as she watched his hand and she had an overwhelming urge to reach for him. “It’s, uh, it’s for Llewlyn.”

She swallowed heavily, restraining her hand as it twitched by her side, wanting to touch, to ease, to unburden. “You thought I was going to ask about something else that’s none of my business.”

Eskel rocked on his heels, examining the various dings and dents in the linoleum tiling, “Yes.”

“That’s none of my business.”

“Thank you,” he looked up, his free hand now in his pocket. “Most people don’t… I should go.”

“Have a good week, Eskel.”

“You, too.” 

To say that Eskel retreated behind his office door would be a bit of an overstatement. But in the quiet solitude of his own private space, he had a moment to collect himself, to temper the intense vulnerability pressing on his chest. But there was another feeling, too, that felt more… elastic. A buoyancy driven by stimulating conversation and pleasant company; he was impressed, incredibly impressed; and despite his better judgement there was a part of him that hoped he would see her again on Friday morning. 

Essi made her way to class with an indelible smile on her face as she struggled to convince herself that it was a professor’s job to listen to eager students and find their research topics interesting. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was happening. She didn’t know what, just yet, but it was something. Only time would tell.

______

@morethangeraskier @the-space-between-heartbeats  @just-a-sad-donut @oxenfurt-archives @thirstyforred @titaniafire @belalugosisdead @lonelygayz @awkward-turtles-world @iloveyouyen @criminaly-supernatural@friendlybelladonna @enkelikauneus @sulkyshengshou

[carrioncrows-readers]

You may not be good at a lot, but damn if you don't know business and numbers.

Content Warnings: major content warning for sexual harassment, explicit violence

When Jacob first brought you to the brothel, you thought he'd genuinely lost his mind — you made it quite clear you weren't interested in fucking him for money. With his arm around your shoulders, you were prepared to make quite a lot of fuss if he tried anything — but he didn't. Instead, he offered you a bookkeeping job for steady pay, with room to take "freelancing" on commission should you so desire. It was unexpected. It was — nice. The place is nice. A bit gauche, and good lord, those curtains are tacky, but you didn't expect prostitutes to be so…

Well.  Nice.

Come to find out, the woman who left a lipstick stain on Jacob's cheek (you aren't jealous; you aren't) is named Jenny. Jenny is in the elected position of being madame (you didn't know madames were elected?) of the establishment. Which also happens to be the name of the brothel itself. The Establishment. Tongue-in-cheek, but effective.

She's full-bodied and impossibly soft, brown hair piled into curls on top of her head. The pearls she wears are gifts from clients, apparently, and it's become so much of a running joke that for her birthday, the girls saved up to get her a new set of pearl earrings for fun. You have no idea why she wears them all at once.

She peers over your shoulder as you scribble in the ledger, writing down dates and numbers, trying not to get a headache putting it all together. Unfortunately, you haven't had time to sharpen up your sums.

"Ms. Jenny," you glance at her from the corner of your eye, looking for a way to fill the silence since no one is murdering the pianoforte, "can I ask why you haven't done the bookkeeping yourself?" She hums and smiles at you. You notice dimples in the roundness of her cheeks, like craters on the moon.

"Well, dearie, it's because I can nary read nor write. Neither can any of the others — been meaning to hire a bookkeeper for a bit, just never got 'round to it, I suppose." Suddenly and for, of course, no reason at all, you want to disappear into the floor. You should have guessed. Now you feel awful.

You look at your notes. You had all the girls tell you a rough estimate of their earnings for the past six months; some were more accurate than others, but you get the feeling that Jacob just wanted to find you something to do. He doesn't take a massive percentage anyways; usually, it fluctuates depending on how much they've earned that month. Always enough for a comfortable living after expenses, always favorable towards the brothel residents. You've no idea why, just that he somehow manages to supplement his own income enough that it doesn't put him in the red.

"I see," you say, pausing to add up all the earnings for July, minus overhead. Jenny leans in with her eyes narrowed and pokes your side, making you jump so high your ass almost hits the ceiling.

"You're a right hard one to read you are; what's that supposed to mean? Hm?" She pokes you again, and you feel your cheeks burn bright red.

"Nothing! Nothing, I just — felt terrible for asking, I suppose.  Ow."  You rub your side — does the woman have knives for fingers, or is your skin just made of paper? She pokes your arm — definitely knife fingers.

"Well, no harm done."

You sit quietly, shuffling papers in the ledger until everything is tight and up to date — it's not doing too terribly for a Whitechapel brothel. Still, there are some improvements to be made — namely, the settlement of customer debts.

How ironic that you have become the creditor now.

You set your pen down and lean against your steepled fingers, a plot crawling up the back of your mind and settling in. You ask Ms. Jenny, since she is much more familiar with the Rooks than you, to find you a few burly men. And to tell them to bring weapons. Blunt ones.

This is your job now — you'll be damned if you're not going to do it well. Besides, this isn't something you should bother Jacob with.

It isn't tricky to track down your debtors; one look at you smiling in your silks and velveteens, a train of rugged brutes behind you, and people scrape the ground to tell you where your targets live. They know what's coming, and they're not eager to try and quell the storm. You knock very politely on the door to an apartment in a run-down shack of a building, watching it crack open a hair's breadth. That is all the opening your boys need — they muscle in and push Mr. Curtis to the ground. You ignore him swearing to shut the door, folding your hands in front of your stomach.

"Mr. Curtis! I believe we have business."

"I don't know what you're fucking talkin' about," he spits. A simple nod of your head is all the excuse one of your enforcers needs to start walloping Mr. Curtis about the head until he begs you to stop him. You do, the smile on your face ever so slowly becoming a genuine manic grin.

"You owe my employer quite a bit of money. Do you have a wife, Mr. Curtis? I assume not if you visit brothels so often, but I wouldn't put it past you to cheat, either." Curtis rolls onto his side and covers his weeping nose, and you're fascinated by the slow drip-drip-drip of red into a puddle on the floor. "You have one month, which I find very generous. Can you read?" You don't receive an answer, just a low groan of pain that sends a tingle up your toes; you pull a piece of paper out of your pocket, the ink already dry as you sit it on a side table. On it is a sum of money, a date, and Curtis' name.

You leave him to lick his wounds, damn near skipping out into the darkened street. You visit three more houses in short order before returning to the brothel to see Jacob leaned over the intake desk, talking with Jenny. They both have lit cigars between their fingers. You had no idea Jacob smoked. He turns his head, and you suddenly feel self-conscious of where you've been.

"Done terrorizing the whole of Whitechapel?" He asks, but he doesn't sound unangry. Not that it doesn't stop you from worrying that he's simply putting on an air of calm. You quail and fiddle with the ends of your gloves, staring at your shoes.

"I apologize-"

"Think nothing of it," he says and comes over to pat your shoulder. "Debts need to be paid, and I appreciate you looking after my people. Your people now, too, I guess." Your people. You stare at Jacob and his toothy smile around his cigar, his hand still settled on your shoulder like it belongs there. You clear your throat and shrug it off, hurrying to the desk to note down when your debtors are supposed to send in their payments. It's mostly just to keep your hands busy.

Your people.

You've never really belonged to a group before. You exist in the gray strata between the middle class and the aristocracy, scathingly referred to as the  nouveau riche  by your would-be peers and mistrust by the working people of London, you belong nowhere. Unwelcome in the clubs and symposiums of the genteel, nor the pubs and coffeehouses of the mercantile caste. You didn't even have that many friends among the newly rich, either. Even for them, you were too…  off.  Violet Morvell was someone who tolerated you enough to call you acquaintance. Or so you thought.

The idea of having people is foreign and exciting, and terrifying all at once.

***

Your time at the brothel is well-spent. You buy yourself a math primer with the salary you get and brush up on your sums. With that knowledge in hand, you are brutally efficient with the finances of The Establishment. You set up a sign-in sheet and record every name that comes through the door, much to the patrons' shock and chagrin. The burly doorman you recently hired on is insistence enough they give you their real names, which in and of themselves are insurance. Occasionally he has to throw out a tirading customer, but they usually come back for their fix of unfortunate women. Sex, you suppose, is at the root of most vices.

At the end of the month, all four of your debtors turn their money into your capable (you hope) hands. You didn't have to visit them a second time — they either respect Jacob Frye too much, or they're too terrified of him to keep skimping on his money.

You begin educating a few of the girls on manners, etiquette, and how to properly play a pianoforte without sounding like they're torturing a cow. When you suggest that the brothel start serving tea and coffee to waiting customers, Ms. Jenny happily converts one of the rooms into a small kitchen. It makes more overhead, but in the end, the payout is astounding — it makes the patrons feel special, and men who feel special are pleasantly inclined to give more in terms of tips. Pun intended. Jacob would be proud of that one, you think.

It also attracts wealthier clientele, whom you are more than happy to charge extra for the pleasure of pretty company. The Establishment prospers with you holding the purse strings; you almost dare yourself to feel proud. The Rooks have taken to calling you  bookie,  of all things. Sometimes they even invite you out for drinks.

You've never had a nickname before. You think you might like it.

The English winter drudges on and turns into an English spring, and you settle into a rhythm. You moved into an apartment in Whitechapel, a nicer one (in comparison — it's still poverty when set beside how you used to live, but you think you're slowly acclimating to it) closer to work. You spend most of your time with Ms. Jenny and the girls anyway — most nights, you find yourself passed out at your desk until Ms. Jenny shoos you to a couch in a dark corner by the stairs. She begins to insist that you call her Jenny, just Jenny — but that seems like a breach to you, a line you're just not ready to cross yet, no matter how many times she covers you with a blanket and lets you sleep in the receiving room.

At the end of every month, you meet Jacob in a pub to hand over his cut and go over the ledger. He always lingers to talk with you after, and you've gotten to know him, you think. As much as you can know someone who somehow manages to head both a crime syndicate and an alleged, shady reactionary freedom movement. At least that's what you can glean from the whispered conversations he's had with you when you ask after it.

"I think I know that look," he says, pointing his glass at you, "what are you thinking about?"

Damn him and his sharp eyes — you really must be more careful about your expressions.

"I realize that I don't actually know you at all," you say, swirling your glass around in your hand to slosh the wine inside. Frye's response is a dry chuckle and little more than that, grabbing the bottle of wine and refilling his own cup. You know he's not partial to wine. You know he prefers milds to bitters and finds that lager doesn't have the malty taste he enjoys, but he drinks it when he goes to Evie and Jayadeep's. But beyond that? He may as well be a ghost to you.

"Perhaps that's for the best," he says. You watch him chug half his cup before he sits it down again, wipes his mouth, and clears his throat. You sit your glass down, a companion piece. You'd threaten to kick him over not savoring it, but the wine they serve here isn't worth savoring.

"Do you have any hobbies?"

"Hobbies?" He seems utterly baffled by the idea.

"You know — things you enjoy. That you do on your off time."

"I think it's so incredibly, endearingly bold of you to assume I have off time." He smiles and then leans his chin on the heel of his hand and makes a show of thinking. "I do enjoy a good game of cards."

"Does that count as a hobby?"

"Why wouldn't it? Not everyone can afford to learn croquet or whatever they teach at Fancy Lads and Lasses School for Fancy Lads and Lasses." That stings — you take a drink of wine to lessen the bruise that puts on your ego, and Jacob visibly softens with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. That was unkind of me."

"No — no, you're right." You look down at your hands, smooth and uncalloused, and rub your thumb against your palm to keep them busy. "I'm coming to learn that the world is very different from what I thought."

You don't know why you said it. Or why Jacob Frye touches his fingertips to yours after a long, pregnant pause. You startle, and you look up to see him with that softened smile.

"It's a lot to take in." He pulls his hand away; you find yourself missing the brush of it. Your fingers curl into your palms of their own accord.

"When did  you  first learn about all this Assassin and Templar business?" You ask.

"About four minutes after Evie, right out of the womb. We were raised in it. Our parents were both Assassins, so were our grandparents, probably their grandparents too. It's a good thing we keep dying young; otherwise, we'd be twice as inbred as Her Majesty and company." You gasp.

"That is the queen you're insulting!"

"She's a right shit old bird, is what she is," he plants a hand on his chest, looking wounded. "She almost took Evie's knighthood! Because we dared ask politely for her not to steamroll over all India and probably gleefully kick puppies in the process."

"Evie was knighted?"

"Henry and I too, but I didn't want the damn thing."

"You're a  knight?"  He curls his lip, topping up your glass and sighing. He nods his head as though it's a burden, and you snort into your wine glass. The dismay strangely suits him — he doesn't seem the type to want or even know what to do with a knighthood. You can't imagine him in a suit and medal either, no matter how hard you try.

You're about to ask him what his parents thought about him being here when someone grabs a chair and muscles their way to your table. You're pushed damn near into the wall, scowling and moving if only to keep your wine from spilling. You recognize the idiot who stuck his nose in — his name is Smith, and he's a bastard.

You've had to throw him out of The Establishment more than once; you'd entertain the idea that he has some sort of vendetta against you, but he's not worth the effort of thinking about. He downs his bottle of lager and sits it down onto the table, swaying in his seat. His eyes are bloodshot under the greasy, unwashed blond mop of his hair. He grins at Jacob with all his teeth after he greets him warmly. Loudly.

You cow in the corner as the whole bar turns to look at your table, trying to hide in your skin. For the most part, Jacob seems annoyed. Still, he greets Smith with the impatient smile of a father whose child interrupted an important meeting. You can see a muscle twitch in his cheek when Smith leans on you, his hand wrapping like an uncomfortable snake around your waist.

Your heart freezes, and every muscle you own goes rigid like stone as he spreads his palm over your hip.

"Didn't know you visited the Judies, boss! How much does ol' bookie go for these days? Gold or silver?" You grip your wine glass until your knuckles threaten to split, hot behind the ears as he leans in. His breath smells like a month's worth of stale beer. You fix him with your eye and pull your lip away from your teeth, speaking through a tight jaw. Usually, that is enough to get the handsy ones to back off; not tonight, apparently.

"You know very well that I work the desk. Nothing more, Mr. Smith."

"Yeah, with that stick up your arse, I bet you don't get many Johns. No room." He winks at Jacob, who simply sits and lets you wallow in your misery, the smile gone from his face. You look at him, pleading, as Smith leans even further in and plucks your wine glass out of your hands. You can't move. You can't stop him.

"Aw, c'mon, poppet! Give us a smile." Jacob grits his teeth until his jaw is white, a warning snarl curling his lip away from his teeth.

"That is  enough,  Smith."

"What? Boss, I'm jus' havin' a little fun. Hazin' the greenies, you know how it is." Smith turns back to you, leering ever closer, the rank of his breath falling across your cheek. "You're having fun, aren't you, darling?" The world melts away, candle wax as his hand travels down to rest on the outside of your thigh. You can only think of  Thomas Fucking Morvell.  His hand around your waist. It feels so suffocatingly like he's there instead of Smith, and something-

Something in you.

Snaps.

You think you might be seeing yourself outside your body, your hand wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle as you slam the motherfucker into his big mouth. It explodes in a haze of glass. The force pushes him backward, out of the booth, onto the floor, and he covers his bleeding face with his hands and screams, screams, screams.

"You stupid fucking cunt!"  Smith wails more obscenities at you, but you aren't listening. Your ears ring. The bottle feels oh-so-right in your hands, perfect. Jacob stands when you do, eyes wide and eyebrows high, but he's not quick enough to stop you from straddling Smith's chest and grabbing his lacerated jaw with your hand. Glass cuts into your fingers. He stares up with one eye swollen shut with blood and the other ballooned in horror. You raise the shattered, razor-sharp bottleneck over your head. You feel like an animal.

You wish you could say something clever — but your teeth are pressed so tightly that your words wither and die at the pass. Smith shrieks when your arm falls towards his eyes in a violent arch.

Aren't you having fun, poppet? Gimme a smile.

Something firm and solid stops your arm and wrenches you up with so much force you spin, and the bestial part of you uses the momentum to try to punch out at whatever's caught you. You've never thrown a punch in your life, but by God, are you going to throw one now. Something grabs that arm too.

You force yourself to refocus, panting hard and covered in blood from a million tiny cuts, splattered in Smith's gore and stale beer.

Jacob is staring at you, holding your wrists tight and firm to keep you from hurting someone else — or yourself. Then, finally, the horror dawns on you that the bar — the entire bar — is staring at you. You drop the bloodied bottleneck; your chest feels like it's going to implode. And yet Jacob keeps staring.

"You," he says, more to himself than you, "are full of so many interesting surprises."

***

You are cleaned up, bandaged, and taken to a private room above the bar. You spend minutes (hours, feels like) pacing. Back, forth — back, forth. You chew at your bandages and lament that your nails are covered, gnashing like a beast to try and bite them to the quick.

When Jacob opens the door, you want to throw yourself at his feet.

"Jacob," your voice wobbles, your breath coming out in short gasps, "I am so, so sorry-" He cuts you off with a raised hand.

"No, I'm sorry."

...What?

Whatever for?

You stare in stunned silence while he rubs the back of his neck. "You were obviously uncomfortable, and he just — kept touching you. And I didn't stop him. I'm sorry."

"You — You told him to stop." You want to laugh. This is a trick — this has to be a trick.

"That is not enough." He sighs. "Considering I know what it feels like." He grimaces at the floor, arms crossed, and you collapse back to sit on the bare mattress, hearing the frame creak its protest under your weight. The two of you exist in oppressive quiet until Jacob pipes up from the door.

"But — that was impressive, back there. And you've shown a lot of initiative and drive these past few months. I think you should join us — the Creed." It sounds like a speech he's rehearsed for months, shocked into pulling it out now at the most inopportune of times. It's damn-near comical, but you can't bring yourself to laugh.

"Again, with your crazy cult of conspiracy theorists." You sag, running a hand over your face. "Fine. I'll join you. What else do I have to lose?" The silence that follows is awkward and strange, so you try to fill it with conversation. "What did you mean when you said you knew what it felt like?" Jacob leans against the wall, watching a patch of the floor behind you with great interest. It takes him a moment to speak, but he sounds distant. Weather vaned to a place in history far away.

"His name was Maxwell Roth."

"The old leader of the Blighters? The one that set fire to the Alhambra?"

"The very same." You try to conjure him in your mind from what you remember. You come up with a shadowed figure in a mask and a cruel grin; you only know that he was much older than the two of you. You pull your knee to your chest and block out the thoughts as Roth slowly mutates into a figure you know far, far too well, and hate far, far too much.

"I'm sorry," you mumble.

"Don't be — it was a lifetime ago."

"A year," you smile; it doesn't reach your eyes. "But those can feel like lifetimes, can't they?"

"Sure as the sun shits gold, are you right." He moves to sit beside you, his hands folded between his knees, back bent. "He — I loved him. At least I think I did, afterward. After he died. He'd call me  darling  and  my dear,  and he made me feel so — so damn good about myself — all the things I'd accomplished like I was special. But I think we both loved a man who was," he trails off, trying so hard to find the words. You finish for him, hauntingly familiar with the feeling.

"Different from who the real man was," you say. "You loved the image you had in your head." And afterward, Jacob fell in love with the nostalgia.

"Right." He pauses and then coughs, the tips of his ears red. "We never had sex. I mean, afterward, shit — yeah, there were men. But for Roth and me — he was just touchy-feely. I thought I didn't mind then, but looking back on it now…" You feel nausea coil in your stomach; it's like looking in a mirror.

You never would have known. Or maybe he's just not as broken as you.

But to hear that you're not alone — you can find some measure of comfort in that, even if you're horrified to see your doppelganger sitting by you. You ask Jacob if Evie knows — she doesn't. She never will, if he has anything to say about it; all she knows is that something changed when he killed Roth, maybe for better or maybe for worse.

You don't know what to do — so you hesitantly lean against him, hoping that you're a comforting weight. He lets you. You stare straight ahead to keep from crumpling like a paper crane.

"I'm glad you said yes," he says. "This isn't — it's not a life I ask you to join lightly."

"What do I have to lose?" You repeat yourself, finally feeling brave enough to glance up, watching Jacob light a match and catch fire to the end of a cigar — the same one he's been smoking for a week, you realize. He must be saving it. "Does your mother know you smoke those things?" Not that it'd make much of a stir — they're meant to be healthy for the lungs anyhow. It's just unfortunate about the smell.

"Didn't know her," he says, almost as a throwaway comment as he takes a deep drag of smoke. You jolt, the shock of it filling your bones. "What?"

"Nothing," you say, fiddling with the selvage of your bandages. "I simply realized that we have much more in common than I thought."

[vampiregirl1797]

Vampire in the Modern World

BBC Dracula x Female Reader

 Gif Not Mine.

 For My Masterlist Click Here.

 Working at the Jonathan Harker foundation isn’t the career you’d envisioned yourself having as a child. I’d first been enrolled in the programme during my third year of studying biochemistry at Oxford University. The life of a student was stressful by way of work and lack of funds, and so Dr. Van Helsing suggested the blood donation procedure to me. I mean, at first it was a dream come true—come in once a week, donate a pint of blood, earn a thousand pounds a month. At the beginning, I hadn’t been fully informed as to what exactly the blood was being used for, and with Dr Helsing recommending the programme to me, and me finally being able to afford to live modestly in London, I hadn’t thought to question it.

 However, when I left University and was offered a better-paid position (three times my original wage packet) for a few more hours of work a week, I was told the full extent of what the Jonathan Harker foundation actually represented. It was dedicated to the analysis and evaluation of vampires, something that I had believed to be mythical until that point. That meant their behaviours, reactions to blood, and even the extent of their self-control was studied meticulously. Now, my position wouldn’t involve studying. I, along with a handful of other people, were all being assigned to a particular vampire. This was all decided on our blood types, lifestyles and our personalities.

We were expected to donate a pint of blood a day—due to the high amounts we’d have to take red blood cell renewals that the lab had created specifically for this purpose. As well as this, we’d be spending a minimum of an hour with the vampire we were assigned to, which would be recorded for the scientists observing the interaction to evaluate. It had taken about four weeks to get to this point, which was the point of being assigned to our own vampire. First, we had one last presentation involving the dangers we would be facing, along with the discovery the foundation had recently made. Which was how I found myself sitting in a dimly lit lecture hall, with Professor Bloxham stood at the front and waiting to start the presentation.

 I sighed softly and glanced around me, not paying too much attention to the several other people in the room. It wasn’t uncommon for us not to chat amongst one another—we knew the dangers of the job and so getting attached wasn’t a smart move. Some may have considered that to be heartless, I viewed it as a necessary precaution, and evidently so did everyone else as they followed the same behaviour. This was something we did to earn a living, and so our lives started outside of these walls, the people whom we became within them was a far cry from the person our loved ones knew.

 My eyes flickered back to Professor Bloxham as she started to speak, most of it details I’d already heard before, at least until she got to the part of the Demeter. It had been known as the ship Count Dracula had boarded over 100 years ago in order to gain passage to England. However, the passengers had discovered what he was with the help of Agatha Van Helsing who Dracula had bought to snack on during the journey. It was rumoured by the few passengers that escaped that the ship was blown up by the Captain and Van Helsing herself in order to prevent the curse of vampirism from reaching English soil. But apparently, it had been discovered very recently.

 I felt myself lean forward in my seat as the projector presented the scuba diver footage of the Demeter at the bottom of the sea. It looked so old, and yet quite untouched. The golden writing carved into the side of the mahogany wood seemed to glitter on the screen.

 ‘So this is the main part of the ship. Basically undisturbed for a hundred years.’ She said, looking around and smiling slightly at what was probably several expressions of wonder, ‘the original teams were looking in the wrong place, no one realised quite how close Count Dracula’s ship got to the British mainland.’ She glanced behind her as she continued, ‘we searched the wreck for three days, but what we were looking for was approximately two hundred yards south of there.’

 I felt my heart beat faster in my chest at the sight of a coffin shaped wooden box appearing on the screen. It was as if my body knew what it was, but my mind was refusing to accept the logical direction that Professor Bloxham’s findings were almost certainly heading in.

 ‘Now, a box this old, you’d expect at least a few barnacles.’ We could all clearly see there were no such things, in fact the box looked untouched, ‘but look at it. Untouched by any living thing.’

 I held my breath as I watched hands pry the box open, revealing what appeared to be a perfectly preserved Count Dracula. He almost looked like he was leisurely floating at the bottom of the sea, rather than being essentially impeccably well maintained in death. His eyes were even open, which seemed to highlight the relaxed expression on his face.

 ‘As you can see, even after 123 years, the body was perfectly preserved.’ Someone’s hands inspected Dracula’s face, lifting his lip to reveal his pearl white teeth that even a fool could identify as weapons. I felt a shiver slither down my spine and goose bumps rise on my arms.

 Professor Bloxham turned to face us, her brow quirked, ‘or so we thought.’

 I frowned in confusion until I saw the person’s fingers move into Count Dracula’s mouth, before I could wonder if the worst would happen, crimson coloured the screen as the vampire bit down on the diver’s fingers, evidentially taking in some of their blood. The whole class reacted together as we watched the diver struggle to retrieve their fingers from his mouth, some releasing startled gasps, others groaning in discomfort, however I was too shocked to move. If he hadn’t been dead before, that meant he’d been comatose, but what did it mean now that he was fed? My eyes fell to the Professor as she explained, the dread in my gut growing with each word.

 ‘The body was not preserved. Dracula, was in fact alive. Though dormant.’ She sighed, shifting on her feet and leaning to rest on the desk behind her, ‘apparently in some kind of restorative coma, in which he would have remained, if I hadn’t been stupid enough to feed him. So in case you’re wondering, yeah, vampire’s bite.’ She held up her bandaged hand, identifying herself as the diver who had been masticated.

 She lowered her arm and looked around each and every one of us as her voice took on a grave tone, ‘you need to know what you’re signing up for. We will keep you safe, but this isn’t just about giving blood, it’s not just another student drug trial. There is a reason it is better paid. You will all have controlled exposure to a vampire. Are we clear?’

 She let that sink in for a moment, and I felt the fear and severity of the situation churn in my gut. What if I ended up dead? Mauled by a vampire who saw me as nothing other than his or her next meal provided in order to satiate their hunger? I took a deep breath and reminded myself that there were precautions in place in order to protect me should it be necessary.

 ‘Obviously, at this point, having triggered his revification, we opted for tactical retreat.’ Professor Bloxham’s voice broke me out of my self-reassurance, ‘we resealed the box so nothing could interfere with the process, and we monitored from the shore. It took Dracula another ten hours to fully revive. And of course, we were waiting for him on the beach.’

 Her inability to maintain eye contact at the end of her presentation made me wonder if that was all of the information, but I wasn’t able to dwell for too long as the projector switched off and the lights turned on. I found myself blinking in discomfort at the sudden brightness as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.

 ‘Now, before yesterday all of you were assigned to a specific vampire.’ She revealed, and I found myself frowning when her eyes seemed to settle on me for a second longer than everyone else.

 ‘However, due to our capture of Dracula yesterday evening we had to re-evaluate our submissions due to his known and very specific dietary requirements. Of course, you will all be informed of your assignment shortly, but I’d like you to be pre-warned that one of you,’ she took a breath, seeming to steel herself for what she was about to say, ‘will be assigned to Count Dracula.’

 I felt my heart drop into my stomach. Count Dracula was one of the most famous vampires for a reason. He took time to decide upon whom he would like to feed from, and when he reached his verdict he relished in the feed, often taking his time as he gorged on his victim’s blood. He was known to have no self-control when it came to feeding, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the person he was assigned to didn’t last a week. I took another deep breath—what were the chances that it would be me, right? I mean he had “specific” dietary requirements and I was positive that I was nothing special when it came to blood flavour. I felt the knot of dread in my stomach relax as I leaned back in my chair, relaxing at the realisation—I was nothing special, of that I was positive, and I would most certainly not live up to Count Dracula’s exclusive blood cravings.

 ‘Y/L/N?’ I looked up to see one of the scientists calling my name from the door at the back of the room. I stood up, surprised to see I was the last one to be called—I must have been freaking out so much that I had tuned out my surroundings.

 I bit my lip as I followed the Dr who had come to fetch me, when I asked her where I was going she informed me she was taking me to my assigned vampire. I just about had a heart attack. Before I could question it, she explained that Dr Helsing had specifically asked for me to be bought directly to her, so that she could introduce me to whomever I was assigned to. I should have paid more attention to the several winding corridors I was led down, but I was too lost in my thoughts and in trying to control my heartbeat that was rising in panic.

 ‘Ah, Y/N.’ Dr Helsing’s soft voice garnered my attention and I looked up from the floor to see her waiting for me beside a metallic door, ‘thank you for coming so quickly. We wish to make the introduction now while the sun is still up, as we can use that for our main point of defence.’

 I nodded before I asked, ‘who am I assigned to?’ I wished my voice had sounded stronger than it did, but that was the least of my worries.

 Dr Helsing smiled tightly, ‘Count Dracula.’ She was blunt, and I appreciated that because I don’t think my heart could have taken any fumbling.

 The Dr that had led me there scurried away, and so I had no choice but to follow the leader of the foundation through the metallic door.

 ‘Why me? I thought he had specific requirements? I am positively certain there is nothing special or even flavoursome about my blood.’ I crossed my arms over my chest defensively, so concentrated on talking to the Dr, that I hadn’t taken notice of the giant triangular glass prison cell in the centre of the room.

 ‘You are correct, his requirements are specific and looking back on his past victims,’ she paused, taking a key and turning it into the wall beside the door, ‘well at least those that we know of, you carry the same characteristics as well as a few new ones of your own. We believe you will be a suitable donor. If not, you will be re-assigned.’

 I sighed, moving my neck around in a circular motion as I tried to loosen up the muscles—they always got tight when I was stressed. My eyes followed Dr Helsing as she walked over to a table that rested along the back wall, I found myself watching what she was collecting with expressed interest. I swallowed when I realised she was gathering the necessary instruments for drawing blood. Noticing my nerves, she began to speak.

 ‘I have already taken a blood sample from Count Dracula, now I will take a pint of your blood inside his chamber.’ She lifted a metal tray, satisfied she had all she needed, ‘we will remain in the sunlight to stop his attack should he be unable to control himself in the presence of your blood. You will remain with him as he drinks and another sample will be collected after he has feasted.’

 ‘Wonderful.’ I mumbled, pulling the sleeves of the pale blue jumper I was wearing over my hands.

 ‘Well, well, I can’t say I’ve ever had a meal sound so disgruntled at the prospect of my company.’ His voice washed over me like a soothing balm, my body seeming to involuntarily relax for a moment, until my head caught up with my heart and I realised what he’d just said.

 My eyes met his for the first time and my heart skipped a beat at the charm, mirth and hunger that lingered behind his irises. My cheeks flushed, and my gaze fell to his mouth, which in that moment was smirking at my reaction of him, but I found myself briefly enamoured with the plumpness of his lips before I forced my gaze to move on. He was at least six feet tall, his dark hair and eyes adding to the tall, dark and handsome cliché. I bit my lip, the thought of him being attractive under different circumstances crossing my mind, but I reminded myself what was happening here: I was his meal and his company for the next hour. If I wanted to stay longer, I could, but honestly I didn’t see that happening.

 ‘It’s not your company that is the problem, Count Dracula, rather your lack of control when in the presence of freshly spilled blood.’ I murmured, once I was satisfied that I’d taken his appearance in completely. My voice was calm, and surprisingly firm.

 He blinked, seemingly also surprised by my comeback, though before he could respond Dr Helsing opened the door to his cell and led me inside. We were both careful to remain standing in the rectangle of sunlight while he slinked in the corners. I drew up my sleeve and felt myself shiver as the cool cotton swab was swiped over my skin, the needle quickly following suit. My eyes fell shut as I tried to transport myself somewhere else, preferably somewhere where I wasn’t being stabbed with a needle in front of a bloodthirsty vampire. Unfortunately, the animalistic growls coming from Count Dracula rendered my attempts futile. My eyes fluttered over to him to see his irises were now a crimson red that seemed to glow from his place in the shadows, along with his teeth that appeared to have sharpened as his hunger grew.

 ‘How long since he’s been fed?’ I wondered aloud.

 ‘Aside from the small deposit he had from Professor Bloxham that awoke him, he has had nothing for one hundred and twenty three years.’ Dr Helsing answered, not looking away from the blood bag that was slowly filling up.

My eyes moved back over to the Count, a pang of sympathy shooting through me—he must have been starving, perhaps even malnourished. Did vampires even get malnourished? His eyes fell on mine, I was surprised as his ability to look away from his food source when he was so hungry, and I felt my heart skip a beat when I realised his eyes had melted back to their usual chocolate brown.

 I startled when I felt Dr Helsing swab my skin again. I placed my hand over the cotton, holding it in place while the bleeding subsided.

 ‘That’s all you will be donating today.’ She assured me, placing the used utensils in a biohazard bag and handing me my donation. I took it in my free hand, somehow grossed out by how warm it felt.

 ‘I’ll have some food sent in for you, along with the pills you’ll need to take to boost your red blood cell growth.’ She offered me a tight smile that I assumed was supposed to be comforting, and left shutting the glass door behind her, followed by the metallic one that made a much louder thud.

 ‘I don’t know how long you’re planning to stare after the esteemed doctor, but is there any way you could hand me my breakfast?’ My heart rate picked up at the sound of his voice, ‘I’m famished.’

 I took a breath and removed the cotton swab from my arm, when I’d deduced that the bleeding had stopped, I slipped the material into my pocket and slid my jumper sleeve back down my arm.

 ‘How do you want me to give it to you?’ I asked, not particularly wanting to move from the rectangle of sunlight I was stood in.

 ‘Well, I’d appreciate if you handed it to me, that would be the polite thing to do.’ He said, mirth colouring his tone.

 I took a breath; trying to find the courage to take a mere two steps forward to join him in the shadows. It would only have to be for a brief moment after all, and vampire or not, he deserved to have his meal handed to him. My eyes met his again, and I was surprised to see that his eyes had softened, almost as if he were sympathetic to my plight. A surge of courage seemed to ripple through me, and I found myself speaking before my mind could catch up with my impulsiveness.

 ‘Close the ceiling.’ My voice wasn’t loud but it rang with a formality that echoed through the glass pane that built his cell. The man who was standing outside with his gun followed my instruction a lot easier than I thought he would, and before I knew it my heart was racing as the sunlight withdrew from the room, shrouding us both in the artificial lights in the room.

 I stepped forward and placed the blood bag on the table, sliding it over to the other side where he was standing. He observed me for a moment, seemingly impressed by my courage and if I wasn’t mistaken his eyes glittered with interest. I took the seat opposite his, curling my knees up to my chest in an attempt to suppress my shiver. My head rested on my knees as I observed him, my eyebrow cocking in silent question: was he going to stare all day, or was he going to eat the meal he was probably dying for? I got my answer a second later when he moved at an inhuman pace and snatched the blood bag from the table. The Count took his seat across from me and to my surprise, began sipping on the blood. Quite impressive restraint for someone who hadn’t eaten in over a century, but I figured it would be smart not to question it.

 ‘Hmm.’ He moaned, the sound affecting me more than I cared to admit. Not a drop fell from his mouth as he drank, leisurely savouring every drop. His noises of pleasure continued and I found myself stupefied and aghast by the spark of arousal that seemed to shoot through my body every time the different noises fell from his mouth.

 ‘Y/N,’ he murmured, his voice wrapping around my name like velvet, ‘British born, dead parents and hmmm… a virgin.’

 My cheeks coloured in embarrassment—I hadn’t been made aware of the information he’s be able to gather from a few sips of my blood. It should have been intrusive, violating… but it wasn’t.

 ‘Don’t be embarrassed, Y/N,’ his eyes darkened as he gazed at me, it felt like he was caressing me with his voice, ‘you taste positively exquisite. Remind me to thank Dr Helsing for finding you for me, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to achieve such a feat on my own with the world being as advanced as it is now.’

 ‘I’m surprised you’re taking your time with that. After a hundred years of starving, I’m not sure I could be quite as reserved.’ I pulled my jumper sleeves down over my hands again, the feeling of being exposed making me want to cover as much as possible.

 ‘Yes, well, I’m not quite sure why the good doctor lied about that. See, while they did corner me on the beach I managed to escape and find myself a meal a fair distance from the city.’ He informed me, his casual mention of murder should have repulsed me, but it didn’t. I had no idea what that said about me.

 ‘Somehow, Dr Helsing’s little foundation found me and here I am, able to enjoy your life’s essence slowly, which is excellent as that is exactly how this blood should be consumed.’ He held up his blood bag in an ironic salute before taking another sip.

 ‘That sucks. That you escaped and still ended up being captured, I mean.’ I said before I could stop myself. Logically I knew he was dangerous, and the safest option would probably be to keep him locked up somewhere like this. But I just couldn’t help the pang of sympathy and injustice that flared in my gut at the thought.

 ‘Indeed,’ Dracula grinned, his eyes seemed unable to stray away from me as he drank, as if he were matching up what he tasted to what he saw. I wondered if he found himself disappointed, if he thought the meek girl sitting in front of him didn’t measure up to the supposedly exquisite blood he was drinking.

 A few moments later, a guard bought me some food—beef chow mien with a glass of water and a small paper cup containing three tablets. I swallowed the pills one at a time before digging into my own food, relishing the flavours that exploded in my mouth. I didn’t know if it was the blood loss, or the influence of Dracula enjoying his own food, but Chinese had never tasted so good. When I was finished, I pushed my tray an inch from me, a habit I’d picked up whenever I was finished with a meal.

 ‘So, Y/N, tell me about yourself.’ He murmured, now leaning back in his chair, right ankle resting on his left knee, while his right hand served as a rest for his head.

 ‘I’m sure you know more about me than anyone else ever has,’ I told him honestly—if he’d been able to pick up a few things from a mere few mouthfuls then I was sure he knew me better than anyone now he’d finished the entire pint.

 ‘Perhaps.’ He chuckled, the sound was dark, yet warm, ‘but I’d still like to hear it from your lips.’

 I frowned and subconsciously bit my lower lip, unaware that his eyes followed the movement. Honestly, there was nothing interesting about me that sprang to mind in that moment, so I decided to offer him some mundane facts.

 ‘I graduated from the University of Oxford a few months ago with a first class honours in biomedical science.’ I started, my voice reeling off the information without much thought, ‘I started the programme about a year ago, but then I was only giving a pint of blood a week, I decided to take on this… promotion, if that’s what you want to call it… after graduation as a way to earn an income while I looked for a job related to my degree.’

 ‘Why science?’ he wondered, the leg that had been propped on his knee fell to the floor, allowing him to lean forward and rest his elbows on the table. I couldn’t help but blush at the genuine interest in his eyes; it was an emotion that no one had ever before regarded me with.

 ‘It was a subject that always fascinated me in school,’ I shrugged, clutching my legs tighter as his eyes narrowed.

 ‘No.’

 ‘No?’ I frowned.

 ‘No.’ he repeated simply, ‘you’re lying, Y/N. So I’ll ask again, why science?’

 I sighed, my shoulders slumping in defeat, but I should have known that lying wouldn’t work when he’d already tasted the truth in my blood.

 ‘I took science because I found it interesting, that wasn’t a lie, but the main reason was because… my mum was a scientist and I wanted to make her proud.’ My tone was hollow, not expecting him to understand the sentimentality behind my decision.

 ‘You miss your parents greatly.’ He said, his voice surprisingly gentle and I felt my eyes close in response as I nodded, ‘I can taste it. Your loss flows in your blood, but it is only a faint passing flavour. I’m sure your parents would be proud of your ability to move forward with your life, without completely forgetting about them.’

 My eyes fluttered open and I took a deep breath in an attempt to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.

 ‘Thank you, I needed to hear that.’ My voice was quiet, probably too low for any human to hear, but the slight nod the Count aimed in my direction assured me he’d picked up my softly spoken words.

 ‘It’s been an hour.’ Dr Helsing’s voice startled me from my reverie, and I realised that I’d been staring into Dracula’s eyes, lost in the apparent warmth and uncharacteristic softness.

 ‘Why is the ceiling closed?’ Dr Helsing asked, her voice sounding a mixture of disapproving and curious.

 ‘I told them to close it.’ I said, standing from my chair, suddenly feeling very self-aware now that Dr Helsing had disrupted the calm little bubble that we had been immersed in. It was something I hadn’t realised existed until she had disrupted it, and I was surprised by the lack of concern over my internal revelation.

 ‘That was very stupid.’ She remarked with pursed lips as she approached the Count, who was now stood finding solace in the corner he’d been confined to when I’d first entered his cell.

 I didn’t respond to her comment, instead I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the glass wall across from the door. I stared blankly at the floor, wondering what I could do tonight; the few friends I had either had work, plans or were away on holiday. So going out wasn’t an option, but that was fine, honestly a quiet night in sounded absolutely perfect. Although a small part of me was yearning to stay in the Count’s company a little longer, I decided that leaving and giving myself some distance from the vampire was probably the best idea.

 ‘Well, I’ll be leaving then.’ I announced suddenly, unintentionally cutting off the conversation they’d been having.

 ‘So soon?’ Dracula asked. I wondered if I imagined the tremor of despair in his tone, but I shook it off.

 ‘Yes, I-I uh should be getting home. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I offered him a small but genuine smile. Despite my earlier trepidation, meeting him had actually been rather pleasant and I’d found myself relaxed in his company—which was quite rare.

 ‘I’ll be seeing you soon, Y/N.’ His voice wrapped around me like a warm blanket and I found my eyes fluttering shut for a moment as I made my way to the door, as if to savour the feeling.

 If I hadn’t been so lost in that sensation and focused on making my way to the door without walking into something, I might’ve picked up on the dark promise that coated his words.

[guildedlily6]

You Plus Me Equals Soulmates Part 2 (Peter Parker x Reader Soulmates!AU)

Summary: 2nd part to You Plus Me Equals Soulmates.  Y/N doesn’t believe in soulmates, but she can’t help the feelings that are growing for Peter Parker.  Will she give in to her feelings or let her best friend, Liz, have Peter, regardless of the tattoos that might say otherwise?

Author’s Note: Hi also let me know if you like Part 2.  This one is a bit longer than the last one, so enjoy (to whoever might read this).  If you haven’t read Part 1, you might not understand Part 2 so make sure to click on the link down below to read Part 1.

Part 1

Word Count: 2,125

Warnings: swearing (that’ll probably just be common from now on).

POV: Point Of View.

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

“You know, I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Sure you did,” Liz says.  We’re walking down the concrete hallway, looking for the number of Parker’s apartment.  “You totally could have found another excuse and backed out.”

I had attempted to back out, but as I was forming my homework excuse, Ned had interrupted me.

“I tried to.”

Liz shrugs before knocking on the apartment door.  “Obviously not hard enough,” she states.

The door opens after a small pause.  Parker stands there with his hand on the door handle, a pencil tucked behind his ear.  I don’t think there are enough synonyms for “dork” that could help to describe this kid.

“Hey Peter,” Liz greets, breaking the awkward silence.  Again, why is he looking at me, not Liz?  I look away hastily, breaking the eye contact I hadn’t realized Parker and I were making.

“Yeah, uh, hi.  Come in,” Parker stammers.  He opens the door and Liz and I walk past him.  His apartment is cozy and there’s a fairly young woman in the kitchen.  Does he have a sister or something?

“Peter!  I didn’t know you were bringing girls over.  You never bring girls over-” “These are my friends Liz and Y/N.  We were just going to study,” Parker says, cutting into what the lady was going to say.  The chick gives Parker a look that's a calm equivalent to wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.  “Liz, Y/N, meet my aunt May.  Aunt May, meet Liz and Y/N.”

“Oh!  It’s so nice to meet you two.  I’ve heard a lot about you Y/N.”  Aunt May adds in the last part without hesitation, causing Parker to blush.

Heard a lot about me? But he’s going to homecoming with Liz?  What a creep.

“Yeah, uh...let’s go.  Ned’s in my room,” Peter says while leading us to his room.  The bedroom is small with light grey walls.  There’s a bunk bed but the top bunk is covered with clothes and a few boxes.  Other than that, the room looks nice, apart from being able to see the clothes and other random crap shoved under the bed.

“Oh, hey guys.  Sorry, I’ve already built half of the Death Star already.  But you two can help with the rest,” Ned says eagerly.  He sits on the floor in a pile of Lego pieces.

I plop down on the ground and take out one of my binders and a few pens.  “No thanks.  Like I said, I have homework to do,” I announce.  Liz shoots me a look that screams “don’t be a bitch”.

“Yeah me too, Ned,” Peter adds, glancing at me.  Ned looks at him, seeming a little confused.

“But you just said-”

“I said I have homework to do,” Peter says insistently.

I don’t know if they’re not normally this weird, or this is just something I should get used to.  Either way, I’d appreciate it if they could act like normal people. I look down and focus on my Algebra homework.  Although, it’s kind of difficult to focus while Parker is staring at me from his spot a few feet away.  I look up.

“What?  Do you need help or something?” I question.

“Um n-no.  I-I mean yes.  Could you, uh, help me on this one?” He points to a problem on his paper.  “I don’t really understand how to get to the answer…”

He’s on AB honor roll and takes a shit ton of AP classes and he’s asking me for help?

“Yeah sure,” I scoot closer towards him so that our shoulders brush against each other lightly.  I explain the problem and then show him what I did to get my answer.  I can’t help but get the feeling he knows exactly how to solve the problem, though.

I finish explaining the problem and look back up at him, only to find him staring at me, once again.  There’s a moment where we don’t say anything and I feel butterflies in my stomach.  His eyes aren’t chocolate brown.  They’re a dark oak color with streaks the color of honey carefully scattered around his iris.  My eyes dark from his eyes down to his right wrist.

After the loss of eye contact, he clears his throat and looks down at his paper. This whole time, Liz has actually been helping Ned with his lego Death Star.  But at this moment, she’s looking at Peter and I with a hint of jealousy and anger in her gaze.

I take my eyes off of Peter’s sleeve-covered wrist and continue to work on my Algebra assignment.

___________Peter’s POV___________ I clear my throat and look back down at my paper, trying to make myself seem more interested in this boring slim piece of dead wood rather than the girl sitting next to me.

That was full-on eye contact.  AND she didn’t immediately look away.  This is progress.  Maybe.

I’ve liked Y/N since the second semester of freshman year.  And she hasn’t noticed.  But now I’m stuck with Liz.  And now Y/N is at my apartment.  I sigh. But so is Liz.

Y/N, Liz, and Ned look up at the sound of my random sigh.  I blush lightly and pretend to have been sighing out of frustration at my homework.

Ned knows I like Y/N, not Liz.  Ned knows all of my secrets, basically.  He even knows I’m Spider-Man after that incident that included him destroying the first Lego Death Star we had made.

The whole situation when I ended up asking Liz to homecoming instead of Y/N was quite possibly number one on my list of dumb-things-I’ve-done-on-accident. 

I had been probably annoying Ned all day on my plans of how I was going to muster up the courage and ask Y/N to homecoming.  I mean, if I have the courage to literally jump off of buildings and fight actual Avengers, then surely I would’ve been able to ask a girl out, right?  Nope.

I had marched myself up to the both of them, Ned silently cheering me on.  Y/N had paid no attention to my appearance, but Liz’s face had lit up instantly.  At the time, I thought it was clear that I was asking Y/N out to the school dance, but when I think about it now, I was too busy looking at Liz and her happy energy for Y/N to notice that the question was directed at her. 

“The uh-the...ha, sorry...homecoming is coming up...you know...and so...would you go with me?  I mean you don’t have to you-”

“Yes!  Absolutely!  I thought you’d never ask, Peter,” Liz had answered enthusiastically.  It was at that moment I knew I had fucked up.  Usually, I’d never use words like that to describe anything, but I think it’s an accurate description for my thoughts and feelings during that moment.  Y/N had just sat and watched me ask out her friend in front of her.  And her friend had accepted it so cheerfully.  There was no way I could build up another mount of confidence to tell Liz that I was actually asking Y/N out.

All I did was let out an uncomfortable laugh as Liz happily embraced me in the middle of the hallway for everyone else to see.

So yeah, I messed up pretty badly.  The classic Peter Parker Bad Luck. Somehow, though, I’ll fix this.  Somehow I’ll show Y/N that I like her and not her best friend.  Maybe I’ll even get to see her soulmate tattoo; I’ve been waiting so long to find out if she’s the one.  When I look at Y/N, my chest physically aches with the desire to know if she feels the same way I do.  But in reality, I don’t think she even likes me as a friend.  The tattoo on my wrist means more to me than anyone could imagine.  To me, it means a guaranteed happiness with someone. Soulmate scientists have said that sometimes one half of the soulmate pair takes longer to fall in love, so maybe that’s the case.

Don’t say love.  What if she isn’t the one? 

I feel terrible.  Liz thinks I was asking her to the dance and then if I turn her down or disappear at the dance, most likely she’ll be heartbroken or worse, tell the whole school I’m an asshole playboy.  But if Liz isn’t my soulmate and I don’t feel anything for her, shouldn’t I reject her?

_________Y/N’s POV_________ An hour goes by as Liz and Ned finish making the Lego Death Star while Peter and I work on homework.

“Do you have any food?” I ask.  My stomach is grumbling and Peter hasn’t offered us snacks, even though it’s past 6pm.

“Oh yeah, sure.  What do you guys want?” he asks in return, standing up just as I stand up as well.

Ned asks for some chips and Liz requests water.  I look over at Peter, realizing that we both got up.

“Oh, sorry.  I thought I could get it for you guys,” Peter explains.  Oh god, it’s like their awkwardness is rubbing off on me.  What, did I think we were all going as one big party to the kitchen?

“Yeah, sorry,” I laugh it off, but as I’m about to sit down Peter speaks up.

“But maybe you could help me carry the snacks,” he offers it quickly, like he’s secretly been wishing for me to help him carry snacks or something weird like that.

“Uh okay, I guess.”  Liz looks between Peter and I.  She shifts uncomfortably and opens up her binder, abandoning the Lego Death Star for her English homework.

Peter and I walk out of his room and into the kitchen where Aunt May is doing dishes.  At the sight of both of us alone, she suddenly shoves a glass into a cabinet and utters something along the lines of “I have that thing to do”, and scurries out of the kitchen and around the corner.  Everyone remotely related to Peter, it would seem, is a little odd.

Peter gets a glass and starts getting Liz’s water from the fridge.  “You can look in the pantry for Ned’s chips.  Feel free to get what you want.”

I open the pantry and grab Ned’s chips and a bag of popcorn for me.  “Can I have some water, too?” I ask, as if he’ll tell me no.

“Yeah sure, help yourself.”

I open the cabinet I saw Peter get Liz’s glass from.  Immediately, however, I lose my grip on the cup.  But before the glass can hit the ground, Peter’s hand darts out of nowhere to catch it.

“Damn.  Some ninja-like reflexes you have,” I say, which is true.  Who the hell has a light-speed reaction time like that?  What kind of Edward-Cullen-meets-The-Flash shit was that?

“Uh y-yeah I guess I just acted on instinct,” he says hastily, pushing off some accusation that I didn’t even make.  He pours me a glass of water from the refrigerator and we head back into his room where Ned and Liz are sitting in silence.

The rest of the evening is spent in peace and quiet with the occasional glance between me and Parker.  I don’t know why I keep looking at him.

Did he always look cute while focusing on school work? Shut up, I tell myself.  Liz likes him and from what I can already tell, she doesn’t appreciate Peter and I constantly sneaking glances at each other like we’re in some kind of dumb cliché rom-com.

Eventually, Liz decides it’s time to go and we say our goodbyes to Peter and Ned.

As we walk back down the concrete hallway away from the apartment, she turns to me.

“Why’d you do that?” She says, her voice wavering a bit.

“Do what?”

“You kept sneaking cheeky glances at Peter, thinking I wasn’t looking.  And then you went to the kitchen by yourselves to go get snacks.  What are you trying to do here?”

“What?  Liz, I don’t understand.”  I actually did understand what she meant, but to admit it would make me look guilty when I’m not.

“Yes, you do.  I was so excited when Peter asked me to homecoming and now you’re being all flirty with him.  I want you to stop.  Call your mom or something to come pick you up.”  She starts walking away.

While she’s still in earshot, I reply to her claim, “I wasn’t flirting with him.  I didn’t even want to come, remember?  He’s still Peter-The-Dork to me and I wasn’t trying to do anything.”

Or was I?  How am I supposed to know what my subconscious was telling me to do?

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

Thank you for reading!

Part 3

[forasecondtherewedwon]

21st Century Friction

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: T Word count: 10,817 @spideychelleweek​

Spideychelle Week Day 6: Enemies to Lovers

Summary: Peter needs an arts credit to graduate, but he didn't mean to pick the course that even the English majors avoid! Luckily, he has the help of Michelle Jones, the tutor Tony hired for him. Unluckily, she just overheard him insulting her entire academic discipline. They're not breaking off the arrangement―Peter's determined to do well in this stupid English course to keep his average up and Michelle won't let his bad attitude stand in the way of a cheque from Tony Stark.

With one tempestuous meeting down, they only have two semesters and twenty-five books to go.

Peter’s in big trouble―huge―and Mr. Stark did tell him that if he’s ever in trouble he should ask for help, so he calls, looking for help, and gets nobody, so he calls again and gets Happy, who hangs up once Peter makes him understand that, no, this isn’t about somebody trying to kick his Spidey-suit ass but about him trying to pick a new class (Happy’s next to some freaky machine at the time and it makes the cell reception wonky), but who finally listens all the way to the end on the seventeenth time Peter manages to get through to him without having his call dropped, and then Mr. Stark is told about it and though Peter isn’t immediately apprised of the solution to his own problem for some reason, he’s informed that cash has been flashed and that the solution will, inevitably, be attained.

Until then, Peter begins the first week of his third year of college and shows up to the labs and lectures of every class on his schedule, including English 1034: 21st Century Literature from A to Z.

AGUALUSA, José Eduardo ― A General Theory of Oblivion

“A tutor?” Peter hisses into his phone, pacing the tight corridor of the library’s fourth-floor stacks. “How is his solution to get me a tutor? I don’t need a tutor! I’m smart, Happy, remember? What did I want instead? Well, I don’t know! I have to keep all my core classes for my major, but maybe he could’ve made them give me credit for taking something online from another college? I’m not screwing up my schedule for English lit. I don’t even know why I gotta take this! I know how to read, you know? I’m just―”

Oh sure, he heard the other person enter the aisle, but he assumed it was to grab a book, so the noise of annoyance that leaves his mouth when his phone is snatched from his hand and his call ended is absolutely genuine.

“’Sup,” says the person, who’s a woman his age, who’s handing his phone back with a lazy gesture, who’s apparently entirely cool, casual, and unapologetic about unceremoniously hanging up on Happy for him. “You gotta take English lit because it sounds as though your vocabulary needs it and, hi, I’m Michelle. Your tutor.”

She mumbles an indelicate string of words after that as she turns and walks away from him out of the stacks and Peter picks up ‘entitled asshole’ even though he isn’t trying to listen, just follow her and set this thing straight.

“Uh, no, you’re not,” he assures her, alarmed when the place he’s trailing her to turns out to be a table where her stuff is waiting―open notebook, two different coloured pens, a copy of the syllabus for English 1034. No, no, no!

“Well, I can’t guarantee you’ll actually learn anything since you seem to have a combination of a pretty thick skull and an overinflated ego, but I’ll hold up my end of the deal. Let me guess, Business major?”

“Bio,” Peter grits out, grasping the back of the chair intended for him as this Michelle person slides neatly into hers, like the library’s her living room because she lives here. Fine. He’s happy for it to stay that way. He has access to all the books he needs in the sciences library on the other side of campus.

“Well, my condolences to the parts of your brain which, in most people, would produce non-literal comprehension and creative thought. But I’m sure you know the names for those, don’t you, Science Guy? Ok, quit making that face and let’s go over your syllabus.”

She doesn’t look up the entire time she speaks and Peter has never heard a person sound so pretentious in real life.

“Are you kidding me? No. Even if I wanted or needed to be tutored, it wouldn’t be by you. You grabbed my phone out of my hand!”

“Yeah,” Michelle agrees, meeting his eye with something firm in her own, “and you were talking on it in one of the library’s Quiet Zones. I’m not here to give you a lesson on Comparative Ignorance.”

“What makes you think you can just do that?” Peter demands. He feels sort of ridiculous and like he’s simultaneously taking the argument a step too far and a step not-far-enough; he’s not usually like this, but then, other people aren’t usually like that.

“The fact that I was paid in advance.”

She nods towards the chair and Peter doesn’t know why he does it, but he sits, still mad.

“Stark paid you to tutor me,” he states.

“Boy, are you struggling with the concept of exchanging currency for services too? Maybe there’s a basic Econ class you could still get into.”

“Why you?”

“Why you?” Michelle counters. “Why can’t smarty-pants, Stark-patroned Peter Parker just suck it up and get through a single English credit? Seriously, why not, since you seem to think it’s just reading and therefore easy. Why not just bribe the college to hand you the credit? You want me to tell you where the Financial Office is? I could show you because, ok, about me now, I’m here on scholarship because I couldn’t find a benevolent billionaire to smooth my path for me.” She straightens up in her chair, eyes practically volcanic with heat. “And here’s another why me for you: because I love what I study, I think literature has worth and beauty, and, oh right, I have the highest grade point average in the entire School of Arts and Humanities.”

Peter’s so floored for a minute that he forgets why he’s angry.

“It wouldn’t be right,” he finally says, trying to at least regain the moral high ground after her offhand suggestion of bribery. “Buying a credit. It wouldn’t be right.”

“So… instead you demean the entire discipline, like that’s going to help you.”

He scoffs.

“It’d help me more than you would.”

“Helping you is why I’m here.”

“You sound thrilled about it.”

“Hard not to be when I have the honour of tutoring the Spider-Man,” she says, matching his sarcasm.

Ugh, he hates that she brought that up. By his third year, he’s become less of a novelty in the halls―these days, people get more excited about a sighting of the local gopher who lives in a hole near the Astronomy building―and having it thrown in his face like this is even more uncomfortable than requests for selfies. Or the few mortifying pleas for his autograph. They’re locked in a mutually-irritated glare, which Peter breaks with a groan and a roll of his eyes.

“I didn’t want to be in this class,” he admits.

“And yet the online course selection process is so very hard to fuck up. Thus, you did in fact choose this class. Unless… does Tony Stark pick your classes for you?”

Peter ignores that. He can’t both fume and be cooperative enough to get her help, which he’s starting to think he might need. Maybe she can give him some kind of insider English department knowledge that will rid him of English 1034.

“It is an interesting choice,” Michelle continues carefully. Is she smirking at him? He can’t quite tell.

“I didn’t read the description.”

“What did you expect ‘20th Century Literature from A to Z’ to be?”

She’s mocking him, but Peter feels like his mistake in taking this particular class is an easy one to make. He has plenty of reasons to back him up.

“It’s a first-year level English course, it’s non-essay, and ‘A to Z’ made it sound like an overview,” he lists confidently.

“In case you don’t already know or suspect this, nobody who’s actually in the English program takes it.”

Michelle’s tone is extraordinarily smug.

“I thought you guys loved to read,” Peter says accusingly, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“Not a novel every week for two semesters! Dude, you picked a course with twenty-six required texts. ‘A to Z’ is for the alphabetical order of the authors’ last names.”

“I know that now,” he grumbles, eyeing the booklist Michelle has neatly aligned next to the syllabus on their study table. “And now all the other full-year non-essay English classes are full, so I can’t drop this one because there’s nothing to pick up in its place.”

“That’s an insanely stupid mistake.”

“Noted.”

“Ok, if you’re ready to move on, what were your thoughts on Agualusa?”

“You still want to tutor me?”

She looks at him like he’s truly the uncomprehending, unimaginative Bio-dunce she described.

“There are few things I want less than I want this. The only possible enjoyment here is getting to meet one of the unsuspecting idiots who signed up for that class, and even that doesn’t cancel out the way you belittled my area of study and those who study it. So.” Michelle extends a hand and, when Peter realizes what she wants, accepts his panic-purchased copy of A General Theory of Oblivion. “Time to prove you can read.”

BEATTY, Paul ― The Sellout

“I see you found the place,” Michelle greets without looking up from what she’s reading (which is the book for his course).

Peter attempts to glance around without being obvious about it.

“It’s the same table we sat at last time,” he says, mostly certain.

“I know.” She looks up. “I just thought you might get lost in unfamiliar territory. Had you ever been in here before last week?”

He laughs bitterly as he slings his backpack off and lets it slam into the leg of the table, making Michelle frown.

“Yeah, I had.” Once. When he toured the college with May before applying to undergrad. “Don’t be so gatekeeper-y. These books aren’t just for English majors.”

“Oh, so you avail yourself of them often for pleasure reading? Sorry, sorry,” she adds quickly and something inside Peter eases at the hope of an apology, “I forgot I was talking to the guy who signed up for the most reading-heavy class the English department offers. Of course you must love to read.”

“I just want to get my mandatory arts credit to graduate.”

The motive should be obvious, Peter thinks, but maybe she’ll take pity on him because he’s offering an explanation.

“You’ve already successfully postponed it your first two years. Why not push it to next year when you can take a lighter class?”

“There are a lot of required fourth-year courses for my major. I don’t have room for anything that isn’t impor―”

He cuts himself off, but Michelle looks pissed. What? It’s the truth! If he thought English was more important than Biology, he would’ve studied English!

“You’re trying to get me to wait for an easier class and you told me I shouldn’t assume English was easy,” he accuses.

“It’s not! I didn’t say an easier class, I said a lighter one. You know, with fewer books to read. English ten-thirty-four is an easy class.”

“Yeah right!”

“Really, Peter?” He’s startled to hear his name leave her mouth. “Exactly how deep were you expecting the analysis to go when you only spend a week on each book? That’s a Monday and Wednesday course, right? So you’re only actually discussing the book for three hours. A bunch of your assigned texts are over four hundred pages, which means covering around one hundred and thirty-three pages every hour of discussion, or a little over two pages every minute. And that’s just content. If you were actually digging into any of these books, you’d discuss themes, historical context of the subject matter, intertextual influence…”

“You’re pretty good at math,” he says wryly. “I bet you could have majored in that instead.”

“I could’ve majored in anything, but I chose a subject that actually has a soul.”

“It’s cute that you’re so noble about it,” Peter says, feeling like an honest-to-Thor asshole because he’s never disparaged anyone or anything by calling them or it ‘cute’ before, “considering the current arrangement.”

She gives him a harsh look before finally asking, “What do you mean?”

“You’re studying something so intellectual and culturally important or whatever and looking down at people in Business and the sciences. Lots of us love what we’re majoring in and some of us are in it for a career with a good salary. I’m just worried you’re being a bit of a hypocrite. How superior can you feel when you’re peddling your English-major wisdom for a paycheque from Tony Stark?”

Michelle can’t really murder him―his reflexes are too fast, his body too durable, and the most dangerous thing she appears to have at her disposal is a blue ballpoint pen―but she kinda looks like she might give it a try. Ok, so undercutting her integrity in a vengeful rant was probably beneath him. She was being such a snob though!

Finally, her expression relaxes and she uncaps her pen (Peter flinches), poising it over the page where, last week, she composed him a strong set of notes as they attempted a rocky discussion of the book.

“How much did you get read?”

CHOI, Mary H.K. ― Permanent Record

Peter sits and nods at Michelle when she looks up.

“We’re past the add/drop date,” he announces. “Guess I’m officially in English ten-thirty-four for the rest of the year.”

“And when you graduate, it’ll be right there on your transcript, smuggled through in between the important courses. Even if you can’t hack it and fail the class,” she concludes with a small, scornful smile.

“As far as I know, you’re being paid too much to let me fail.”

It feels like a gross powerplay the second he’s said it. If they’re really going to do this, he needs to start taking the meanspirited way that she roots against him in stride. Does he think about finding a different tutor every time she makes a sly comment like that? Sure, but he’s stubborn enough about maintaining a strong average to recognize the value of learning from the best student in the program.

“So…” he says after a minute, watching Michelle flip through his book to find where he’s marked the passages examined in class. “We never really agreed to it out loud, but I guess this is our standing place and time to do this?”

“Yeah, there’s a clipboard where you sign up to reserve a specific table. I put our names down for every Thursday for the rest of the year.”

“Really?”

“No, numbskull,” Michelle informs him lightly. “You can’t reserve a table, only the study rooms. I knew you didn’t know how the library worked.”

“How ‘bout, instead of that, we talk about the demands of fame.”

“Oh? Are you trying to open up to me?” She taps the end of her pen hard and fast against the table as though to emphasize this is something she doesn’t have time for.

“No. I did my assigned reading.”

He reaches out and grabs his book, dragging it back across the table.

DAY, Kate Hope ― If, Then

“I kept waiting for it to get good. Why didn’t it get good?” he asks, spinning the book on their table, then trapping it under his palm.

“Patience, spider-brain,” Michelle instructs. “It is good. It’s suspenseful and subtle and atmospheric and it’s no wonder those things went right over your head. Weren’t you at least interested in Ginny? She’s a surgeon.”

“So?”

“So, you’re in Biology. Don’t you want to be a doctor or something?”

“I don’t know yet,” Peter says with a shrug. Man, is she going to start bugging him about figuring out his career path? He has May for that. “Do you know what you want to be?”

“A tutor,” she responds flatly.

He’d smile if they were friends because she’s apparently hilarious.

“It takes some time to build if the part you’re most interested in is the sci-fi stuff,” Michelle concedes. “Did you read it to the end?”

“I didn’t have time. I had to start the next book early because I have a big lab assignment next week.” He sighs and lets his head fall into his hand just thinking about it.

She frowns and looks down, so he can only assume she disapproves of his priorities or his poor time management or something.

But then she mumbles, “You should try audiobooks.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, because that’s actually a great idea. He can listen on his way to campus in the mornings and he won’t have to carry the book on the days he doesn’t have that class. It’ll mean buying an audio copy of everything he already purchased, but he’ll still use the hard copies most of the time, and it’s not like Mr. Stark’s going to begrudge him another hundred bucks. Plus, almost all of the books for this course are novels, so it won’t even feel like doing homework!

In the midst of excitedly thinking over how much time he’ll have if he takes her advice, he glances at Michelle. She’s ignoring him.

ENDICOTT, Marina ― Good to a Fault

It’s the first week of October and Peter thinks he has the hang of this being-an-English-student thing. He read-slash-listened-to the whole book this week and even though the next two weeks’ novels are a couple of the longest in the entire course, he’s undaunted. When he gets to the library and finds Michelle―the classes they have right before this tutoring session end at the same time, but she always beats him here―he brags about being totally on top of his reading. She’s possibly starting to smile at him when he says, “I’m getting good at this. You want any tips?”

“God, Peter!” she blurts. “This is the third year of my major! Try to have some fucking respect!”

He holds up his hands placatingly. Once his books are out, Peter starts watching her and notices a syllabus at her elbow that isn’t for English 1034. Aggressively highlighted in green is tomorrow’s date and ‘MIDTERM.’ His don’t start for another week. He never consciously realized that Humanities students had midterm stress too. Michelle must be taking more than one English class right now, plus whatever else fills up her schedule. Jeeze, that’s a lot of reading, and she’s reading enough of his books to help him on top of doing her own shit. Peter winces and keeps his mouth shut until she’s ready to begin.

FLYNN, Gillian ― Gone Girl

They’re in the thick of midterms and having a particularly grouchy (on both sides) tutoring session.

“Quit writing a bunch of nothing,” Michelle criticizes, like that’s somehow useful feedback.

“I’m getting to my point!” Peter complains.

“They’re long answer questions, not essays. You won’t get any pity marks for filler like you do in a Bio exam.”

“They don’t give marks for filler in Bio exams!”

“Well then where did you learn to answer questions like this?” she snaps. “Do you want to start this one over or try another one?”

They glare at each other for several sluggish moments.

“I’ll start over,” Peter decides, meeting her challenging look with his own.

“Fine.”

This time, Michelle not only passes him the question she came up with but also rips a piece of paper out of her notebook, tears it into thirds, and hands him one of those as well.

“One-sided,” she instructs.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Be concise.”

“If you took your own advice, I’d be able to write in silence right now instead of being distracted by the sound of you talking!”

In what seems like a blink as Peter looks up from his paper and tightly-gripped pencil in confusion, Michelle has her bag packed and shoves back from the table.

“Help me study!” he yells after her in desperation.

“Earn it with something more than money,” she calls back, flipping him off over her shoulder.

GO, Justin ― The Steady Running of the Hour

Groveling wouldn’t be well-received, Peter thinks. Instead, he brings Michelle an iced coffee as an apology for being a dick last week when he was freaking out over midterms. They’re experiencing a final flare of summer weather and it seems like a practical offering as well as a symbolic gesture. Unfortunately, the man at the front desk makes Peter toss the coffee before he’s allowed in because of a No Food and Drink policy. He feels really awkward about it and distinctly emptyhanded when he approaches Michelle at their usual table.

When it’s clear that she’s not focused on anything else, Peter spills the story and does end up saying, “I’m sorry” out loud. She likes one of those things enough to smile at him―not a big one, but not a sarcastic one either―and he exhales in relief.

“I really appreciate that you’re doing this,” he adds during a lull when they’re looking over the notes he made in class, trying to decipher his professor’s analysis of a certain passage.

He studies Michelle’s downturned face until she looks up and meets his eye.

“When do you get your midterm results?”

“Not for a couple of weeks. The prof doesn’t seem like he’s in any rush.”

“Are you worried about how you did?” she asks, propping her chin up with her fist. It makes her mouth slope into a playful pout and he follows the line of it with his eye for a second.

“Kinda.”

Michelle shakes her head.

“You shouldn’t be. You’re working hard. I know you passed.”

It’s the first session that they don’t fight. Feels good.

HAM, Rosalie ― The Dressmaker

“Holy shit,” he breathes when Michelle enters. “What is that?”

The day has finally come that he beats her to the library, which is the first shock, but this is an entirely separate and far less expected thing.

“It’s Halloween,” she states. As though it’s no big deal that she just walked in here wearing a silky-looking, floor-length, emerald green gown. Well, he assumes it’s a gown and not a skirt that sits really high on her waist, but he can’t see the entire thing; she’s wearing a cropped hoodie over top. The juxtaposition makes him grin.

“Where did you get that?”

“I made it.” Just as Peter’s mouth is dropping open, she huffs a laugh and says, “Of course I didn’t. It was my grandma’s. The style’s not totally right, but I thought the colour was a pretty good match.”

“Right,” he agrees as she swishes over and sits, cautiously smoothing the dress as she does so. “Because you’re obviously supposed to be…”

Michelle rolls her eyes as she takes the opportunity for illuminating him.

“Cecilia Tallis. From Atonement,” she prompts. “Keira Knightley played her.”

“Oh, ok, yeah. I think I saw part of that one time when my aunt May was watching it.”

“It was a book first,” Michelle teasingly informs him.

“I know you’ll be amazed to hear that I haven’t read it.”

“So amazed.”

“You look good in green,” Peter throws out there while she’s still looking at him.

“Don’t be weird about it, Parker.”

He totally sees her smiling to herself when they turn to their books and wonders if they’re friends yet.

ISRAEL, Lee ― Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Nope, nope, nope, they’re definitely not friends yet! After their revision session last week, Peter thought more about his and Michelle’s potential friendship, then started to feel weird about the fact that he’s paying her―or that Mr. Stark is, on his behalf. It’s been rare lately that both he and Mr. Stark aren’t busy at the same time, but with Peter’s midterms over and a new month beginning, Tony worked out a time for them to speak in person. Peter might have got rambling a little under the heady influence of his mentor’s full attention and maybe some things came across incorrectly. It wasn’t a meeting though, and he definitely didn’t know that decisions were being made!

“I thought you were finding this helpful!” Michelle says.

“I am,” he insists. “I left Mr. Stark a message. I’m gonna set it straight!”

“Oh, like you set it straight over the weekend? He fired me as your tutor!”

“I didn’t know he was doing that!”

“What did you say to him?” she demands.

Fuck, this is going to be embarrassing to say face-to-face. Peter glances at their table―where they didn’t sit down, due to this accidental termination―and feels himself get all overheated and shifty.

“That I felt weird about paying you.”

“Because English is so worthless you should be able to learn about it for free? Yeah, I guess you could’ve made the internet your tutor, but it’s a full two months too late for that!”

“Dammit!” Peter says, frustrated. “No! Because I thought maybe you and I were friends now because it seemed like maybe we were and I’d definitely like us to be friends, but I didn’t want you to feel obligated to be nice to me as a friend or anything more than a tutor just because you’re being paid. Do you want to be friends with me?” he summarizes bluntly.

“Yes.”

He frowns in confusion.

“Really?”

Michelle’s eyes dart to the side, then zip back to his face.

“…Isn’t that what you want? I think that’s literally what you just told me you want.”

“And the money thing?”

“Yeah, you’re definitely going to fix that as soon as we’re done today. My time and expertise are valuable as hell and I’m super willing to take Tony Stark’s money.” She gives him a weird look. “My friendship is not for sale.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to assume―”

“I mean, I don’t know how people make friends over there in Biology, but―”

“Ok, that’s far enough,” he says, laughing when she smirks to admit she was kidding.

“I guess you better start calling me MJ too,” she says, taking her usual seat.

“If I had any extra names you didn’t know, I’d totally let you use one in exchange.”

She shrugs easily and picks up this week’s novel when he places it on the table within her reach.

“Speaking of people using other names…” MJ says as she taps the cover. “Ready to talk about a famous forger?”

“Smooth transition.”

“Thanks… pal?”

“No,” Peter says to ‘pal,’ making a face.

“No,” she agrees. “I’ll just have to remember that we’re friends now without a new name to remind me.”

“You’re officially my meanest friend,” he jokes.

MJ snorts.

“Peter, with all the time we’re spending together this year, I’m gonna be your best friend.”

JOHNSON, Adam ― Fortune Smiles

“Seventy-three!” Peter cries out when he strides into the library that Thursday. Desk Man shoots him a look and Peter mouths, “Sorry.” But if that guy’s annoyance with Peter is on the rise, so is the strength of his friendship with MJ.

“Seventy-three?” she repeats excitedly, then pauses, seemingly waiting for him to say more.

He understands. For her, getting a 73 on an English exam would probably be a blow to her average and something she’d struggle to course correct from on the final. He’d feel the same about receiving that grade in one of the classes that make up his major. But for his first college English exam? A discipline that’s forcing him to learn a completely different type of material and regurgitate that knowledge on an exam that’s neither practical nor multiple choice? It’s huge. He beams to let MJ know he hasn’t come to complain about her ineffective tutoring. Totally the opposite.

“That’s great,” MJ says. She rises from her chair because Peter’s too hyper―even a full day after getting his mark―to sit down yet.

“Yeah?”

“I told you you’d do fine,” she reminds him.

Then she goes to shove his arm and Peter misinterprets it, pulling her in to finish what he thought was the beginning of a hug. Just as he’s realizing and loosening his arms from around her, MJ’s hands come up and squeeze his back once, ending in a few reassuring pats. They break out of it, holding each other at arm’s length and she gives him a firm nod in conclusion. Peter laughs awkwardly. After that, they re-establish their usual rhythm.

“So, the first short story collection on your booklist,” she says as she sits. Rather than taking his regular spot across from her, he drags the chair around the circular table so they’re side by side. MJ watches him without protest.

“These are the first short stories I’ve read,” he tells her.

“What did you think?”

“I like it. It’s nice how it breaks the book into chunks. Makes it seem shorter maybe?”

“Definitely.”

Weirdly, their opinions about the book and what his prof wants him to learn from it continue to closely align. Of course, they don’t get through everything because, after about 15 minutes, MJ asks if he brought his midterm with him. He yanks it free of his backpack and they spend the rest of their time going over it. With a 73, Peter expects a lot of the review to be criticism (of the constructive variety) and notes on what he should’ve done better or different. Instead, it’s MJ gasping (quietly but happily) every time she finds a place where he mentioned something they went over together. He watches her eyes scan over where he described If, Then as ‘suspenseful, subtle, and atmospheric’ before going further into his comparison between that novel and Gone Girl. She catches his eye, her expressions changing like a shuffling card deck. Peter sees impressed come up, then pleased, then a third, unfamiliar thing that’s gone when MJ flips his exam to the next page.

KOCH, Herman ― The Dinner

“How is this book so horrific and so good?” Peter asks wonderingly.

They were going over his class notes until the notes referred to a page number of the novel. When he couldn’t remember what happened there, they looked it up. It was just supposed to be a refresher, but it turned into them reading nine pages―waiting for each other before flipping when their reading speeds raced, constantly slipping out of and regaining first place.

“It’s giving me rage-hunger,” MJ said.

“Rage-hunger?”

“Yeah, you know, when you’re incensed about something to the point that you start getting really hungry? Happens to me at protests.”

“Listen,” Peter says, dropping his voice to a compelling whisper. “I have pretzels.”

“Here?”

He nods.

“Do we risk it?”

“Yes,” she insists.

While she keeps watch, glancing around, Peter grasps the edge of the pretzel bag in his backpack. His expression feels pretty constipated as he struggles to open the bag soundlessly, but it’s worth the effort when he feels it give. Furtively, they sneak pretzels from his bag―balanced between their legs under the table―up to their mouths, attempting to chew as silently as possible and speaking in a soft slur with pretzels distending their cheeks.

LINK, Kelly ― Get in Trouble

Yeah, so, after being caught with mouths full of pretzels, they’re slightly afraid to immediately return to the library. Instead of meeting there on Thursday to go over all of Peter’s notes at once, he and MJ snatch time all week long. It’s another collection of short stories this week, so they go over the first one before he even attends his Monday English 1034 lecture, meaning he’s super prepared to participate for once, after running his thoughts by his tutor in advance. The next time, they do story number two, plus his class notes, then continue meeting when they can.

Peter hesitates before asking if she still wants to get together at their regular hour on Thursday. What if she feels like she’s given him enough of her time this week? What if she made other plans? But when he does ask, she’s surprised that he ever considered them not having their scheduled session. He’s not entirely sure why he was so scared she’d say no. That was silly. Although they both acknowledged that they’re friends, he thinks they’re finally starting to act like it.

So they meet on Thursday. And then they meet on Friday too. They say it’s for tutoring and keep Peter’s copy of Get in Trouble between them on the table of the student community centre, but they don’t open it. MJ trades him a bite of her pizza slice for some of his fries. He laughs hard when she gets ketchup on her lip, then swallows the sound down as she licks it off.

“Did I get it?”

“Um, yeah,” Peter replies, stupefied.

MOYES, Jojo ― Me Before You

“Well,” he says, retyping his notes to add MJ’s insights, “here’s another one where I can count watching a movie as part of studying.” Peter keeps typing for a minute, but she doesn’t respond, so while his eyes remain on the screen he asks, “Are you judging me? I promise I’m still going to read the rest of the book.”

Finished, he looks over to see MJ staring intently at the open novel. Peter concentrates on the book first―she’s right near the end―then on his friend’s face. Is she…?

“Are you crying?” he asks softly, leaning towards her.

He thought she might hide her reaction, but she raises her head and sniffs as tears pour down her cheeks. She’s so naked with emotion that Peter shudders.

“Maybe,” she says, making them both laugh, hers a bubbling noise from the wetness in her throat. “But ignore this. I said I wouldn’t spoil the ending for you.”

“Obviously, nothing dramatic happens,” Peter sarcastically infers. “You cry all the time. I have zero reason to think it has anything to do with Me Before You.”

Smiling, she finally wipes the last of her tears away with the sleeve of her cardigan.

“I still have a little bit left to read.”

“Borrow it,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I can listen to the audiobook for a while, or you can just keep it overnight and we’ll hang out tomorrow and I’ll get it back from you. Unless you think you’d need longer.”

MJ rolls her eyes at him.

“Please. I eat Jojo Moyeses for breakfast. I’ll probably finish it during the break in my next class.”

“So, you wouldn’t even need it overnight then,” he says, trying to be sly. She lets out a laugh.

“You want to read it so badly, don’t you?”

“Maybe I just don’t like lending out my books.”

“Liar. I bet you’re going to read the rest all in one sitting.” MJ smirks and stands the book on the table like both she and it are taunting him. “Don’t you need to prioritize your other courses, Peter? What about Biology?”

“Offer revoked,” he tells her, making to take the book back. She doesn’t let him, holding it up and away from him.

“Are you going to spend all night reading for pleasure instead of doing your science homework? Shame on you, Peter. What about your future?”

He stands too quickly in his attempt to grab the book, startling MJ, who rocks back in her chair a little too far. But it can’t tip faster than his reflexes can react; Peter instinctively grabs her around the waist and pulls her against him as the chair topples and the paperback hits the ground with a soft thump. They haven’t been this close since they hugged after his midterm results. He opens and closes his mouth without saying anything, fingers shifting against MJ’s back as she gets her balance. Seems to take her longer than it should, but he won’t let go before she’s ready. Which’ll be any second now, he’s sure. She’s flushed, eyes roaming his face. Probably about to tell him she can stand all on her fucking own.

Any second now.

NG, Celeste ― Everything I Never Told You

It’s the second week in December and their final tutoring session of the semester. Exams start tomorrow, though the one for English 1034 isn’t until the 21st. Peter should be psyched―after this exam, he’s halfway done the course―and yet his shoulders carry some heaviness into the library, along with big, wet snowflakes. He perks up at the sight of MJ, then grows subdued just as fast. They’ve become the kind of friends who meet during the week, always at school, usually with at least the pretense of studying. She’s never been to the apartment he shares with three roommates; he has no idea where she lives. Their most secure connection is a list of 26 books and after today’s session, 14 of those will already be behind them. Theoretically, they’re committed to spending another semester together (unless the world ends via hostile alien takeover, or Mr. Stark fires MJ again and she agrees to it for some reason). What happens after that?

Peter doesn’t like the way winter break looks like a preview for the end of the school year in April. He’s sure that’ll come up quick after the new year because second semester always feels shorter than first. Will they be close enough by then to make plans for hanging out over the summer? He knows MJ’s from here, but not if she’ll be around. And what about next year? He won’t be studying English. Are they gonna see each other on campus or both be too busy with their final year of undergrad―keeping up grades and searching for their first job opportunities right out of college? And then? Will one or both of them move away for work or grad school, or just to find a cheaper place to live while they’re starting out? Seriously, they could be faint memories to each other in under five years.

He's weighed down with all of this as he flops into his seat at their table.

“Do you think you’re ready?” MJ asks just before she glances up.

“What?” Peter replies, devastated.

“For your exam.” She meets his eye and her expression collapses inward a little as she assesses his mood. “What’s wrong?”

He looks at her face. It’s easy to admit to himself that her eyes are more trusting than they used to be when they stared back into his, and he has to allow that she’s more trusting too. Same with him. They’ve smoothed each other out, rounded off each other’s bluntest angles. Peter has no desire for them to ever have another shouting match like they did during the early weeks of this arrangement. In fact, his ideal dynamic for them would be the complete opposite.

“I guess I’m… worried.”

“We should get together next week.”

“That would be great,” he tells her with eager relief.

Wow, what would they do? Grab lunch? Dinner? Hot chocolates and ice skating at Rockefeller Center? A movie at his place? All of his roommates have early or no exams (lucky bastards) and plans to head home for the holidays right after, leaving him alone in the apartment.

“This is a late exam,” MJ says, doublechecking the date in her planner, which includes all of his deadlines (in red ink) alongside hers (in blue), “but the library’s open practically every day but Christmas.”

Oh. She means get together here. Of course. He didn’t really make it clear that the exam isn’t what he’s worried about, or at least it’s not the main thing.

“Well,” Peter says, “consistency.”

“What’s up with you?” she asks, narrowing her eyes are him, apparently not satisfied since he does still sound kinda bereft.

Retrieving his novel and his laptop, he says, “Nothing,” and thinks, I was just wishing we were more than friends.

OZEKI, Ruth ― A Tale for the Time Being

They hang out once before his exam, when MJ helps Peter with prep, and once after, when he’s getting a jump on his reading for semester two. The second time, totally by accident, she meets May.

MJ’s at his apartment for the first time and the two out of three of his roommates who’ve already returned are being loud enough that Peter can’t forget their existence the way he wants to (just for right now) and ignore everything in the world that isn’t his tutor/friend/person he’s been pining for every spare second since they’ve been apart. Two weeks is too long. They’re finally taking an honest crack at the novel he’s been assigned for next week, the first week back at school, when there’s a knock at the door, followed by cheerful hollering from his roommates. Peter knows who it is even before he rises and sheepishly lets his aunt hand him everything he forgot at home when he packed; his roommates love May.

Though he told MJ she didn’t have to get up, she’s suddenly next to him at the door―he’s startled to feel her briefly lean against him―then being pulled into a hug by his aunt. When she leaves for a minute to go to the washroom, May drags Peter away from his roommates.

“Who was that?” she wonders, face lighting up with curiosity and premature excitement.

He feels himself turn red and itches at his cheek like he can scratch the flush out.

“Just a friend.”

His aunt raises her eyebrows doubtfully.

PALAHNIUK, Chuck ― Choke

After spending last Thursday giving A Tale for the Time Being the attention they should’ve the week before, they’re back on schedule with a new book. Sort of back on schedule. They start off discussing the novel, but when Peter runs one of his prof’s assertions about it past Google, he finds out Choke has a movie version. He and MJ glance at each other. Yeah, why not? It’s only their second week back on campus and they don’t have their full studying stamina back yet. They trek down to the film library in the basement to see if they have a copy.

Soon, they’re wearing bulky borrowed headphones, hunkered down at the corner computer in the viewing lab that’s kept in the dark, watching a film about a sex addict. They’re awkward at first, or maybe it’s just Peter, but eventually he relaxes, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. MJ shifts around next to him. She kicks her shoes off and brings her feet up off the floor. They’re tightly side by side to watch the same computer screen, so when she crosses her legs, her knee lands on his thigh. Peter stares at it for a minute in the screen’s glow, missing the movie. He lays his palm on top of the rough, cool denim, and MJ turns her head to see what’s up. Immediately, he moves to withdraw his hand from her knee, but she pats the back of it, giving him permission.

Heart thumping, Peter eases the headphones off one ear. The room’s completely quiet, apart from the way MJ exhales heavily through her nose as she settles into position for the rest of the film. He swallows. He should tell her, right now.

“Hey, MJ…” he starts.

But she doesn’t look, doesn’t turn. Can’t hear anything outside those fucking headphones. Weirdly, she does glance at him a few minutes later, unprompted. She reaches out and pauses the movie. He lifts his headphones off when she does, eyes drawn to how they mess up her hair.

“Did you say something?” MJ asks.

Now, now, now, Peter tells himself.

“Uh, no.” He gives her a tight smile and unpauses Choke.

QUICK, Matthew ― The Good Luck of Right Now

“You have other friends, right?” Peter wonders aloud as MJ reads over the short responses he’s composed for an online participation thing that his prof made worth a truly stupid 4% of his grade.

“A couple.”

She says it straight, unembarrassed. He understands her well enough to know she has no interest in tricking people into believing she’s more social or at all inclined towards networking. Those people, whoever they are, were lucky to have her let them in. Abruptly, Peter realizes he’s probably being counted among them. He grins to himself.

“Plus, like, class friends.”

“Sure,” he agrees.

He does the same thing―always attempts to figure out who seems nice so he can try to be paired with them for group projects or have someone to sit with if they have another class together in the future.

“Any other kind of friends?” Peter asks tentatively. MJ quits reading his laptop screen and side-eyes him. “Like a… like maybe a boyfriend?”

It’s probably a no. It has to be a no. Even with the length of time it took for them to talk about their personal lives, she would’ve mentioned a boyfriend by now. Wouldn’t she?

“I… a boyfriend? No, I… Why would I have…? Do you?”

Well, this is a surprise. He expected her to either answer straightforwardly or question if he ever listens to what she says. But she’s oddly flustered and inarticulate. And blushing, Peter notices, though she won’t let him hold her gaze.

“No,” he says, settling for the single syllable that’ll do the job.

MJ sort of nods, then directs his attention to the screen.

“Just a question, but has anyone ever taught you how to use basic punctuation? Jesus, Parker.”

As much as that comment’s much more in character, every one of his senses screams, ‘MISDIRECTION!’

ROWELL, Rainbow ― Fangirl

“Say nothing,” MJ instructs when they run into each other in front of the library, coming from opposite directions.

About what? Peter wants to ask, but he doesn’t say even that much because the look on her face is intense and because the wind is icy, slicing their faces with snow that’s more like sharp daggers. He bounds up the stairs next to her and straight inside when she jerks the door open with her mittened hand. All the way upstairs and to their table, he keeps wary eyes on her. He only looks away for a minute to set his backpack down and shrug out of his outer layers; the library’s kept almost stiflingly warm and dry. They pile their wet outerwear on one of the extra chairs, then MJ glares at him before he can sit. He stares back, baffled.

“Nothing,” she reminds him, and unzips her hoodie.

Does he look silly with the way his jaw drops? He can’t even care. She’s wearing a Spider-Man t-shirt.

“I―”

“No words. No sounds of any kind.”

So Peter grins in silence and retrieves the usual studying accessories from his backpack. Eventually, MJ groans out her admission.

“I forgot to do laundry.”

He continues to say nothing about the shirt, even when he is permitted to speak so they can discuss his reading. What he wants to say isn’t something she’d like―that he’s deduced from the laundry comment that this is an old shirt, not a recent buy. Meaning she’s had it since who knows how long before she ever met him. Meaning she’s a fan.

SENNA, Danzy ― New People

“How are you liking the course?” MJ asks him out of the blue. She’s tracing the curving shapes and purple letters on the cover of this week’s book with her fingertip.

Peter laughs.

“My prof’s never even asked us that.”

“That’s because profs don’t want honest answers. Only in essays, and even then, you have to pad them with all the shit the prof said in class in order to stroke their ego into giving you a good mark.”

“Cynical.”

She smiles dryly.

“Thank you. But really, how are you finding it?” She looks nervous about how he might answer.

“A lot of work,” he says honestly, “but it also feels like less work than my other courses.”

“Because it’s a fluff discipline compared to Biology?”

“Stop it, no, because you’re helping me. It feels like something I’m doing for fun.”

“Who are you?” MJ shakes her head, wearing a smug smile. “If the you from September could see you now. Oh, actually, that reminds me. Put your number in.”

She hands him the new phone she mentioned she’d be getting last weekend.

“What did you have me saved as in your old one?” he asks, adding his number to a new contact page. MJ takes the phone back before he can input his name.

“Oh, you don’t want to know.” He’s fairly certain she’s joking.

“Did it contain the word ‘dickhead’?”

She shrugs and slouches in her chair, phone held low and close. She finishes entering his information out of his line of sight.

“You’ll never know.”

Maybe not, Peter thinks, when MJ gets up a while later to refill her water bottle, but he can at least check what she has him under now. She left her phone out on the table, screen up, so he texts her an innocuous ‘testing, testing’ and watches for the new message to pop up.

Evidently, he’s in her phone as his normal name. His name, plus a heart. His real one’s suddenly beating very fast.

THIEN, Madeleine ― Do Not Say We Have Nothing

It’s almost Valentine’s Day and their college’s week-long study week, two compelling reasons for Peter to tell Michelle Jones―tutor, friend, precariously deepening crush―how he feels about her.

Before their tutoring session, he psyches himself up in the bathroom mirror, until other people walk in and he has to pretend to be coughing. He doesn’t really feel ready and their time together ends up being sort of a flurry anyway because part of the library’s being painted and there are fewer tables. With a ton of people on the cusp of more exams and big assignments due before the break, it takes Peter and MJ a while to find a table. Even after that, the paint smell gradually fills the air, forcing them to stop early.

God, and he didn’t say anything!

“We should meet up later,” he asserts firmly, at the same moment MJ says, “Try again tonight?”

“Yeah,” they say together.

Peter grins and she smiles back before quickly ducking her head. He bites his lip, restraining himself from catching her chin with his fingers and tilting it up.

“Ok then,” he says. “Ok. The library’ll probably still stink, so… my apartment?”

“Or my place,” MJ offers, slightly wide-eyed.

“Oh, yeah. That would be, that’d be good.”

“You can walk back with me, if you don’t mind waiting for my class.”

He doesn’t, and they do that, and as MJ’s unlocking the door to her apartment, he finds out two things: that she has a roommate and that her roommate’s staying the night at her boyfriend’s. Whatever, that doesn’t mean it’s going to be romantic or anything. They’re discussing art and politics during China’s calamitous Cultural Revolution. There’s no way MJ would even be thinking about… but then she leads him to the couch instead of the kitchen table. And she sits down next to him, letting their thighs touch. And his breathing just isn’t steady for the hangout that goes two hours before they even think to check the time. So many times, he has the feeling they’re one brush of their legs, one bump of their shoulders, one tuck of her hair with his fingers away from something more, but every chance seems to come and go while the tension stays.

Eventually, Peter gathers his stuff and lingers with her in the open doorway of her apartment. She’s leaning into the frame, smiling at him as he says a bunch of nothing, just to make the night last longer. He takes a breath. Ok, he’s gonna do it. He’ll tell her.

The next second, MJ’s pressing her mouth to his. Then, while he’s still dazed from the kiss, she pushes him out the door and says, “Um, see you after study week, Peter.”

URQUHART, Jane ― The Night Stages

What’s this mean? Peter wants to ask her, right after the kiss and for the whole study break. Except he’s in the city, doing Spidey-patrol and finishing the nearly-500 pages of Do Not Say We Have Nothing, and she’s in New Orleans, building affordable housing with a charity. When he texts her because he can’t resist asking how she is and what she’s working on that day, she always gets back to him, but there’s nothing flirtatious in her words, nothing to assure him she shares his preoccupation over the kiss. So startling, so make-the-hair-stand-up-on-the-back-of-his-neck. And it was supposed to make everything clear, when one of them made a move (in his head over the weeks before it happened, it was him), not confuse the hell out of him.

It's awkward when they meet on campus on Monday. Neither of them goes in for a hug and they carry on a stilted conversation about how each of their breaks went, Peter twisting his fingers around in his sleeves. At least they didn’t postpone this until Thursday. He senses that they’re both thankful for the length of this week’s novel and how many times it guarantees they’ll meet (their productivity per session definitely took a nosedive when they became friends). He assumes the relief comes from wanting to push past this awkward stage by getting used to each other again. Then, when they meet in the library the next day, MJ picks a different table. Actually, a completely different floor. It’s basically dead, no other students or staff in sight, and, with his face flushed with desire and anticipation, she braces a hand on his thigh, leans in, and kisses him for the second time.

On Wednesday, it’s the same spot (but later because Peter has an evening lab) and he initiates, hand on the back of her neck as they kiss slow and deep, never even unpacking their bags.

Thursday, they meet at their old table, like normal, and do some actual work. But that night, he walks MJ home and tries to give her a goodbye kiss that turns into them making out with her pressed up against the closed door of her apartment.

They agree, on Friday morning, that Peter really needs to devote some concentration to this novel, so they study at his place that evening. Because all of his roommates are home, they’re camped out in his room, on his bed, but with his door wide open. The most they attempt is holding hands, anxiously separating when one of his buddies pokes a head in to ask if Peter’s seen his phone charger.

By Saturday, at her apartment, they abandon pretenses, though they haven’t exactly said in words what it is they’re doing without those pretenses. Are they friends who kiss? Are they dating? Is MJ his girlfriend? None of that is as pressing as pulling her onto his lap and kissing her until they’re tired and she checks her phone to see that it’s almost two in the morning. Reluctantly, MJ climbs off his lap and Peter watches her disappear into her bedroom. He strips off his jeans and falls asleep on her couch wrapped in a blanket and his school hoodie.

The next morning, they look over his notes because he’s here and they might as well. Their socked feet overlap beneath her kitchen table. She refills his glass of orange juice before he notices it’s almost empty.

VÁSQUEZ, Juan Gabriel ― The Sound of Things Falling

He’s in love with her. It’s the beginning of March, the air has quit biting, MJ’s blushing when he uses his high school Spanish to correctly pronounce the characters’ names, and he’s in love with her.

WALKER, Karen Thompson ― The Dreamers

Peter falls asleep at her place again. This time, MJ’s tucked into him when he wakes up. Gradually, he drags up a fuzzy memory of her padding into the living room during the night, putting him on alert until she nudged him over to make room on the couch. Her roommate’s home. They don’t care, don’t flinch apart when she walks into the room. He hangs around most of Saturday, only leaving because he really needs to do some work on his other courses. MJ kisses him when he goes, gently stroking his earlobe with her thumb.

X ― N/A

“No X?” she checks. “Are you sure?”

“It’s on the syllabus,” Peter points out, pulling MJ’s feet across his thighs as he eats an apple. They found an alternate study spot that allows food.

“Yeah, I know, I have the copy from the beginning of the year, but I figured your prof would update it to add something.”

“I think he told us one time that he was going to,” he says, trying to remember exactly. “Now, he says he was always planning on leaving this week free for us to ask questions in class before the exam.”

“But there are still two full weeks of classes before exams,” MJ says skeptically. “If this break was intentional, he’d do it the last week of classes instead.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know there are two weeks left, but I don’t know what else to say. No X.”

“Semi-related,” she prefaces, giving him a serious look that makes Peter pay attention, “is it ok with you if I consider you my boyfriend?”

He laughs until he realizes she looks genuinely unsure of what his answer will be.

“Please.”

Peter holds his apple out of the way when MJ wiggles forward to hug him.

YAZDANIAN, Showey ― Loopholes

“You wanna go somewhere with me?” MJ asks.

Peter knows she’s been watching him rearrange the digital copy of his notes―simplifying and streamlining so they’ll be easy to study from between now and the date of his final exam. It’s very comforting, her undemanding gaze, and he feels himself emotionally stretching into it, like a cat. He loves to be near her. His girlfriend.

“Yes,” he says. “I mean, where?”

She laughs gently at him and props her elbow on the table, right next to his.

“The English Department scheduled a year-end trip to see a play.”

“That sounds very… high schoolish,” he decides, grinning.

“Hey, some of us aren’t too up our own asses to understand the thrill of a field trip. Maybe in Biology―”

“Ugh,” Peter groans jokingly at her relentless, unserious digs at his chosen discipline.

“―you’ve lost your sense of childlike wonder.”

“But I might be able to get it back if I go to this play? What’s the play?”

“Romeo and Juliet,” she mumbles.

“You want to see that? It’s depressing and, and overdramatic,” he states, though he’s never seen it performed, and definitely never read the play.

“I don’t really care about seeing the play,” MJ says as she gives him a meaningful look.

“Oh. Aw.” He smiles at the thought that she just wants to spend time with him. “Do I have to sign up or something?”

“I… might have already signed you up.” Peter raises his eyebrows at her and it’s enough to push her to continue. “It’s supposed to be an internal thing, just English majors, but the turnout for anything with any significant cultural value’s always really low―” MJ rolls her eyes. “―especially right at the end of the year, when people are starting to focus on exams, even though it’s a great opportunity to see a high-quality production with cheap student-group-discount tickets. Anyway, I talked to the prof because he knows me from teaching me last year and asked if you could come because you are taking an English class even if you’re not majoring.”

“He agreed?”

She nods.

“As I suspected, there were a bunch of tickets left over because they always reserve too many. They’re great seats.”

“Why are you trying to convince me to come?” Peter teases. “Apparently, I already signed up.”

Despite the dozens of times they’ve met this year, comprising probably a hundred hours, and the affectionate admissions, and the kissing that’s been driving him insane for more, this is their first date date. He’s excited to be at the theatre because he’s never gone before, and he purposely didn’t tell Mr. Stark about this so he wouldn’t try to pay for it; Peter bought his own ticket. They’re deep into the second part of the play, intermission behind them, and before things can get gruesome on stage with the stars meeting their violent ends, he leans in so close to MJ that his nose brushes her ear.

“You’re my best friend,” he whispers.

She turns her head, smile clamped together by the way she’s biting her bottom lip. There’s joy in her eyes that makes his heart drop and flip and soar back up, too high, into his throat. He’s still looking at her when she turns her face back to the performance.

“Also, I love you,” Peter says, almost choking on his heart.

Swiftly, he kisses her cheek and settles back into his seat, but MJ tugs the hand that’s been entwined with hers since they sat down. She leans across the armrest between their seats and he’s happy to move the rest of the way. Something hot courses through him when she not only kisses him more roughly than he anticipated but grabs the tie he wore with his button-up, blazer, and good jeans. When she releases him with a smirk and a pat on his chest, Peter practically collapses back into place, stunned.

“Oh,” MJ adds, glancing at him again in a quick flick, “I love you too.”

ZOBOI, Ibi ― Pride

There are three stacks of books on the surprisingly nice hardwood floor of MJ’s bedroom. It’s small compared to the size of his sense of accomplishment for seeing this demanding course through to the end. Although this is the first time Peter’s assembled all 25 books at once, they aren’t organized alphabetically; there’s a pile each for books he remembers well, those he wants to reread sections of, and ones where, logically, he knows he read them, and yet he can barely recall the plot. He feels pretty goddamn good about the fact that, out of 25, only 2 made the third pile. Actually, one’s unaccounted for, because it’s the last book on his syllabus and it’s currently dangling from his hand while he takes a break from reading it.

“Hey,” he hisses at MJ.

Lying on her back on her soft, thick rug while she studies for one of her exams, his girlfriend angles her head to look at Peter, hanging over the side of her bed.

“What?”

He grins.

“Nothing. Just wanted to say, ‘hey.’” He’s so used to her rolling her eyes. “How’s the floor?”

“Not bad.”

“You wanna come up here?”

MJ eyes him suspiciously.

“I need to study,” she reminds him. “Everything I know about your books got mixed up with everything I’m supposed to know about my books and I’m still mentally untangling.”

Peter keeps staring down at her, trying to make his eyes wide and pleading. It takes her seconds to give in. She groans as she starts to sit up, appearing to lead with her knees and elbows as she rearranges her limbs, collapsing and unfolding like a portable lawn chair. MJ steps gingerly over his book stacks, then he’s grabbing her waist and pulling her to the bed, where she flops down beside him. Her head’s facing the wrong way though, so Peter shuffles around, getting her socks out of his face. They take turns sighing tiredly―the extreme burdens of another year of lectures over and another round of exams about to begin―then Peter tilts his forehead to touch hers.

“Happy you’re almost at the end?” MJ asks softly.

“Yeah, but I also kinda wish I could take another English class next year. I think I actually did better in Bio this year because I got to take a break from it with something that was totally different. Does that sound possible?”

“Mhmm.”

She lets her eyes close―probably resting them after concentrating for so long.

“I’ll miss reading this much.”

“And?”

With her eyes shut, only her eyebrows prompt him to go on.

“And I’ll miss talking about what I read with you,” he says.

“Maybe you don’t need to worry about that,” she suggests.

“Why not?”

MJ smiles.

“Because I’ve been working on a new list of books I think you’ll like since October. We can meet in the library and talk about them.”

“Every week?” Peter checks. “What about Biology?”

“If you have time,” she clarifies.

“No, I mean I’ve spent a year studying English lit, learning about your discipline.” With a grin, he trails his fingers down MJ’s throat, stopping at the neck of her long-sleeved shirt. “So, I was just wondering, if you’d be interested in studying Biology.”

He kisses her neck where he stroked, then up beneath her jaw, making MJ laugh until she gasps instead, gripping his hair.

“I don’t think we should wait for September.”

“Well, you’re still the tutor for another week,” Peter reminds her. “I’ll follow your lead.”

[allie1804-fan]

Ile de Re (Chapter 1)

I wrote this fic  last year, mostly while on holiday on this lovely island.  If you are on Archive of Our Own, you may have seen it before. Written before Matrix 4 was announced and before Covid so sorry that the timelines are no longer realistic!

Summary

Keanu meets a chef to help him prepare for a movie role. Events conspire for them to spend even more time together than they planned and despite the large age gap, romance ensues.

1 2 3 4 5  6 7 8

April 2020

Keanu hung up the phone and quietly fist pumped to himself. He’d just had news that a new project had been green lit. It was one he’d been collaborating on for some time - where he’d play an American chef, somewhat down on his luck who was establishing a new restaurant in a rural French town. The thing that thrilled him most was that the project afforded him the chance to finally learn how to cook – at least a bit - because he’d need to demonstrate some skill in the film itself and to ‘find’ his character he wanted to understand more about the craft of being a chef – especially the passion that drove them.

He went to his office and pulled out his laptop, opening a file holding details of some chefs who Erwin’s team had tracked down that fit the bill in terms of the knowledge they had and their personal experiences. He dropped an e mail first to a chef names Yves Le Gouhier and another to a woman called Claire Bonnevin. They each had restaurants in LA but were French natives who had trained at home before heading to America to open restaurants of their own. He hoped that the guy would say yes since he felt he’d probably relate better to his experience however he checked out both of their bios and looked at restaurant reviews on line.

A few days later, the decision was made for him as to who would give him the coaching as Mr Le Gouhier was out of town for at least a couple of months, establishing a new restaurant whereas Ms Bonnevin was able to fit him in for some daily ‘classes’ starting the following week. Whilst mildly disappointed, he also recalled that he’d actually eaten at Ms Bonnevin’s place once and had really rated the cooking which mixed homespun flavours with Gallic finesse - the seafood there was to die for.  He responded quickly in the affirmative, and ever the perfectionist, asked if there was anything he needed to bring or any preparatory work he could do before Monday. Claire replied that if he could let her have a working copy of the script and tell her what his favourite meal was before the weekend – they could work on the skills he’d need to demonstrate in the film and, depending on what the meal was, also aim to make his favourite meal to a good standard by the end of the week. If he had some friends who’d like to eat what he made, then he should ask them if they were free.

“What a question!” he pondered, thinking about what his favourite meal was. Keanu was a man who liked to eat - so much so that he needed the counsel of his trainer Denise to keep off the pounds in between films! Would it be a good steak with garlicky greens and crushed potatoes?, veal with a cream and mushroom sauce, roast lamb with flageolets and dauphinois potatoes – this task was just making him hungry!  He decided on the latter thinking it would be a challenge and fitted with the style of cooking they had at “Le Chat Botte” which was Claire’s restaurant. The pressure of feeding something he’d made that wasn’t bacon and eggs or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was both thrilling and unnerving. He messaged his sister Kim, his mother and friends Rob, Alex and Josh who were all pleased to be free although they joked that they might need to go to Macdonald’s to fill up afterwards!

Monday came around and Keanu pulled up at “Le Chat Botte” at 9am prompt. Entering via the service entrance as instructed, he walked into a spotless kitchen with gleaming stainless steel work stations, hobs and ovens  ranged along one wall and a large wooden kitchen table in the centre which had 2 sets of chopping boards in different colours along with a variety of knives, spatulas and other cooking implements arranged side by side in the centre of the table. No-one was in sight though Keanu could hear the sound of a voice coming from an adjoining room. Walking across the kitchen he stuck his head round the door of what turned out to be an office where he saw a petite, dark haired woman he recognised (from her bio) as Claire Bonnevin  - she was speaking to someone on the phone in French. She raised her hand to him in greeting, mouthing sorry and hurried to complete the call.

“Oui, Oui, je te rapellerai demain  - mon nouvel client vient d’arriver, oui oui c’est lui, donc il faut que j’accroche.  D’accord d’accord, je sais. Au revoir”

Claire turned to Keanu blushing - she had the distinct impression that he’d understood that she’d just referred to him in her conversation.

“so sorry about that – that was my restaurant manager back home in France just giving me an update on my dad  - he’s not been too well recently so we’ve been talking every day” Her English accent was excellent with only a slight gallic note.

Keanu stuck out his hand

“Nice to meet you Ms Bonnevin and no problem – you didn’t need to rush them off the line on my account”

Claire smiled and shook his hand, “I heard you were impossibly polite! – of course I did, I was eating into your paid time – nice to meet you too by the way. Keanu grinned - Claire could feel the colour rising in her cheeks again  - she wasn’t exactly sure why - maybe it was the directness of his gaze or the brilliance of his smile.

“So, are you ready for your training?”

Keanu chuckled and responded with what he thought was the expected reply “hell yeah” but Claire didn’t react, “maybe the Matrix reference was unintentional” he thought – she was pretty young after all, (her bio said she was 35) so maybe she was one of the few whom it had passed by!

“So let’s go through to the kitchen and get started” she said leading the way back to the room where Keanu had entered earlier.

For the next 4 hours they talked through and tried out some of the particular skills that would be needed in kitchen scenes. Whilst they worked, they got to know each other a little with Claire wanting to find out about Keanu’s food knowledge and experience and Keanu quizzing her about her beginnings in the industry. He discovered that she grew up on a tiny west coast island in France called L’Ile de Re” where her Dad still owned a restaurant called, like hers in LA, “Le Chat Botte”.  He no longer worked as a chef there but lived in the little village where it was, hence the manager being able to keep Claire appraised of his health.  She’d learned her craft there and then moved on to train in Paris, New York and then LA to establish her namesake restaurant in the US.

For her part, from what Keanu said, she could see that despite not having grown up in a house where people had a passion for cooking, he nevertheless clearly had a passion for food  - from the humble sandwich to fine foods from around the globe. He was also a quick study, picking up the knife skills needed to finely chop onions and garlic on film that he’d need. She was a patient teacher, though she would occasionally break into French when she was struggling to communicate the exact technique such as when at first he couldn’t master the rotation of the knife needed to chop finely:

“tient tient, comme ca” she said, placing her hand over his to show how the blade needed to rock back and forth over the garlic.

At 12 they broke for lunch at which point Claire challenged Keanu to make her his best sandwich from the ingredients on hand. He asked her what she liked and created a layered club sandwich which she declared excellent. By the time he left at 1pm, Keanu was convinced that she was an excellent choice of teacher and one he’d enjoy learning from. He could hardly wait for the next day when they were going to study cuts of meat by going to Claire’s favourite butcher.

The week progressed with a mix of hands on cooking classes and continued trips to suppliers which served to explain the importance of provenance and quality ingredients. They also worked on timings  and started to plan the stages of creating the menu Keanu had planned for Friday’s lunch.

On Thursday Keanu tried out the dauphinois potatoes and was thrilled with the result - he was really starting to enjoy cooking and his rapid growth in skill. Claire praised him warmly and suggested he try a dessert as well for the next day.

“You could try something simple like a mousse au chocolat but I think you’re ready to really wow them”

“Oh yeah?” Keanu grinned “With what?”

“A tarte Tatin”

“What!, are you sure?”

“Absolutely – you’re an excellent student - let’s do one today together, you’ll master it I’m sure”

She showed him how to prepare the sugar and butter in a special tin that could go on the stove and then in the oven to finish. They prepped the apples placing them rounded side down in the tin and proceeded to caramelise the butter and sugar until it was a gorgeous molten mahogany. Then he learned how to make the shortcrust pastry using cool hands to rub the butter into the flour then bring it together to a dough which rested in the fridge. Once rolled out, he placed it onto the cooled apples, tucking in the edges round the sides. The result when they turned the tarte out (upside down to reveal the apples) was amazing – sweet, tender apples with the sugary caramel cut a little by freshly grated lemon rind and a melt in the mouth pastry to top it off.

“See!” she smiled, “I knew you could do it”

“No, you did it!” he grinned

“Well, OK so today we both did it but tomorrow it will all be down to you”

Friday came and Keanu got to the restaurant at 8am wanting to have as much time as possible to get everything perfect.

By 11.30 the lamb was resting, his gratin and tarte were in the oven and the beans were simmering gently.

The meal was beginning with a simple salade aux lardons  - it was time to dress it with the vinaigrette he’d made earlier. He started to toss it gently but some lettuce flipped out over the side

“Watch out you don’t drop too many said Claire – unless you want lots of children’ she laughed!

“What?” Keanu asked, shooting her a quizzical look.

“it’s a saying we have in France that the number of leaves you drop when you’re tossing the salad tells you the number of kids you’ll have.

“Oh right” he chuckled, “that’s cute, but it’s way too late for that”

“What do you mean?, you’d have time to have them if you wanted, surely”

“I’m too old Claire”

“What, you must only be what?”, she paused to look at him and consider his face “…. About 45”

“Ha ha” Keanu laughed heartily.

“No, I’m fifty five”

“Merde” she exclaimed “ce n’est pas possible!”

Keanu shook his head and smiled - he loved how she reverted to French when she was reacting spontaneously to something.  

“I’m afraid it’s true, so even if I had a wife or even a girlfriend, I still think it’s too late to be having babies. I might be dead before they’re 20 or 30.

Claire’s face clouded over

“Sorry I didn’t mean to be all maudlin” he said

“Don’t worry, it’s just my mother died when I was 25 so I know that’s hard – but people die all the time, young and old.

“Ain’t that the truth” Keanu agreed quietly, remembering his own past.

“and lots of guys have babies when they’re older. Maybe you shouldn’t rule it out”

“Maybe maybe, anyway, enough serious talk, we should raise a toast before our guests arrive”

He poured himself and Claire a glass of wine.

“Here’s to satisfied customers!” she said

“and here’s to you for being such an amazing teacher – I can’t believe you’ve got me this far so fast”

“well that’s really down to you” she replied, smiling, “you work so hard and learn so quickly, it’s very impressive”

“I don’t know about that!” he said blushing, “Anyway, let’s not get ahead ourselves, I haven’t served it yet!!

They put down their glasses and Claire went to see if the guests had arrived at the table they had set aside in the restaurant. Meanwhile Keanu busied himself with finishing the salad and carving the lamb which he was happy to see was just the right shade of pink. He put it in the warming oven and also took out the tarte Tatin praying that it would be as good as the one yesterday when he turned it out later. Finally, with the main course as ready as it could be, he took the salad and some French bread through to the dining room.

The meal went down a storm - at the end Keanu stood and raised a toast to Claire

“Thank you for all your kind words folks but we really need to toast this amazing lady who has taught this old meat head some cooking skill. He took her hand and placed it over his heart

“ thank you, thank you, merci beaucoups, I’ll be forever grateful!”

Claire laughed and blushed.

“Just wait until next week when we’ll have you working in the restaurant kitchen, then you might not be such a fan!”

He laughed

“That may be!”

They said their goodbyes to Keanu’s amazed guests and went to clean down the kitchen.

“How’s your dad by the way?”

“Oh about the same apparently – no better, but no worse, he just needs to take it easy and stay off his damn bike”

“Oh, a pushbike or a motorbike?” Keanu asked, his interest peaked

“A push bike – he’s not a racer guy like you!” Claire saw Keanu pull up each day often on different bikes so she knew about his passion for them.

“everyone goes everywhere on bikes on the Ile de Re” she continued - it’s a cyclist’s paradise with cycle paths across the salt marshes and oyster beds and through the forests. But he had a heart attack last year and whilst he is supposed to exercise, he just pushes himself too much and that worries me”

“Do you have any other family there to keep an eye on him?”

“No, I’m an only child and there are no aunts or uncles either.

“Is your father still alive? She asked.

“Yeah – well at least I haven’t heard otherwise! He left my mother when I was three and I haven’t seen him since I was 13.”

“Mon dieu that must have been tough growing up without a dad”

“Yeah well I had my mum and my sister - he wouldn’t have been a good role model anyway”

“I could see today that you adore Kim and your mother”

“Yeah, yeah  I do - family and friends are my rocks to come back to  - after every project that’s what I look forward to”

“You know you’re not at all what I expected!” Claire stated.

“Oh, how so?” he asked

“Well, a couple of people I mentioned you to said they heard you were a nice guy and very polite but I guess I just expected someone more ………..starry, you know!”

Keanu burst out laughing.

“Well I’ll take that as a complement” he said

“you should – you’ve made it a very easy first week of teaching” she smiled

“Well thanks” he said the colour rising in his cheeks.

They finished up in the kitchen and Keanu took his leave saying he’d see her at 9am prompt on Monday for his week in the working kitchen.  He’d enjoyed her company so much that he’d almost asked her to dinner but held himself in check. She was so much younger than him and he knew his feelings weren’t entirely platonic. She was very cute with olive skin, beautiful eyes and a slender yet not too skinny figure – he didn’t really have a type but she hit the spot with him. He’d just have to quash those thoughts, focus on the learning and keep things on a friendly footing.

https://allie1804-fan.tumblr.com/post/625977593110364160/ile-de-re-chapter-2

[notalwaysthevillian]

Shattering Stereotypes

Warnings: None? Let me know!

Pairings: Romantic Mox and Remile established, Romantic Logince to come

Word Count: ~1.9k

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Read from the beginning

Chapter 9

Logan woke up before his alarm went off, deciding to just get up and shower. He’d gotten fitful sleep anyway and knew that even trying to get a few more minutes would be futile.

Knowing that today was School Color day, he examined his closet for longer than usual. There wasn’t much he owned that was red, other than a pair of jeans he’d gotten as a gift from Preston.

With a sigh, he put them on. They were tighter than what he normally wore, but that was the price he was going to pay for school spirit.

He threw on a white button up before grabbing some red and white sneakers that had also been a gift.

Convenient.

As soon as Preston and Thomas saw him, they broke out into grins.

“I knew you’d wear those someday.” Preston gestured to the jeans. “It wouldn’t kill you to show off that Sanders ass more often.”

“Dad!”

“Preston.”

“What? It’s part of the reason I fell for you.”

Thomas rolled his eyes as Preston pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Love you too, Tommy.”

“Lo, you want Crofter’s on your - why am I even asking.” Thomas nodded to the fridge, taking the jar of jam from Preston.

Logan took the jar from Thomas. “Thank you, but I’ll make my own breakfast.”

“Is this because I don’t put enough jam on your toast?” Thomas teased.

Logan pretended not to hear him as he prepared his breakfast before heading out to the car.

As soon as Logan stepped foot on school grounds, he couldn’t help but smile. Nearly everyone in the vicinity was covered in red and white. Glancing around, Logan saw Virgil and Patton heading into the school. Virgil had swapped out his usual hoodie for a red one and his black jeans for white. Patton had on one of the male cheer uniforms, a large G emblazoned on the chest.

After dumping his books at his locker, Logan headed straight for his English class.

And proceeded to short circuit in the doorway.

How could he have forgotten that the sports teams wore their uniforms on Spirit Day?

The jersey Roman wore showed off the muscles in his arms. His pants were rolled to the knee, showing off one red sock and one white one. The socks clung to his calf muscles, no doubt gained from his many games of catching.

The two of them locked eyes as Logan managed to start moving again. Roman had smeared what appeared to be red and white paint under his eyes.

“Logan! Perfect, sit down.”

Doing as he was told, Logan froze as Roman reached out and started smearing some of the paint under his own eyes. The gentle touch was making his heart race.

“What -”

“Relax, Lo. It’s meant for your face, it’s called warrior paint.” Roman leaned in close, his breath fanning across Logan’s cheek as he observed his work.

Closing the gap here would not be beneficial.

“Alright, I know we’re not going to get much done today, so I’ll just give you a free period to work on your projects, even though I know most of you will just talk anyway.” Mx. Stokes said, before they pulled out a box. “And if anyone wants some beads to complete their school spirit look, have at it.”

Roman practically vaulted over the desks to get to the box, grabbing four sets of beads. When he came back, he draped two of them over Logan.

“Now you look like you have school spirit.” He flashed Logan a smile.

Blood rushed to Logan’s cheeks. “So...were you going to talk to anyone or did you want to work on our project?”

“Actually I drew up some ideas for costumes!”

Logan barely noticed how fast the class went by, content to listen to Roman excitedly babble about the costume ideas and their symbolism. When the bell rang, Logan jumped out of his seat, making Roman laugh.

“See you at the pep rally!” Roman called before he darted off to his next class.

The day went by in a blur, Logan opting to simply do homework instead of chat with Virgil. His purple-haired classmate didn’t seem to mind, putting on some music instead.

A high pitched squeal crackled over the PA system. “Seniors may be excused and make their way down to the gym.”

A few of their classmates headed out, Logan and Virgil packing up their things. Everyone was required to leave their backpacks in their final class, and pick them up before going home.

Not more than five minutes later, the PA system squealed again. “Juniors may be excused.”

Virgil and Logan headed out together. As they walked in, Logan wasn’t sure where he was going to sit, but Virgil pulled him over to where Patton was sitting with Remy and Emile. He noticed Roman sit a couple rows ahead with the baseball team.

Logan wasn’t really listening as they went through the opening spiel of the pep rally. It was pretty much a rundown of all the scores so far - the seniors were winning - and the times of the game, the parade, and the dance. All stuff Logan had heard, since he actually paid a bit of attention to the school calendar.

What he did notice was Roman and several other students getting up and moving down to a reserved portion of the bleachers.

“What’s going on?”

“Too busy staring, huh?” Remy asked from the end of the row, waggling his eyebrows.

Logan flushed, turning to Virgil instead.

“Dodgeball, just like every other year.”

“Ah,” Logan adjusted his glasses, watching as the freshman were unfairly pitted against the seniors. “My apologies, I usually sneak in a book and read at the top.”

“So you’re paying attention now because…” Virgil trailed off, a teasing grin on his face.

Patton poked him in the shoulder. “V, don’t be mean!”

“He’s not, you have my word.” Logan leaned forward to see around Virgil. “Congrats on the homecoming date though.”

“Thanks! Virge told me about your issue and I think if you have the guts to go for it, you should give him the letter.” A friendly smile graced Patton’s face.

Logan nodded, hearing the whistle to start the game. Everyone’s attention shifted, watching as the freshman were knocked out in a mere two minutes. Once they returned to their seats, the seniors sat down, watching the sophomores and juniors get into position.

Roman looked up into the stands, met Logan’s eyes, and flashed a grin. Logan’s heart pounded as he smiled back, but Roman had looked back to the game.

He was probably smiling at someone else.

“Did you see that?” Patton whispered. “He smiled at you!”

“No, it wasn’t -”

Virgil held up a hand. “It was totally for you.”

Blood returned to Logan’s cheeks. The whistle blew once more and he watched as Roman nearly single-handedly took out the sophomores, assisted by one or two more teammates.

“Dang, he’s good.”

“He said sometimes he pitches.” Logan replied without thinking.

“How do you know that, Lo?”

Logan turned, face flaming as he got various degrees of smirks from his friends. “He may have stayed for dinner a few times because of our project.”

Patton and Emile both clapped their hands over their mouths to suppress their squealing. Remy’s smirk vanished as he gave Emile a loving gaze, but Virgil kept his eyes on Logan.

“Dude. He at least likes you as a friend, or he would never have stayed.”

A sharp blow of the whistle had them turning back to the floor. At some point, the seniors had set up where the sophomores had vacated. The two teams were now going after each other with a vengeance. The seniors to defend their title, and the juniors to finally shove them out of the number one spot.

It came down to Roman and a senior named Steve. He was a linebacker on the football team, and built like a brick.

Steve fired a ball at Roman.

The crowd gasped as it popped out of Roman’s hands.

Roman dove for it, barely catching it before it hit the ground.

The juniors went nuts, cheering wildly. Steve headed back to the football team, high-fiving along the way.

Roman ran back into the crowd, breathing heavily. Again, he shot a grin to where Logan was sitting.

Logan buried his face in his hands as soon as Roman looked away.

“Ah, yes. The gay meltdown.”

“Remy!”

A squeal from the microphone had all of the students covering their ears. Principal Torres apologized before announcing the next part of the competition.

Solving a Rubik’s cube.

Logan’s name was called for the juniors. He headed down with four other students, clearly picked because they were the smartest kids in the class.

Smart didn’t always equate to puzzle solving.

“The first one to solve the cube will win one hundred points for their class. The second wins fifty, and the third twenty-five. Each of you will be timed by a randomly selected teacher. Any questions?” She stopped, watching as they all shook their heads. “Three, two, one, GO!”

Logan moved like lightning, blocking everything else out of his head.

“Done!”

He smirked when he realized he was the first to finish by a long shot. The teacher across from him showed his time.

Forty-five seconds.

As soon as two others had finished, the freshman and the senior, they were excused back to their seats.

“Nice job, Lo!” Patton gave him a beaming smile as he sat back down.

Virgil nodded. “I’m pretty sure we’re tied with the seniors now.”

Logan hardly paid attention to the rest of the pep rally, only noticing that the next events were one bounce and tug of war. The seniors must’ve been angry about losing, seeing as how they lost both events.

Which meant…

“In first place this year is our Juniors, with 1,340 points!”

The junior class went wild, cheering and screaming. Principal Torres quickly quieted everyone down, gave a rundown of the parade and game times for later that night, and then excused everyone.

Logan traced the paper in his pocket as he darted down the steps, trying to reach Roman. He’d give him the note and Roman could text him his answer.

The universe must’ve hated him, because Roman was swept away by his friends before Logan even made it to the gym floor.

A hand on his shoulder had him turning around. Emile and Patton were looking at him with twin expressions of sadness, while Remy looked a little peeved. Virgil squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Lo. You could always give it to him at the game?”

Logan shook his head. “It’s too late anyway. I can’t even get a ticket now.”

“Actually…” Emile pulled a ticket out of his pocket. “I have an extra. I bought one before Rem asked me.”

Logan took it. “Thank you, but I don’t have anyone to go with.”

“Come with us!” Patton bounced on his toes. “We’re all going together and then having a sleepover at Remy’s house!”

Seeing Logan’s expression, Virgil added, “Or we can drop you back off at your place. And you don’t have to come with us, it’s just an option.”

“I...I think I’d like that.” Logan felt a sudden warmth in his chest. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

[robertdowneyhiddlesbatch]

Spider Strange

Synopsis: o/s of cut scene from my Kyra Rogers AU series. Dr. Strange meets Peter Parker. (5 year time jump moved back to between CW and IW)

Kyra and Stephen were sleeping over at the compound. They'd been chasing after a source they'd found using Tony's tracker. It had been a malevolent one, so Dr. Strange and IronChantress had drawn it away from New York, de-powered it, and handed over the guy to local authorities.

"You know who it is." Tony's voice disturbed Kyra awake, and she turned over to grab her phone before Stephen could wake.

BM in Japan. Kid coming over.

"Your priorities are fascinating."

Kyra put away her phone and turned back to face Stephen.

"I didn't want to disturb you," she pecked him. "So what's the plan today? Not sleeping in, apparently."

Stephen smiled, then turned to lay on his back.

"I have classes at Kamar Taj. Then I have lectures at two. Need to turn in grades by 8pm today..."

"You have..." Kyra checked her bare wrist, "Eleven hours," she looked up at him.

"I can spare one..." Stephen turned over to grab her.

"...or two." Kyra cuddled closer and kissed him.

Stephen had barely rolled over when FRIDAY interrupted them.

"Spider-Man, now entering Avengers HQ," she announced, showing a holographic video of Peter Parker looking around like a lost puppy.

Stephen sighed in her neck as Kyra laughed.

"I'll get breakfast on," she pushed him off and went to the bathroom.

When she got downstairs, Stephen was already in the kitchen, serving omelettes.

"Breakfast is served." Stephen winked at her.

"Morning, Pete." Kyra ruffled his hair as she passed behind him.

"Morning, Frozone." Peter garbled through food.

"How's May?"

"Good."

"So, whatchya doin today?"

"Oh, Mr. Stark made me a training module. So I'm gonna run it today. Then I've got homework from school. God! Mrs..." Peter started complaining about his English teacher, but somehow ended with Ned in P.E.

Stephen shared a look with Kyra that said God! This Kid!

"What're you two gonna do?"

"I... have lectures. Then I have to catch up on my grading."

"Right! You're a professor. At Columbia."

"yuP!" Stephen confirmed and drank his tea.

Peter finished breakfast and ran to the training room, before coming back for his backpack.

Krya burst out laughing as Stephen stared after the kid.

After breakfast, Stephen returned to Kamar Taj, and Kyra went to work at the labs. She was collaborating with Dr. Cho to find neurological cures.

Sometime later, she video called her family in Wakanda. James as always, was super excited to show her around. Kyra went by Peter's room when James was showing her Shuri's lab. Kyra turned the screen around, showing them Spider-Man at practice. Shuri was more impressed by the stickiness than the fighting, and before the conversation went long, Kyra gave Shuri's number to Peter.

Two hours later, Kyra and Peter were in the living room when her phone alarm went off. Stephen's lectures were about to start, and he still wasn't back from Kamar Taj. Kyra abandoned Peter, apparating herself to Tibet. Peter had gone back to his room by the time a portal opened in the living room.

"...the deal is that we need money to afford that nice, magical building in the middle of Greenwich Village.”

Kyra was arguing with Stephen why his lectures were important. She pushed him towards the direction of their room and he whined as he left. Levi decided to stay with Kyra.

In the evening, Peter had finally come out of his room to get a snack. Before he could make it into the kitchen, he passed the living room, and found someone standing there.

"Um... hey, man! You looking for someone?"

The person didn't reply, and Peter grew concerned. Even his spidey senses were on edge. Slowly and carefully, he approached the person.

"Hey. Mister?" Peter touched what he expected to be a shoulder, but only a scared, empty cloak turned around.

Peter screamed and jumped away.

Kyra and Stephen were in their room when they heard Peter scream. Dr. Strange portaled and Kyra apparated herself to the living room, finding it empty except for Stephen.

"Peter?" Kyra called for him.

"Uhh.."

They looked up to find Peter stuck to the ceiling.

"Th-th...there." He pointed behind the sofa, which Stephen levitated away, to find the cloak.

Stephen laughed out loud, and Kyra joined him. Seeing the adults having a blast, Peter came down as Levi came around Strange.

"Um... wh-what?"

"Pete, this is Levi, the cloak of levitation." Kyra introduced.

"It's... alive?"

"It's sentient. Yes." Stephen corrected him.

Peter was immediately entertained.

"Wow! That's incredible! That's so cool! Shuri should see this! Hi! I'm Peter Parker." Peter extended his hand, but Levi almost choked Stephen.

"Jesus! He's just a kid!" Stephen pried the collar away.

Levi reached for Peter's hand and, after just one shake, was quickly enamored by the kid. It circled around Peter, then lifted him into the air, entertaining him.

"Ahaha! It's just like a puppy, Dr. Strange!"

Stephen shook his head, "Uhun. An annoying puppy."

"Y'know what? I think we've been cooped in too long. Let's go out! How about Central Park?"

"From here? We're at the edge of New York!"

Kyra turned to Stephen with an expectant look, and Dr. Strange resisted only a little before giving in. He extended his fingers out and created a portal to Central Park.

"Woah!" Peter exclaimed. "That's awesome!"

"Isn't it?" Kyra went through first, and Stephen followed her.

Peter hesitated, his spider senses tingling, before Levi wrapped around him and flew him through.

At Central Park, Kyra and Stephen strolled together while Peter hopped the trees next to them. Kyra had put up a spell so that the rest of New York couldn't see him.

"Frosty! Look at this!" Peter called for Kyra a while in.

"Very nice, Peter! Keep it going!"

"You're not looking!" Peter whined.

Kyra sighed and paid him full attention.

"I am, sweetie."

"Okay. Are you watching? This is gonna be sick!"

Peter made the first two trees, but the third tree had a nest in it, and the birds flew in his face making him lose his balance. As Peter fell, Kyra shot a snow ball, pushing him up into a portal. He came out closer to the ground, and Levi caught him before Peter could land face first.

Peter sat on the ground, sighing in relief.

"C-can we not tell Mr. Stark?"

"I think we can call it a day." Kyra said.

Peter got up to join them, walking beside Kyra.

"Can we get something to eat?"

"Yeah, I guess. It's past lunchtime. What do you wanna get?"

Peter dragged them to his favorite Mediterranean truck and they each ordered a plate to go.

Peter got his food first and started walking away as Kyra and Stephen waited for theirs. He hadn't gone too far when he froze and quickly turned to catch a ball in his free hand.

"Hey, twink!" He looked behind him to see a jock running up.

"Think you wanna pass the ball back?"

The man was close enough that Peter could hand it to him.

"Here you go, sir."

He offered, only, the ball didn't let go.

Peter laughed nervously.

"You bein' funny with me?"

"N-no, sir! My hands are just-"

The man pulled the ball, yanking Peter with it. He grabbed Peter's hand and tossed him to the ground, but the ball went with. Now the jock was really pissed.

"Give it back, jackass!"

He lifted Peter by his shirt, making the scared kid release the ball.

The man smiled and threw Peter to the ground and picked up the ball. As soon as he got up, he got sucker punched in the face. He checked his bleeding nose, and got up again, swinging.

Stephen grabbed his fist and punched him again. The jock didn't take his losses well, and kept on fighting the Sorcerer Supreme. The fight would have continued, but Kyra and Peter held Stephen back. The other man smiled, thinking he was winning, and lifted his hand to swing, but was held back by park rangers.

“Next time, don't pick on my kid!" Stephen warned, and the police took the guy away.

The gathered crowd cheered as Stephen checked on Peter.

"You alright?”

"I...I think I'll be good."

"Here's your shawarma, big guy." Kyra gave Peter his plate back and apparated them back to the compound.

They sat around the tv to watch a movie as Peter videoed Shuri and told her what happened.

"My kid?" Kyra asked Stephen as she sat down.

"What? At the moment, we're responsible for him. Aren't we?"

"Admit it, he's grown on you."

"Fine. He's officially less annoying."

"Y'know I think that's his super power."

At night, Tony burst into the compound screaming, waking Kyra from her nap on the couch.

"Chantress!!" He called for Kyra, and she popped her head up over the sofa.

"What's this?" He asked, thrusting his phone in her face.

There was a video titled Dr. Strange gives bully a taste of his own medicine, which had recorded everything from the guy hitting Peter, to the guy being taken away.

"What?! He's fine, isn't he?"

"You," Tony pointed at her, "are not babysitting again. Where is he?"

"Will you relax? He's with Stephen." Kyra lead him to the lab where Stephen was helping Peter with his chemistry homework.

"See? He's fine!" She said as they watched from the window.

"Fine. But this one's mine. Get your own." Tony suggested and walked into the lab.

Kyra watched from the window as Peter lit up when he saw his mentor. Stephen was watching them too and he smiled, before noticing Kyra at the window.

Kyra smiled back.

"We'll get right on that, boss."

[romanov-ramblings]

So I was debating on whether to post this because I have had my art siphoned off other social media bases. So, before I describe what this is PLEASE if you use my work, PLEASE credit me properly. I do not do things like this just for shits and giggles. I work hard on my work, and yes this may be Windows (MS) Paint and not Photoshop, but I work hard on these things. That being said, here is the description: The Maple Drawing-Room, Windows Paint Rendering Series. A while ago (a few years?) I found autoCAD renderings of the Maple Drawing-Room on a Russian website specialising in CAD drawings. I paid for them (it wasn’t much) and was a little disappointed in that there were only two walls rendered; the entresol/balcony that connected the Empress’s Style Moderne living-room with the Tsar’s State “New” Study, and the wall with the door leading to the Empress’s Palisandre (Rose-wood) Drawing-Room. There was no wall with the doors leading to the main corridor (that split up Their Majesties’ apartments respectively) or the window wall. So I decided to do renderings that showed all the walls. With the two walls that I had, and following the floor plans of the Maple Drawing-Room, I was able to create as close to possible (as I could) given MS Paint restraints (it has its limitations but I make it work) a recreation of what the room looked like (all four walls) with its plaster ornamentation, pink walls, green cornice and all the beautiful maple-wood woodwork. I also put in some pieces of furniture like the horse-shoe shaped sofa with the cabinet which displayed the Empress’s Fabergé Easter eggs, and other trinkets. I also added a cabinet/bookcase which was designed for the room, and of which can be seen in photographs. I sourced all that I could find (including inventories of the room and when it was constructed; what hardware was used etc; the only thing that I cannot find a lick of information on is the transom piece over the door to the corridor; I took some artistic license for this) to make this rendering series as close as possible to its original. Recently photographs and video have been shared via Instagram of the reconstruction project going on at the Alexander Palace and they’ve made a great deal of headway with the Maple Drawing-Room itself. The plaster decoration of flowers, buds, leaves, vines and branches and ceramic tile-work for the fireplaces have been expertly recreated to how it looked before the War by Artcorpus_Interiors. The woodwork is being diligently worked upon by Stavros (a Saint Petersburg-based furniture design firm). It’s amazing how far they have come truly!  It was tedious (I’ll admit) to fine-tune the plaster ornamentation. Originally I had done a loose interpretation of it with thin white lines tied together like twine. Later after seeing more reconstruction photographs, I decided to fine-tune some details and ended up doing all of the plaster.  Some fun factoids: The green spots you see all along the upper part of the pink walls, was where pieces of inset green glass were fitted. 200 or so electrical bulbs (think circus lighting) were installed to create a indirectly lit ceiling and room (very avant garde for the time). This soft lighting bounced off the white ceiling (free-formed by the green cornice) and shined through the pieces of opalised, green glass. Some of the green spots didn’t have glass in them (they were just painted green to match the others) but there were strategic spots over which these lights shined through.  Another fun fact is the hardware/equipment of the room (locks, latches, loops, door handles, etc) in the construction inventories was silver and and another (which could be nickel silver); silver bronze. The “trengels” (it was a fun time trying to figure out what this word meant) or curtain rods were silver bronze, while the other hardware for the room seems to be labeled as being silver. I tried to give that effect with some details (like door handles, and the mounts on the cabinet/bookcase by the door to the Palisandre Drawing-Room).  A round stove (kiln is another term) with white, ceramic tiles (most of the tile work in the room was fire-resistant English glazed tiles) and silver stucco ornaments with two attached sofas was removed (by order of Her Majesty) to make a fully-pieced-together sofa with the cabinet that is so well-known in photographs of the room. This silver stucco ornamentation makes sense as to why the hardware was silver or silver bronze (nickel silver looks almost like silver, has the same sheen and glimmer but has actually no silver in it; it’s made up of a bunch of different alloys except for silver). The transom like I mentioned earlier, is the conundrum. I’ve asked several people, and I still cannot get a straight forward answer on what it was. Some think it is stretch glass (Louis Comfort Tiffany whose work was used in the room (copper soldered glass) which was popular during the time, or frosted glass (also popular), while metal decorations have been thought of (copper, gilded bronze, etc). It has the appearance of glass and then metal, and then plaster (possibly?), and then suddenly glass again. It’s a conundrum definitely.  .... Anywho xD, I have to get ready for class this morning. I just wanted to share my work, and I hope that all who follow me enjoy it :). It was definitely a labor of love! Note (EDIT): So via some Instagram stories of some of the people who are working with this project (the reconstruction project of the Alexander Palace) (Studio 44, Stavros, Artcorpus_Interiors, etc), I came across elevations and plans of the Maple Drawing-Room, and with these I was able to fine-tune some details. I ALSO found out the demi-lune over the doors to the Main Corridor was plaster embellished! So above, I’ve re-uploaded my renderings to show the new versions. Please enjoy! 

[sendingmyrevenge]

Helping Hand - David Pastrnak

A/N: There aren’t enough Pasta fics on here *sigh*

Warnings: None

Summary: You first met David when you were enrolled at Boston University. As it was David’s first time in the States, you helped him adjust to the city of Boston. Your help only proved to be oh so worthwhile.

Winters in Boston sucked. Horribly. Sure the streets were a winter wonderland with snow cascading the branches and lamp posts, but it was freezing. Your friends were all out doing their own things, leaving you to spend the day by yourself. Since there were no classes today, you decided to explore the streets of Boston and get your mind off of college.

You shoved your hands deeper into your pockets, waiting for the signal to cross the street. The breeze started to pick up from the cars speeding past you, but your beanie held your hair in place. Somehow your feet led you to the Boston Common, the park that held so much history and so much spirit.

The pedestrian signal changed, allowing you to cross the street. The park in front of you was bustling with families and tourists. There were so many activities going on, making it feel like a scene straight out of a movie. The snow crunched under your feet as you walked down the path. You found a vacant bench to rest on and sighed in relief, realizing how sore your legs started to become.

You observed your surroundings. A family was close by building a snowman. The mother, focused on helping her daughter gather stones for the face, jumped in surprise when her husband threw a snowball at her. The daughter erupted in giggles at the sight of her parents getting into a snowball fight. Her laughter made you grin. Oh, how you wish your future would be like that.

Off to the far left, a vendor was selling hot chocolate to anyone who passed by. You looked around some more. Children screamed and laughed with each other. Couples scrolled through the park, enjoying each other’s embrace. You loved seeing people enjoying life. It was the optimist part of you.

Distracted with the liveliness around you, you didn’t realize someone walk up to you.

“Excuse me?” The man said with a thick accent.

You snapped out of your thoughts, looking up in front of you. He was bundled in a thick jacket and a woolen scarf. A winter hat was perched on top of his head, but you could see strands of brunette curly hair poking out. His gloved hands held a slightly crumpled up map of Boston.

“Do you know how I get to TD Garden?” He pointed to his map. He spoke in broken English.

“Yes! It’s a bit of a long walk, but it’s not that bad.” You smiled. You attempted to explain the directions to him, but his look of confusion only deepened.

“I can walk with you, if you’d like.” You offered. The mystery man broke out in a grin, his eyes lighting up.

You didn’t know him at all and your mother taught you better than to talk to go anywhere with a stranger, but he was completely lost. Plus, you had your pepper spray on you if anything were to happen.

“Thank you very much,” He held his arm out for you to shake. “My name is David.”

You shook his hand. “Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

As you two started walking, you asked him some questions to get to know him some more. “What brings you to Boston?”

David grinned sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. “I come to play hockey, but I walk around and get lost”

You smiled in understanding. “The streets of Boston can be confusing. You don’t play for the Bruins, do you?” You joked to lighten the mood.

David smirked. “Yes. Something like that.” Your eyes widened in surprise.

“That’s so cool!” You tilted your head to look at him. He was a solid 6 feet tall, towering over you by a good 10 inches.

As you continued walking with David, you found out he was from the Czech Republic. He was recently drafted by the Bruins and decided to explore the city he would call home for the next couple of years.

You and David chatted nonstop throughout your walk to the arena. Not one second was a dull moment. You pointed out the streets he would need to know, laughed at the jokes he said in his thick accent, and helped him learn some basic English phrases along the way. David even taught you a few words in Czech which included “hi” and “how are you.”

When you arrived at the TD Garden, you sighed to yourself. You two would be parting ways soon and although you you only knew him for not even half an hour, you enjoyed his company.

“Well, we’re here.” You stopped in front of the entrance and turned to face him. David took off his hat and smoothed out his hair. His tongue was sticking out between his teeth as he did so, a little mannerism you’ve noticed whenever he was trying to think of the English word for something.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He looked down at you and smiled gently. You shrugged it off, saying it was no problem. Before you could bid him farewell and wish him good luck playing with the Bruins, he stopped you.

“Can I have phone number? I want to buy you coffee to thank you.” Your heart fluttered at his gesture.

“Oh, of course!” You beamed at him. You and David exchanged numbers, sending him a text that would mark the beginning of your friendship relationship:

Hey it’s Y/N! Don’t get lost in the TD Garden ;)

Months have passed since you helped David find his way around Boston. Your friendship with David only grew stronger by the minute. Friendship being the keyword. You and your damn feelings wanted more, but you didn’t want to jeopardize anything.

David had an off-day, coming home from a road trip the day before. He insisted on spending his free time with you, begging you to skip class just for a day. You, of course, were hesitant. You may have had classes, but you also wanted David to rest.

However, David’s spam of text messages that consisted of “Please. Please. Please. Please” and “I haven’t seen you in a week!” made you give in. It was only one for one day. Surely, your professor won’t miss you that much.

You texted your classmate you weren’t going to be in class and asked if you could copy her notes later on. After a quick reply from her end, you grabbed your winter attire, seeing as it was still chilly in Massachusetts, and headed out of your dorm.

Your phone rang as you left the campus. David’s name lit up on your screen and you inadvertently smiled.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Turn around.”

You scrunched your eyebrows, but did as he told. You spun around and there stood David. He was leaning against his car, one hand waving and the other holding the phone to his ear. He had a cheesy grin plastered on his face. The hat he wore when you first met him hung loosely on his head.

A giggle escaped your lips. You playfully rolled your eyes and shoved your phone into your pocket. Running over to David, you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. With the extra layers on him from his jacket, you felt like you were a hugging a teddy bear. David engulfed you, rubbing his hand on your back. His chin rested on the top of your head, eyes closed in content. You didn’t think anything of it, but David pulled you closer to him, missing your presence.

“I’ve missed you.” You murmured into his chest.

“Me too.”

You were reluctant to let go of him, but the two of you were just friends and you didn’t want David to feel awkward.

As you pulled away, you composed yourself and nudged him lightly. “I thought we agreed to meet at the cafe?”

“Yes, but I want to bring you somewhere.” He opened the door for you and motioned for you to go into the the passenger’s seat. Used to David’s antics by now, you shrugged and let him drive to wherever you two were going.

It didn’t take long for you to notice where he was taking you. He drove past the TD Garden, steering down the cobblestone streets that led to one place - the Boston Common.

Finding an empty spot, David parked the car and turned in his seat so he was facing you.

“Um, why are we here?” You questioned. David turned his gaze from you to the backseat. You looked behind you and two pairs of skates lay neatly on the floor.

“I am teaching you how to skate today.” The Boston Common’s pond froze over, making it the perfect opportunity for David to teach you.

You once told David how you never learned how to skate, due to a tiny fear of falling and breaking your bones. It was a stupid reason, but a reasonable one.

“Can’t we do something else? How about we go back to your place and watch a movie or go against your diet and eat junk food? Or maybe, I don’t know, do something that doesn’t involve me making an embarrassment of myself?” You begged, but David only shook his head. He found it cute how flustered you were getting, but he wanted to teach you, in hopes of inviting you as a plus one to future family skates.

“C’mon. I’ll make sure you won’t fall. I promise.” There was a sincerity in his voice, like he would do anything to make sure you felt safe on the ice. His promise was shown in his eyes, his look contrasting yours. Sighing in defeat, you grudgingly got out of the car. David hurriedly grabbed the skates while you paid the parking meter. Making sure his car was locked, David put his hand on your back, leading you to the pond.

The both of you sat down at a nearby bench, putting on your skates. David helped you tie yours after seeing you struggle. As he was tying, you blurted out, “I swear to God, David. If you let me fall I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

David rolled his eyes at your remark. He knew you didn’t mean it. You were the least threatening person he knew.

“I always keep my promises, Y/N.” He stood up, reaching his arm out so you could hold his hand.

After much hesitation and David basically carrying you, you finally reached the ice. As you felt the slippery surface beneath you, you clung to David’s bicep. All your attention was on making sure you didn’t fall. Nothing else even mattered. David started to glide, but you stood still, anchoring him to the spot.

“Y/N, it’s okay. Loosen up a little.” He pried your arms off his bicep, but still held a tight hold on your hands. He skated in front of you and created some distance.

“Let your feet do all the work and only focus on me.” David started to skate backwards, his arms stretched out so he could still hold you.

David wasn’t wearing any gloves, and you felt every callous rubbing against you. His fingers molded perfectly into yours, squeezing you in encouragement. Your stare left the ice and onto his face. As David slowly glided, you felt the momentum and moved with him.

“You’re doing it!” He praised.

Too focused on his features, you didn’t realize David started to pick up his speed and you lost your balance. You let out a yelp, but David’s grip tightened and he pulled you towards him, steadying the both of you. David wrapped his arms around your torso in a bear hug.

“I got you. I got you.” He reassured.

His voice calmed you down, but your hold on him did not loosen.

“I knew this was a bad idea.”

“I didn’t let you fall though. Did I?” He had a point.

In David’s tight embrace, you could barely move. You opted to tilting your head up to give him a “really?” look, but David was already staring down at you in admiration. You have never seen him like this before yet his eyes blue eyes entranced you. The both of you stood in a comfortable silence, lost in each other’s gaze. 

David didn’t know what overcame him, but he leaned down, attaching his lips to yours. You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. Of course not, this was what you fantasized about ever since you discovered your feelings for him. Your heart rate sped up once you realized you weren’t dreaming.

His slightly chapped lips moved in sync with yours when he noticed you didn’t pull back. You felt him grin and your arms snaked their way to his neck so you could pull him down closer. The kiss was short-lived. There were no cliche fireworks you heard about in the movies; no flips of the stomach or anything, but it felt right. So, so right.

Many say the world stops in moments like these, like your surroundings just disappear and nothing else matters. To you and David, the statement couldn’t be more correct.

As you two separated, you broke out in a grin.

“Wow.” You breathed.

“Wow.” 

You couldn’t have been more thankful to have come to the park the day David asked for your help, because you never would have met your best friend and the love of your life.

[ragnarachael]

Plead The Fifth: A Hard Day’s Night

Pairing: Eventual Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 1,032

Series Summary: On your off time between your college classes and shifts at The Square Diner, you help your friends Matt, Foggy, and Karen get their law firm back up on its feet after they made the decision to all work together again after having a falling out period. 

You didn't expect to end up finding love along the way.

A Note: this is kind of like a prologue chapter to kinda let you get the vibe i’m trying to put down, and if you would like to be a part of a taglist for this piece or any other fics with certain characters that i’ll eventually post, send me an ask!

Warnings: Josie’s Bar, alcohol, my interpretation of tipsy/drunk!Foggy, cursing, money talk

un (you are here) deux trois quatre masterlist

“You should just quit working at The Square and work for us!” Foggy exclaimed as Karen returned with round three of the night, sitting across from you as Josie’s bar lit up with the neon signs decorated around the establishment as the sun finally set for the day.

“Fog, I have student loans to worry about! You guys are almost in the red last I checked, and you’re barely up and running again! You can’t even pay for Karen’s help right now!” You huffed before grabbing the neck of your beer to take a swig, Matt quirking an eyebrow somewhat close to Foggy’s direction.

“She does have a point, Foggy.”

“Yeah, I haven’t had a paycheck since-” Karen started lifting the bottle of beer to her lips before Foggy’s sweaty hand clamped over her mouth.

“Not helping, Miss Page.”

“Ew, Foggy!” Karen exclaimed once his hand was thrown back onto the table. You, Matt, Foggy, and Karen sharing a laugh as Karen wiped around her mouth with the back of her hand.

“That was disgusting, why are your hands so sweaty?” Karen asked, sounding genuinely concerned as Foggy took a moment to chug almost half of his beer, Matt trying to hold back a laugh as he heard the loud exaggerated gulps he was making.

“Foggy, calm down! It’s a beer not Marci!” Matt shouted, quickly lifting a hand up to pull the beer from his friend’s lips as you and Karen burst out into giggles again, even hearing Josie snickering at their interaction.

Eventually the four of you calmed down and stopped heaving out laughs every few minutes and actually started drinking your beers.

You were the first to speak up again after the others were settled in the somewhat silent atmosphere of Josie’s Bar.

“I’ll think about working with Nelson, Murdock and Page whenever I’ve got this college degree bullshit squared away. Until then, I’ll stick with popping in every now and then to help out, how’s that sound?”

Foggy’s head snapped up to look at you in what seemed to be shock, you could barely see his face in the neon purple lights of the sign Josie had flicked on and you were tipsy enough you couldn't really tell.

“Really?” He sputtered, Matt slowly shifting in his seat as his head tilted slightly, most probably listening to your heartbeat.

“Yeah, really. I’m not taking a paralegal certification course in the middle of an English degree for nothing. I paid good money for that shit.”

Foggy’s eyes switched between yours and Matt’s face a few times before settling to look at Matt.

“She’s telling the truth,” Matt confirmed softly, smiling wide as he ran his thumb across the bumps of his beer bottle. You scoffed and took a look at Karen who was still eyeing one of the TV’s in the bar that had a random game playing.

“Of course I’m telling the truth, I don’t have a reason to lie to you at all. Unless I get 3,500 bucks back,” you sassed back, sighing as you lifted your beer back to your lips to take a sip, training your eyes on the TV Karen had been looking at.

Matt seemed like he was going to do a spit take even though he’d barely drank from his beer.

“Thirty five hundred?!”

“Yes, thirty five hundred, Mr. Columbia Graduate,” you quipped, not even turning your head as you shifted in your seat, “I just wanted to follow in my mom’s footsteps, it’s worth it.”

Matt was quick to shut up once you mentioned your mother and decided to stop pressing on the subject to take a swig of his beer finally.

Foggy was too busy zoning out and reading the label on his bottle over and over again to even add to conversation now.

Part of you was heavily convinced he took a few shots when he got the second round, if he was already turning illiterate for night.

Another part was kind of expecting Foggy to be a lightweight, since this is your third time hanging around with Matt, Foggy, and Karen since you agreed to lend your services and he’s been acting like that after the first two rounds.

“Foggy, quit trying to seduce your beer, it’s starting to get creepy,” you insist, causing Matt to laugh and Karen to turn back at the table to see what you had meant before she was laughing too.

“Maybe,” Matt started, still laughing before his right hand found Foggy’s shoulder, “we should call it a night. We’ve all got things to do tomorrow.”

“But, Matt! The night is young!” Foggy exclaimed, gesturing to the almost empty space of Josie’s Bar, a few other usuals in for the night with a few drinks. You and Karen laughed, watching as Foggy’s hand swung around his empty beer bottle.

“Foggy, no,” Matt said sternly, quickly sliding off the stool and onto his feet to catch the bottle as it slipped from Foggy’s fingers.

“The night may be young, Foggy, but you are not,” Karen said between laughs as you agreed with a loud laugh, placing your bottle on the table to slide off your own stool and take the bottle Matt caught from his hands.

“Karen’s right. Do we need to call Marci for you, bud? You seem pretty sloshed,” you said kindly, placing the bottle next to yours while Matt straightened himself out.

“‘M not.. sloshed? What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means that I’m gonna call Marci to come and pick you up so we know you’re safe,” Karen answered, carefully reaching for her purse while staying on the stool, gently pulling out her phone.

“It means that I’m gonna call Marci to come and pick you up so we know you’re safe,” Karen answered, carefully reaching for her purse while staying on the stool, gently pulling out her phone.

You rose a brow.

“You have Marci’s number on hand?”

Karen snorted as she unlocked her phone, already tapping away as she cleared her throat, “yeah, it wouldn’t be the first time me and Matt have had to do this.”

You shook your head with a smile as Matt tried to amuse his tipsy best friend with a conversation so he wouldn’t actually slide off the stool.

You knew for a fact that you could definitely be comfortable with Nelson, Murdock and Page.

tags: @thechickvic

[minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong]

Ephemera Chapter Three (Early)

Ephemera: In art, transitory written and printed matter (receipts, notes, tickets, clippings, etc.) not originally intended to be kept or preserved.

Alternatively, things that exist or are used for only a short time.

Description: Nobody knows who Vante really is. Everything about the popular artist is shrouded in secrecy: from his face to his name to everything in between. After years of working for his art gallery, Y/N feels she may just be the closest thing he has to a friend. Between her success at work and her relationship with campus hot-shot Jeon Jungkook, Y/N’s life has never been better. But is Jungkook truly who he says he is? And who will Y/N protect now that she knows Vante’s livelihood may be on the line?

Genre: Romance, Drama, Fluff, Angst

Pairing: Jungkook x (f) Reader x Taehyung

Word Count: 7.2k

Tags: Non-Idol!Au, Gang!Au, Art History Student!Reader, Film Student!Jungkook, Art Student!Taehyung

Warnings: Swearing and mentions of alcohol, although infrequently

A/N: Hey guys! I decided to say screw it and put links in here. I feel like the chapter functions much more cleanly this way, so hopefully the Tumblr gods take pity on me. Anyway, this chapter is early!! As per a request below the last chapter, I’ve gotten this one finished a few days before Sunday, so it’s goin up. I’ll post Chapter Four on Sunday as scheduled! As always, please feel free to send me a message if you’d like! Comments, questions, critiques, theories, send them my way! I’ll respond to all asks received within a day of receiving them.

And again, if you want to follow my Twitter, my username is @/plzpunchmebts. I’m super active over there and hopefully in the future I’ll do some livestreams/chats with you all!

- Mercury

Previous Chapter – Next Chapter

Masterlist

Weekly updates: Sunday, 1PM (PST)

I removed my heels in the stairwell and began jogging barefoot up the steep flights. However harebrained, my scheme was working well. Panting, I carried my shoes in my right hand and used my left to claw my way up the railing, pulling my aching body up the stairs. As I approached the tenth floor landing, I paused and caught my breath, careful not to heave on my inhales and exhales. I pushed open the heavy door and emerged just outside the gallery, Jungkook’s back receding into the shadows of the hallway.

He wasted no time.

Silently, I maneuvered my way into the gallery, guiding the door shut behind me. I set my shoes and purse on the floor beside the front doors, gritting my teeth as I labored to be as silent as possible. My footfalls were gentle as I tiptoed through the shadows, creeping close to the walls in case he suddenly turned around and barreled back onto the floor. I heard the sound of his shoes squeaking against the wood down the hallway, a brisk pace, and found myself rushing as well to keep up.

I slipped into the hall and found his back still turned to me, turning silently into the break room. I straightened a little and crossed my arms. If I hadn’t found anything useful in there, he sure as hell wouldn’t. I walked quickly into a dark alcove beside the break room door, pressing my ear against the wall to hear him. But he was quiet as a mouse as he searched the room. Predictably, he only spent a few moments inside before deeming it fruitless and stepping back into the hallway. Under cover of the shadows, I watched him rake his hands through his hair and shake his head with a huff.

He turned on his heel and I pressed myself back against the wall, deeply shrouded in darkness, as he passed me. Without a second look, he was inside the backroom. I rolled my eyes. If he thought he’d make any headway back there, he was in for a nasty shock. Not only was the backroom an absolute disaster, it took near pinpoint accuracy to find your way around. I suspected the kid might even get lost in the stacks of canvases if I didn’t keep a close eye on him.

Carefully, I followed behind him, slipping through the door and padding it as I led it back to its frame. Once secured, the door released a tiny groan and I exhaled long and slow, my hands frozen on its metal surface. I squeezed my eyes shut. This was it. This had to be it. That metallic clanging had to have alerted Jungkook to the presence of another person in that dark backroom. I was caught. I was certainly caught.

But seconds ticked on in silence. Then minutes. And after several agonizing moments, I straightened my back and turned around, brows furrowed. I scanned the big room for him and saw nothing. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic falling of his footsteps, echoing dimly around the space. The factory lights flickered overhead and I righted myself, composing my breathing with a silent pat to my chest.

I crept behind him, always separated by at least one row of art supplies: haphazardly stacked canvases, broken easel legs, shelves of paintbrushes that I couldn’t name if you paid me. I could see him through the gaps in the shelves, his eyes scanning the supplies like a predator. There was something in his expression that I didn’t like, and in the brief glimpses I got of his face I could sense a desperate sort of hostility. The nameless look burned into the back of my mind as I followed him, watchful over his every movement.

Eventually, he found his way to the back of the room where Vante left the paintings he wanted displayed. Just like earlier today, I watched the yellow light swing in the draft and catch on something in the corner.

Unlike earlier today, Jungkook saw it too.

I heard his breath catch in his throat and, before I could react, he was jogging toward it. Looking now, I could see that the vague outline I’d noticed before was more than that. It was a door, covertly disguised to match the wall. Beside it, a keypad which Jungkook uncovered from behind a rectangular canvas. My eyes went wide and I glanced around quickly, searching for anything to distract Jungkook with. But as I did, I noticed something new. In the top right corner of the room, hanging from the ceiling and trained right on that camouflaged door, was a camera. Surely, I was in view as well, hiding halfway behind a shelf of gauche paints. I looked right into the lens, stared at it long and hard. I had no doubts. On the other end of that camera could be Vante himself. I steeled my gaze and lowered my head, a nearly invisible nod, before I cleared my throat and stepped out from behind the stacks.

Jungkook nearly jumped out of his skin, turning to face me with beet-red cheeks and eyes as wild as his wind-swept hair. There it was again. That gambling look. Like he had a losing hand and I’d called his bluff. I crossed my arms and smiled, staring him up and down.

“Y/N, I-,” he began, then looked around the room frantically, hands poised awkwardly at his sides.

I cut the tension with a laugh and tilted my head to the side. “Baby,” I drawled, laughing again. “I told you to get my keys, not snoop around my workplace.”

Jungkook’s shoulders relaxed a little and he breathed out a shaky laugh. “Sorry. I just got kinda curious being in her after hours,” he said, fishing around in his front pocket and tossing my keys at me. They arced through the air before clattering to the floor beside my bare feet. He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms. “Where are your shoes?”

I picked up the keys and tilted my leg to expose my swollen ankle. “They were hurting me so I left them by the door,” I said with a sigh, fanning my hair out behind me. “Shall we leave?” I asked with a saccharine smile. “Or are there any more secrets you wanna find?” My eyes slid to the door before him.

He stiffened. “I…I mean, are there more?” he asked, blinking at the door. “Secrets, I mean.”

Quietly, I peeked at the camera, crossing my arms and pleading with whatever higher power was out there that Vante was watching. I sighed and approached Jungkook, placing my hands on his shoulders and wheeling him around towards the aisle. I was careful to guide him away from the camera, praying that he wouldn’t notice it.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said, patting his back before leading the way back out to the floor. With a pang in my stomach, I realized that my note to Vante was gone and my keys remained.

“So he went snooping around?” asked Nara as I sat atop the front counter, my feet swaying. She carefully pried open one of the bunny cages and adjusted the water bottle with a huff. “Kinda suspicious.”

“Kinda?” I asked, shaking my head as I watched my sneakers bump the front of the counter. “It’s all…it’s all adding up to something really unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant is a nice way of putting it,” she said with a snort before turning her attention to the hamster cages, carefully refilling their food. “How can you be so casual about all of this? Isn’t it, like, pretty serious?”

I hummed a little and shrugged. “I mean…didn’t it all seem too good to be true from the start?” I asked, then laughed a little, surprised by how sad it sounded. “Why would a guy like him be interested in me anyway? I think it was only a matter of time anyway.”

Nara turned to me and rested a hand on her hip, brows knit as she scanned me. There was a tangible worry in her body language, and the way she looked at me made me feel like an animal on display. The daylight caught on her skin as it streamed through the pet shop windows, revealing tired bags beneath her eyes.

I sat upright and hopped off the counter, walking toward her with a pout. “Nara, are you sleeping?” I asked.

She scoffed and gave my shoulder a shove. “Your boyfriend might be using you to commit espionage and you’re worried about my sleep?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

I sighed and grabbed the strings of her apron which had come undone at the front. Carefully, I retied it. “You didn’t answer.”

She flitted her hand and shrugged, evading my gaze by pursing her lips and watching the bunnies play. “I might be spread a little thin lately with this class.”

“What class?”

“English lit,” she said with a sigh, stepping away to tend to a cage full of newly vaccinated puppies. She reached down and patted one on the head. “I’m slaving over this essay and my prof won’t give me an extension because of work.”

I furrowed my brow and crossed my arms. “Do you not have any time to finish it? Are you working too many hours?” I asked.

She tossed her head to the side and chuckled. “Y/N, please. I have a mom of my own, I don’t need you on my case too.”

I stiffened, glancing away, and rubbed the back of my head. “I’ll stop nagging.”

She hissed a little and shook her head. “Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have worded it that way,” she said, approaching and scanning my features softly.

I smiled. “It’s fine,” I said with a shrug. “Whatever love I may have missed out on, Dad gave me tenfold.” I laughed, ready to change the subject, when the front door bell dinged and both Nara and I stiffened to greet the customer.

A young guy, maybe mid-twenties, sauntered in. His eyes were sharp, glancing around the pet shop like he might find secrets hidden in the abundant potted plants or the pee pads set up in the corner. His demeanor was rather reserved, lips set in a thin line, dressed in all neutrals with a cap obscuring his face whenever he looked down. He didn’t seem like the type to visit a pet store of his own free will.

But as Nara approached, I realized this wasn’t his first time here. She grinned and stood beside him. “Hello again. It was…Yoongi, right?” she asked with a giggle. The man lifted his head and only met her eyes for a scant second before clearing his throat and glancing toward the tabby cats sitting behind a panel of glass. “What are you looking for today? If I remember correctly, last time you bought a food bowl?” she asked.

The man shook his head, edging away from her. Something about him was suspicious, but I kept my mouth shut and simply watched from afar. “Need food now,” he said curtly, his voice rough and low and distinctive.

Nara spared me a glance and wiggled her eyebrows from across the store. I chuckled as I slowly eased back against the counter, hands pressed behind me. “For that cat you mentioned? What have you been feeding it the past few days?” she asked. “You found it on the street, right?”

The man glanced at her curiously before clearing his throat and nodding. “Um, yeah,” he said, scanning the pets before wandering closer to me where the rows of pet foot were stacked.

We locked eyes for a moment and, after a tense few seconds, I looked away first. “What kind of cat was it again?” asked Nara, walking close behind him with her customer service grin pasted across her face.

He furrowed his brow and glanced at her. “What’s it matter?”

“Well,” she began, still smiling, “different cats need different diets. Some cat breeds require special diets and-,”

Nara began her speech about the importance of a specialized diet and both me and this Yoongi man visibly stopped focusing. The man ran his fingers along the fronts of several bags of cat food before grabbing one and, sliding past me, set it on the counter beside the cash register.

Nara paused her lecture and tilted her head to the side, eyes wide. “Oh! Will this one be okay? Are you sure you don’t want to go with-,”

“This one’s fine,” said the man, finally looking her in the eye. When he did, I realized why he’d been avoiding it this whole time. His pale skin went slightly reddish here and there and, before the blush could spread, he looked back to the food, letting his hat cover his face.

I smiled and stepped away, biting back a laugh. “A-alright then,” said Nara, the same charming dusting of pink on her cheeks as well.

I slouched over my painting, staring abysmally down at it as it stared equally abysmally back at me. Professor Jung patrolled like a shark, staring over our shoulders as we stared at our freshly dried paintings. It wasn’t like the thing was going to change the longer I stewed on it. But each time Professor Jung skulked by I painted myself as the dutiful student, pondering my piece with furrowed brows and quiet, contemplative exhales. Truthfully, it was still the same depressing, grey piece it had been days prior. Only now, there was a horrible dash of yellow glaring up at me. The forms were jumbled, blending into one another. The colors were boring. The technique was tactless to say the least.

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “So? What do you guys think now that you’ve has a few days to sleep on your pieces?” asked Professor Jung with a clap of his hands.

I jumped a little and lifted my eyes to meet his at the front of the classroom. “Illuminating,” offered one student with a snicker, to which Professor Jung simply leveled his eyes with the kid and cocked a brow.

“Taking time to rest and think on a piece of art can help you all become better artists. Things tend to come into perspective once we take a step back,” he said, nodding.

I stiffened, eyes wide, and stared at my professor for a long moment. Was that the key after all? “I still think mine looks like an elephant,” mumbled a girl beside me to her friend, to which the friend giggled behind her hand.

Across the room, Taehyung caught my eyes. How long had he been watching me anyway? The two of us locked gazes and neither made a move to smile or wave. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt like I’d been caught doing something naughty. I felt my cheeks flush under his intense scrutiny, and even across the room I could feel the intensity of his eyes on me. His brow was set low, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, jaw set staunch and shoulders slumped. Today he didn’t look quite so put together. He looked as if perhaps he hadn’t slept well, and he hadn’t had the time to meticulously craft an interesting ensemble, sitting instead in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans that exposed the muscles of his knees. Like the ones Jungkook liked to wear.

I cleared my throat and glanced away, eyes falling to his painting as it sat on the table. It looked pretty from far away, some delicate landscape of thick trees and a distant cabin, but I couldn’t look for long because as Professor Jung monologued, I noticed something peculiar.

Taehyung’s sweatshirt wasn’t just some Hanes throwaway.

It was Givenchy.

My brows knit as I stared at the logo emblazoned across his chest. He didn’t seem like the type to seek out high-end brands, and being a student I’d naturally assumed he, like me, was broke to the bone. But the longer I looked the more curious it became. Not only was his sweatshirt name brand, but it looked like his shoes were authentic Doc Martens. Even his pants seemed like they were made of high-quality denim.

Before I knew it, class was dismissed and to my surprise, students began gathering their things to leave. Startled, I jumped out of my seat and collected my belongings, struggling to hold my canvas without dropping my backpack or my cold cup of coffee.

I huffed a little with the effort, but I had little time to lament my frustrations because before I could even react, my painting was snatched away from me. “Hey-,” I began, but stopped short when I realized it was Taehyung towering over me, a soft smile on his face that didn’t quite touch his eyes. In his hands were both our paintings. “Taehyung,” I breathed with a grin.

He nudged me gently with the corner of his canvas and jerked his head toward the exit. “Looked like you were struggling.”

I chuckled and ran my fingers through my hair. “You could say that,” I said, sighing.

The two of us set off down the hallway, our arms brushing now and then. “What have you been up to these days?” he asked.

“It hasn’t been that long since we argued about What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim,” I countered with a grin, eyeing him sidelong.

He smiled back at me, but again it was a halfway smile. The kind you give when you’re holding something in. “Long enough for something to have changed,” he said, jerking both our canvases up against his side to avoid accidentally smacking a passerby.

I pursed my lips and thought a moment. Had anything changed? Jungkook was still acting like himself, whoever that really was. After catching him in the act, I figured perhaps I’d have had the courage to confront him about it. But reality was endlessly disappointing. Every time I saw his name light up my phone, I was filled with something cold and restless. Something that demanded to be addressed. But all I could do in the end was read and cherish his every word and respond with a heart.

I was pretty pathetic, wasn’t I?

“Nothing,” I said with a nod, picking at the cuticles on my free hand. I took a sip of coffee, and found it displeasingly chilled. “Nothing’s changed.”

Taehyung glanced down at me and scanned my face. I glanced away down the hallway with a sigh. “You know-,”

“Forget it,” I said, waving my hands. My coffee sloshed coldly against the paper cup and with a sigh I carefully tossed the thing into the closest trash can. I turned to Taehyung with a wide smile. “Let’s do something, hm? I’ve got some things I wanna forget about and you seem like a good distraction.”

His brows lifted and he stared at me with round eyes. “Do something?”

I nodded, snatching my painting from beneath his arm and holding it close. I smiled. “I’ll take you to my happy place,” I said, laughing.

“Hey, Mr. Kim!” I called as I guided Taehyung past a few courtyard benches.

The ground was slightly uneven, and the footpath below us was overgrown with thin plants. Easy to trip on, and I’d know. Past the stone archways, we entered the cafe. Mr. Kim sat with a big smile behind the counter, his head in his hand as we entered. I waved and gently sat my painting beside a stool by the bar, hopping up and sitting down as Taehyung followed suit. I watched Taehyung’s eyes flit over the paper lanterns hanging on strings overhead, touch upon the old brick wall hosting hundreds of polaroids of friends and patrons, the many potted plants, the delicate yellow flowers beside us. The place was warm as ever and cozier than usual. Patrons milled about the large bookcases or sat quietly gazing out at the busy Hongdae street. I shucked off my jacket and slung it over the back of my stool.

Mr. Kim, a weathered man with a big heart, grinned as he began working on my drink, not even sparing a moment to ask what I wanted. “Who’s this?” he asked, eyeing Taehyung over the coffee maker. “Not the boyfriend Nara showed me.”

Taehyung stiffened and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could I laughed and shook my head. “He’s a friend,” I said, resting my cheek in my palm with a smile. “Last time we hung out, we went to that coffee chain on campus.” I stuck out my tongue in mock disgust.

Taehyung’s eyes went wide. “Was the coffee bad?” he asked, real concern in his expression.

I laughed and patted his arm, but retracted my hand as his cheeks went pink. “No, it’s not that,” I said, grinning at Mr. Kim. “Just that this place has the best coffee.”

“What is this place?” asked Taehyung with a wondrous look around.

Mr. Kim slid my coffee in front of me before beginning work on Taehyung’s. “It’s called Nunchi,” I said quietly, watching Mr. Kim as he worked carefully. He’d entered the zone: that perfect space where all his focus was on his task. Nara and I used to take advantage of this zone often as kids. “You know what nunchi is?”

He nodded, entranced by Mr. Kim’s capable movements like I was. “When someone is really good at reading other people’s emotions. Like…being in touch with what other people are feeling without speaking and reacting well to it.”

“At least you know,” teased Mr. Kim with a wink my way. “Miss Y/N is still working on her nunchi.”

I gaped, patting my chest. “Hey! I have excellent nunchi!” I said, wagging my finger at Mr. Kim.

“Your dad has excellent nunchi,” Mr. Kim said with a loud laugh, the one that came from his gut like a shout. “Anyhow, here at the shop we know what you need even when you don’t know it yourself.”

Taehyung jumped a little before glancing at me out the corner of his eye and offering a smile. “So you know each other well?” he asked.

I nodded with a soft chuckle. “Too well,” I joked. “He’s my best friend’s dad.”

“And your dad’s business partner,” said Mr. Kim, raising his brows.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, sighing. “My dad lives out on a ranch. What he harvests, he sends here for their seasonal menus.”

Taehyung stared at me with wide eyes. “I didn’t know you weren’t from Seoul.”

I laughed, patting his shoulder. “How could you? We only just met.”

Taehyung’s expression faltered for half a second before he laughed and nodded, rubbing the back of his neck gently. “You’re right,” he said. Mr. Kim slid him a cup on a white platter and took a step back with crossed arms. “What’s this?” he asked before taking a sip, eyeing Mr. Kim over his glasses. He placed both hands around the coffee cup.

“It’s a latte,” he said, chuckling. “Caramel latte, not too bitter. Outsourced beans so it’s pretty nutty.”

“Nutty?” asked Taehyung, turning to me.

I laughed. “It’s the aroma,” I said, cupping my hands around Taehyung’s and bringing the coffee up to his nose. “Take a whiff.”

His eyes fluttered a little before shutting, brows furrowing as he inhaled through his nostrils. “Mm,” he breathed, nodding once before lowering our hands. I grabbed my own drink and took a sip. “I could smell it.”

I nodded, sighing into my drink. “Of course you could,” I said with a smile at Mr. Kim. “Because our barista is a master.”

Mr. Kim tipped his baseball cap and laughed. “I’ll fix you two a snack,” he said, walking easily into the small adjacent kitchen.

I sipped my drink quietly, watching the coffee swirl around the glass. “So what’s your drink?” asked Taehyung, turning to me with a gentle smile, his chin in his hand.

I slid it to him to sip. “Antoccino,” I said.

He pulled a sour face as he took a drink before politely pushing the saucer back to me. “Bitter,” he said.

I laughed, pensive as I took another drink. “It’s half milk and half espresso. I figured you’d hate it.”

“So that’s why it’s called Nunchi,” he said with a knowing nod. “He knows what we want.”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. I wished I could say the same about myself. Perhaps Mr. Kim was right. Perhaps my nunchi wasn’t quite as good as I thought it was. “Hey, uh…thanks for coming out with me today,” I said, running my fingertip along the rim of my glass.

Taehyung visibly went stiff before coughing a little, passing it off as a laugh. “Um, no. It-it’s fine. Honestly, I’m happy you invited me,” he said.

I peeked up at him and smiled a little. “You seem like a very nice person,” I said, thinking back to that day at the gallery. How suspicious I’d been. Looking at him now, taking quiet little drinks of his latte like a cat, it was hard to believe I’d ever thought he was capable of being underhanded. “I’m sure you have more important things to do,” I said with a nod.

Taehyung jumped slightly and stared at me. “What? No! There’s nothing,” he said.

I chuckled and nodded. “It’s okay,” I said, surprised by the somberness in my voice. “Forget I said anything.”

Taehyung was quiet for a long moment, each of us staring at our coffees without uttering a word. “Are you doing okay?” he asked finally, his voice soft like a whisper.

I swallowed hard and smiled, unable to meet his eyes. “Mhm,” I said. “Sorry. I asked you to come out and forget the bad stuff, and here I am throwing a pity party.” I turned to him with a smile. “I think I’m okay. And…well, if I’m not then I will be soon.”

His eyes were dark and troubled. He kept opening and closing his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Like he couldn’t find the right thing to say, or perhaps there were too many things to say that he couldn’t pick one. He sighed and rubbed his nose bridge before lifting his eyes and offering a barely-there smile.

“There’s always gonna be something to make you sad,” he said with a nod. “That’s life.”

“You’re right,” I said, forcing a smile. I suspected he meant to be comforting, but the words hung in the air like dead weight and settled uneasily on my chest.

He shook his head. “No, that’s not it,” he said, grabbing my arm. I stiffened, turning wide eyes toward Taehyung as he stumbled over his words. “I-I’m not very good at this, but…what I mean is that we can’t control all the bad shit that happens to us, but we can control how we react to it. We don’t always have power over life, but we always have power over ourselves.”

I furrowed my brow and stared at him, puzzled. “But what if it’s something really serious? Something you desperately need to get to the bottom of but can’t?”

He released my arm and turned back to his latte, blinking at it as he took another sip. He peeked at me out the corner of his eyes. “Well then you’ve got a choice to make,” he said carefully, eyes sliding back to his drink. His lashes brushed the apples of his cheeks and, sitting just like that with a quiet thoughtfulness to him, I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed handsomer than usual. “Are you gonna let the fear of the unknown consume you?” he asked, then lifted his eyes to meet mine. “Or are you gonna take back your power?”

My heart raced as our gazes locked. There passed a moment of profound understanding. Like neither of us needed to explain ourselves to know what the other had meant. Like he knew without knowing what I needed to hear. I pressed my lips thin and set my jaw.

Before I could respond, Mr. Kim returned with some cheesecake, two forks, and a big welcoming smile. Taehyung and I both smiled our thanks and wordlessly took a bite.

Jungkook and I sat quietly in his apartment, lounging on his couch as a crime documentary droned on his television. The evening outside was cold and brisk, but inside nestled beneath several layers of blankets, I was toasty warm. Every now and again, Jungkook’s fingers would brush against mine beneath the covers like he was trying to initiate physical touch and, on impulse, I’d jerk away. I only removed my eyes from the screen to check my phone once in a while, sneaking covert glances around the small living room for clues as I did.

I was trying my best, but every second I sat beside him was a second that felt like forgery. Each time his tender eyes would wash over my face, I’d feel a tickle in my stomach that I couldn’t ignore.

If only reclaiming my power was easier.

At around six, relief finally arrived in the form of Kim Seokjin.

“Hello, children. Papa’s home!” he called, slamming the front door open with a big, powerful laugh. He tossed the plastic grocery bags aside on the tiled kitchen counter and throw his arms out wide.

Laughing, I hopped out from beneath the blankets and rushed him like a football player, colliding against his chest with a thud that stole his breath. He sputtered a little as he patted my back, Jungkook chuckling from the couch. I pulled myself away to give the older boy a proper once-over. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen him, but every time he came around he seemed goofier than before. Now he stood above me with a big grin and wiggling eyebrows. There was mischief in his dark irises.

Carefully, I took a step back and crossed my arms, peering at him. “What are you plotting?” I asked, cocking a brow. God, if only it were that easy to interrogate Jungkook.

Seokjin clapped a hand to his chest and gaped, wide-eyed. “I am hurt!” he called, staggering back against the counter with more than a little theatrics. “My roommate’s girlfriend doesn’t even trust me!”

Your roommate’s girlfriend doesn’t trust your roommate either, I thought with a scowl. “What’s in the bag, Jin?” Jungkook asked, suddenly at my side with an arm draped over my shoulders.

I peeked up at him, the skin of my neck warm where his cheek touched it. Seokjin smirked and opened one of the plastic bags, beckoning us to look inside. Underneath the yellow glow of their fluorescent kitchen lights, several six-packs of cheap beer lay atop one another, some half-toppled over on their sides.

I laughed and shook my head. “You two can feel free to get shitfaced on a weekday, but I’ve got class tomorrow morning.”

“It’s a Thursday,” said Seokjin, rolling his eyes. “Barely a weekday.”

“Don’t you two have work or something?” I asked, crossing my arms and bowing out from underneath Jungkook’s embrace.

Jungkook’s back stiffened and he turned to me. “Why do you ask?” he said, something guarded in his eyes, something not quite trusting.

Wait…

Was he suspicious of me now?

I might’ve laughed if it wasn’t so alarming. I furrowed my brow and gestured toward the drinks. “You hate being hungover at work,” I said, recalling what felt like an ancient conversation between the two of us early in our relationship after a night of barbecue and shots.

His expression softened and he puffed out an uneasy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Just…uh, felt like you were scolding me.”

I matched his laugh with one of my own before clearing my throat and grabbing for a can of beer, yanking it from the plastic. It was lukewarm, probably disgusting, and definitely a bad idea. But the evening had yielded no new information, and Jungkook wouldn’t let me out of his sight. No matter how much I scanned the apartment under his watchful eye, I couldn’t find anything that would help me figure out what was going on.

And besides, what if drinking loosened Jungkook up enough to spill something on accident?

I cracked it open and tipped the cool tin can against my lips, guiding the acrid beer down my throat with an unpleasant frown. I hissed as I finished my swig and winced a little. I’d almost forgotten how much I hated beer.

But it had been worth something at least. Because as I gingerly nursed my second sip of beer, Jungkook grabbed for a can of his own. Without thinking, I reached my drink out to touch the rim of his before locking eyes with him. Of course, he was infuriatingly handsome. Dark eyes with an innocently cocked brow, a smirk on his lips revealing perfect teeth, soft hair that bounced a little the two of us took a drink together.

But in that smirk, I knew he held secrets.

And it was time I started revealing them.

“On my life, I would!” called Seokjin from the floor, already plastered from the looks of it and from the volume of his voice.

Jungkook and I sat leaning against one another on the couch, laughing. “You would not pass up a date with Hyolyn just to be on Law of the Jungle!”

“You wouldn’t last!” I exclaimed in tandem.

Seokjin shook his head, eyes shut, stubborn and drunk as a skunk. And from the way Jungkook was leaning against my shoulder, he was pretty far gone himself. “I would do fine,” protested Jin with a nod, eyes still shut.

Jungkook took a moment to wipe beneath his eyes before turning to me with a dopey grin. “Alright, Y/N. Your turn,” he said.

Suddenly, Seokjin’s eyes were open and focused on me. He sat upright and looked at me seriously. “Y/N,” began Jin with a cough. “Would you rather find out who Vante is but lose your job, or never know who he really is but work for the Gallery forever?”

I stiffened, brows furrowed, and crossed my arms. It was a horribly pointed question, and I wasn’t drunk enough to take is innocent. “I’d rather never know,” I said with a decisive nod.

Jungkook went still beside me, but his eyes remained trained on my face. He seemed much soberer now, much more focused. “But doesn’t it make you crazy? Being so close to him but not knowing who he is?” he asked.

I blinked and edged away from Jungkook’s side, watching my lap. “If he’s hiding, there’s a reason,” I said with a nod.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Jungkook, his tone revealing a longtime frustration. As if he was finally scratching the surface of an issue that had bothered him a long time. Out the corner of my eye, I saw him cross his arms.

“What if he’s really creepy?” asked Seokjin, eyeing me carefully from the rug.

I shook my head. “I trust him.”

“You’re naive.” I expected Jin to respond, but the words came from Jungkook who by then was staring into the middle distance as if I’d really upset him.

I scoffed and turned to him. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but something in me was burning. “Vante has been nothing but kind and supportive to me, and he’s been a part of my life longer than you have,” I said with a sigh. I turned back to Seokjin. “Watch what you say,” I said, looking them both in the eye.

Before either of them could speak, my phone began buzzing in my pocket and I jumped. Nara’s name lit up my screen and without a moment’s hesitation, I unlocked it and pressed it to my ear.

“Y/N!” she called, audibly relieved.

I raised my brows. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Ugh, it’s Hyun,” she whined into the receiver.

I sat upright and furrowed my brows. “Your dog?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.

“Yeah, he-,”

“Hold on,” I said, shaking my head.

I glanced around the room as Nara audibly shuffled on the other end. The air was no good in here, stagnant and awkward after my outburst. Not to mention the way both boys seemed to hang on my every word like they were hungering for more. I needed to get out of there, get some fresh air, clear my head. Restless, I stood to my feet and turned to Jungkook, gesturing with my hands to the front door. He feigned a smile and nodded as I shuffled out into the outdoor hallway, bracing the cold with a shiver.

Something wasn’t sitting right with me. If Seokjin was the one who asked the question about Vante to begin with, did that mean he was in on this too? And what about the alcohol?

Had it all been planned from the start?

“Sorry, I’m at Jungkook’s,” I said with a sigh, gripping the bridge of my nose as a headache began to take hold.

Nara was quiet for a moment. “How…is that going?”

“Not well.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, somber.

I shrugged, but I felt my posture go rigid. I cleared my throat. “It’s fine. Anyway, what about Hyun?”

She groaned. “Well I agreed to do a group workshop for the paper I’ve been talking about, but I realized I forgot to put food in Hyun’s bowl. I don’t know when I’ll be home and I’m at the library right now and I’m just kinda worried about-,”

“Nara,” I interrupted with a laugh. “Breathe.”

She inhaled and exhaled before coughing a little. Was she getting sick? “Sorry. Um…I know it’s shitty, but if you could just swing by my apartment and fill his bowl I’d owe you my life.”

I thought a moment, watching my knees as the buckled slightly in the chill. Vante wasn’t wrong when he chastised me for being a pushover. And with evidence still possibly lingering in Jungkook’s apartment, and a new accomplice to think about, I wasn’t sure I should be so hasty leaving. But the longer I stayed, the worse things became and I hadn’t found anything useful yet. What made me assume I’d find anything now?

And besides, it was Nara.

I sighed. “Yeah, uh I can be there in fifteen,” I said, glancing out into the blistery night.

“Ugh, you’re a life saver! Seriously,” she said, her voice going distant on the phone.

“Don’t mention it,” I said with a smile.

“Love you!”

“Love you too,” I said as the line disconnected.

I rubbed my arms and slid my phone back into the pocket of my jeans. My face was hot from drinking and my body felt exhausted after a week of work and classes. I wanted to find someplace to collapse and take a nap, but something told me that I wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.

I stretched my torso a little before walking back inside the apartment. But, to my surprise, there was no bickering between Jungkook and Jin, no witty banter, no pillows being thrown across coffee tables. Instead, there was just the steady drone of the TV and the absence of both boys. I scanned the kitchen, then the living room. Nothing.

Perhaps this was my opportunity…

“Newcomer Ori Technologies is hosting a charity banquet next month to celebrate their first year in operation, and it’s rumored many big names will be in attendance. To name a few-,” said the newscaster on the television as I quickly shut it off. Odd, I was certain we were watching MNet when I left the apartment.

Carefully, I crept around the room in search of something, anything, that might give me answers. But everything was as normal as it had always been: monochromatic paintings on the walls, potted plants sitting half-dead in the corners, pillows sitting slumped against the backs of the couches. There was nothing new to be seen here.

But in the silence, I could hear the dull, muffled back-and-forth of conversation. As silently as I could, I poked my head down the hallway and strained to listen. I could only make out faint words like Gallery and trying, but most of what was said was entirely unintelligible to me. I suspected Jungkook and Seokjin had stolen away down the hall to hide in the computer room. Jungkook took great pains to make that room soundproof so he could play games in peace, so their discussion had to be pretty loud if I could hear it.

An idea came to me that had my nerves jittering. Beside the computer room was a room I seldom entered. I’d only been in once, and it was under Jungkook’s supervision the first time I’d visited the apartment.

Seokjin’s room.

If he was indeed involved in this whole mystery, perhaps it was time to change my focus. Silently, I approached the door and slipped inside the chilly, pitch-black bedroom. I steeled myself with a deep breath, my forehead pressed against the door separating me from being caught. Who knew what would happen if they found me snooping around? Who knew if I had any reason to suspect Seokjin? I was certain that if they found me, I’d be cooked one way or another.

And if Jungkook disappeared, then I’d never know the truth.

Somehow, that unsettled me more than anything.

I nodded and summoned my courage to flick on the light. Suddenly, the darkness gave way to light grey wallpaper and collages of photos on bulletin boards. The room was sleek and clean, and the walls were decorated with sentimental pictures of Seokjin and people I didn’t recognize. A few photos featured Jungkook, but again they were surrounded by unknown faces. I scanned them for a moment before dropping my eyes to Seokjin’s work desk.

Atop the white lacquered wood was an expensive computer and not much else. I sucked in my breath and leaned down before it, running my fingers along the drawer. I couldn’t afford to waste much time, my ears hypersensitive to any noises coming from the hallway. I pried open the drawer and stared into it with wide, eager eyes.

Sitting at the bottom were several notebooks and one manila folder. The conversation from outside seemed to be quieting down, and my nerves were on fire. Without thinking, I yanked the manila folder out from inside and opened it on the floor beside Seokjin’s desk chair.

My heart skipped a beat.

Inside the folder were dozens of legal documents. I shook my head and fingered through them. They all seemed to be public records, transactions, contracts, things relating to business. Perplexed, I flipped to the final page in the thick pile.

And there it was.

Vante’s elegant, distinctive signature at the bottom of a document I didn’t recognize. And, right beside it, a name I could only vaguely place.

Kim Namjoon.

[leo-lucid]

Bewitching Which Monster Chapter 1: The Home

The road to my new home was bumpy and long. I looked out the window from my cab and watched the trees go by. I smiled a little as I saw the wind start to blow up the colorful leaves that were lying on the dirt road. They swirled around within the air and landed on the back on the ground behind us. Oh yeah, I could totally find myself living here and practicing my magic for a while.

"So, what brings you all the way down here? Young women tend to go off to the big cities, not small towns with nothing but forest for miles." My driver tried to make conversation. I settled back into my seat and looked at her through the mirror.

"I inherited the mansion up this road. My grandparents left it to me in their will and I have been looking for a more secluded place surrounded by nature. It may help me work more productively and it's peaceful up here. I have a greater chance of finding what I'm looking for here too." I explained.

The driver kept glancing back and forth between me and the road. "So, you're their granddaughter, Anise Devane. They talked about you fondly whenever we met in the town festivals. I'm so sorry about your grandparents. What are you looking for exactly?"

I returned my attention back to the trees. "A plot of land to grow herbs and plants. And to grow as a person myself." I answered as honestly as I could. I couldn't tell her that I was a witch and I was going to plant plants for my magical practices. We witches are a lot more free to practice than we were many years ago but it was still a little bit of a taboo topic to talk about with normal humans.

"Well, you'll definitely find peace and quiet up here. Welcome to Hazelview. Small town, small people and a whole lotta nature. You'll fit right in in no time." She chiperily described. "Here we are!"

I looked out the front windshield to see the small mansion my grandparents have left for me. The foliage was covering a majority of the grey shingles and the curtains in the window were drawn back. The steel gate would've looked menacing if it weren't for the flourishing vines wrapping all around the bars. I remembered this old house. So many memories. Even if the mansion was huge for one person alone and secluded in the woods, it still looked warm and welcoming.

The taxi driver pulled into the white gravel driveway and stopped the car. I got out and looked up at my new home. The driver opened the trunk and started to unload my luggage for me. "Here you go, sweetie. Hopefully, your moving truck will arrive before you run out of clothes to wear."

"Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?" I asked as I reached for my wallet in my back pocket.

"Nah, free of charge. You're one of us town folk now. If you ever need a lift, just give me a call. See ya later, neighbor." She declined, finished unloading the trunk and sped away before I could insist or even say thanks.

I grabbed my bags from the ground and began to drag them inside the house.I pushed the gate open with my shoulder and made my way to the large, oak door. I put my bag down on the porch and fished around my pocket for the key.

The door swung open slowly once I unlocked it, creating a loud squeaking noise. I made a mental note to fix that soon.

The house was a bit dusty and there was a lot of furniture that was left behind. The wood would need to be shined again and the walls would probably have to get a new coat of paint. The house was on the older side, dating back a good century or so. It's had a lot of work done since when it was first built. It was always known as the Devane house. Always have and always will be.

I went up one of the staircases that elegantly curved towards the wall. As I walked up, I could see all the old pictures that decorated the wall. There were old, antique pictures of my grandparents, the generations before them and the generations after. At the very top of the stairs I could see my moms at their wedding and a few more family photos including me.

I finished looking at the pictures and headed to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Upon opening the master bedroom, I noticed that the room was incredibly dusty. If I was going to sleep in the room for the night I would have to clean up a little and get some fresh air in.

I settled my luggage on the king sized bed and went to open the window. It took a bit of strength but I was eventually able to get it open. The room already started to feel a lot better. But if this one room was like this then the others must be in the same condition.

Instead of unpacking immediately and resting, I went downstairs to find the broom closet. I grabbed a clean rag and some polisher to start clearing away the dust. I traveled from room to room, opening windows and rubbing down the old furniture. To my surprise, a bunch of rooms were pretty decent. They weren't as dusty as I expected.

In fact, the bedrooms almost seemed recently lived in.

I shrugged it off, remembering that my grandparents would occasionally run a bed and breakfast out of their home for extra money. They must've cleaned the guest rooms last before they passed away. As my grandparents got older they began to sleep in smaller, separate beds. It would explain why the master bedroom was so bad.

I continued to make my way through the house, dusting and cleaning anything I could reach and opening windows to air out the house.

The house creaked slightly with each step and sometimes it did it by itself. I knew it was an old house but it almost sounded like someone else was living here still.

Again, it was probably just nothing. It didn't stop me from being a bit nervous though.

The entire house was mostly dust free and promised that I could rest easy tonight without suffocating. While I was cleaning the house I found my grandmother's Witch Room. She left a bunch of mason jars with herbs, plants that were slowly dying in their pots, and other materials scattered around like crystals and feathers and inks.

I went back to that room and looked through the scattered papers along the floors and shelves. They were all in Irish Gaelic with little English words scattered here and there. Old sketches flooded the papers as well.

I gathered them all up and stacked them on top of the wooden table. I promised myself to check them out later after I got settled into the house. It was getting late and I haven't eaten since the morning. I had to call my moms too to let them know I was safe.

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I called up a pizza place to order something quick. I was told that my mushroom and bacon pizza will be ready and delivered in less than thirty minutes. After thanking the person who took my order, I sat down at the family dining table on the first floor to Facetime my moms.

It only took about two rings before they picked up. My mom's red, frizzy hair was in a sloppy bun and she was wearing a black tank top covered in dirt. She probably started cleaning the house as soon as I left. She tended to clean when she was stressed, nervous or worried.

Her cool, ocean blue eyes lit up through the screen as she saw that I was perfectly safe and managed to make it to the mansion. "Hi, Ani! Oh, Olivia! Honey, Anise is on the phone!"

I could hear my ma run towards mom, excited to finally see me after waiting for me to get here. Her face appeared next to mom's, almost pushing her out of view. Her walnut wood skin was covered in sweat and showed signs of being slightly sun-burnt. She was most likely working in the garden before I called. "Anise! Oh my gods you're alive!"

"Yeah, Ma. I didn't die on the way here. Thank you for worrying about me. Once I got here I cleaned up some of the dust and opened the windows to circulate the air." I joked and explained.

"My baby is growing up! I already miss seeing her freckles that are scattered across her nose and cute cheeks, Avery!" Ma exclaimed to Mom, talking about me like I wasn't listening.

Mom pushed her away so she could have some camera time. "Don't you think I'm gonna miss her asking me to help dye her hair dark purple? I miss our baby too, ya know! Anyways, Ani, make sure you call us whenever something goes wrong, okay? Your ma and I love you very much and we want to help you get used to living on your own."

"I'll send you some boxes of purple hair dye, herbs, books, and cookies every month, Ani. If you need anything else that you can't afford on your own just call us and we'll send it over." Ma continued, her smoky quartz eyes tearing up.

I gave a small giggle and smiled. "Got it, ma. I'll be fine. I'm nineteen for crying out loud! I can take care of myself so there's no need to worry."

Mom frowned. "Of course we're gonna worry! We're your moms!"

The doorbell suddenly rang and I hovered my finger over the hang up button. "My pizza is here. Gotta go! I'll call you guys when the moving truck and handyman gets here. Love you!"

"Love you too, sweetie! Enjoy your pizza." They said goodbye. I hung up and went to answer the door.

I paid for the pizza and tipped the delivery guy. As soon as they left I close the creaky door and headed to one of the living rooms to watch some television. My grandparents should've had Netflix on all of the televisions as an app since guests would've most likely requested some modern media.

Turning on the TV, I sat down on a dusty, pink rose couch and tried to enjoy my pizza and Earth documentary. Most people my age weren't really in to documentaries, but I personally found them fascinating. It was like reading a nonfiction book but much quicker and much more entertaining.

Due to me watching mainly documentaries, my brain is filled with all sorts of facts from science to history and anything in between. It definitely made high school a breeze for me. It also helped convince my moms to let me take online college classes instead of going to an actual college.

An hour later, the cities episode ended and my pizza was completely gone. I checked the time and saw that it was 7:00 pm. Like the responsible adult I was, I got up, cleaned my mess and went to get ready for bed.

I decided to inspect the master bathroom before stripping down and using it. It would've been terrible if I noticed mold or spiders while I was bathing. To my astonishment, the bathroom was perfectly polished and cleaned. The marble counter was clear and dust-free, the shower was sparkling as well as the freestanding, claw-foot tub and even the towels seemed fresh.

Perhaps my grandparents still preferred to use the master bathroom?

I grabbed my bath essentials and began to draw up a bath. While the tub filled up with warm water, I put some music on from my phone. The sound echoed through the massive bathroom, almost drowning out the sound of the running rush of water from the faucet.

With a little bit of bubbles, some candles and crystals and some rose petals that I packed with me, I was ready to relax.

I slid right in and adored the quiet time I was able to have. There weren't a lot of opportunities to relax like this back when I lived with my moms. But now I was able to take a bath like this whenever I wished.

Just as I poured some lavender shampoo into my hand, there was a loud creak and footsteps from outside the bathroom door.

My heart sped up, my breathing stopped and I froze. There was no way that that was just the wind or the house settling. Unless I was going crazy, that was a stranger.

I stopped the music on my phone and sat in the bath in silence. I wasn't a particularly brave person so taking the time to muster up some courage to see if there was an intruder was necessary for me. With a few deep breaths and a reassuring nod to myself, I got up and grabbed a towel to cover myself with and began to check out the noise.

I opened the door very slowly and peered out. It didn't seem like anyone was in the bedroom and there was no evidence that anything was tampered with. I opened the door wider and noticed something on the wooden floor in front of me.

Bending over, I picked it up and held it in my hands. It was brown fur.

It suddenly hit me. During the few times I visited my grandparents I noticed that a few stray cats would occasionally roam around the property. Most of the windows from when I opened them up were still open. One of the cats must've found their way in and began to explore the mansion.

It was possible that the cat stepped in a particularly creaking spot in the floor and scared itself, causing it to run away. I knew that I would get freaked out if I heard a foreign sound seemingly coming from nowhere.

Hopefully, the cat would find its way outside without me intervening. The last thing I would want is to scare the poor thing with my presence.

I shrugged and went back to my bath. I wasn't able to enjoy it like I first did but it was still kinda pleasant. My time bathing was over within several minutes and I drained the tub. The only thing I packed as pajamas was an over-sized shirt that said "Inconceivable!"

Within a few minutes, my teeth were brushed and my purple hair was let loose from being in a tight bun all day. I changed the sheets on my bed with fresh ones I found from a linen closet. I made sure that all the windows were closed and all of the doors were locked before getting into bed.

Man, I was so tired. It's been a long day and I still had a long list of things to do. The moving guys and handyman were supposed to show up sometime tomorrow, I had to do some grocery shopping and budgeting, clean some more of the mansion and more.

It was best to get some sleep and be ready for all of that in the morning.

I rolled on to my side to find a more comfortable sleeping position and shut my eyes. Before I could fall asleep, I could feel the bed dip from extra weight and a body hovering over me. I snapped my eyes open and looked up to see a strange man with deep red eyes and white fangs inches away from my face. I couldn't help but scream.

"AHH!"

[cinnaminsvga]

ok so i've been really overworking my 1 brain cell to try and figure this out, but i got some theories by rereading your cryptic comments and the story over like a million times. 1) I don't think either V or Jimin are posting the pics nor comments because Jimin said all this shit about 'oh we can't date cus of the industry', plus he recently said their manager has been pushing them to get together. So, mayhaps its their company that's posting it to push the idea of them being together? (Part 1)

[damn so this anon literally fucking goes OFF so imma,,, put their dissertation paper under the cut,,, find my answer/opinion/reaction at the end of this essay lmfao,,, but really, this anon makes a lot of good points so i encourage you to read it if you want any ideas/theories for this au!!]

[cont.] And they might have also made the instagram account? H m. That leads me to my second point which is 2) V is love with Jimin, but Jimin isn’t in love with V. He cares about him but in a messed up way where he kinda just wants to ‘control’ V mainly because of how he got mad when V wasn’t blindly following what he was saying involving Y/N. Plus he just said 'its a win win for me’ maybe cus V’s listening to him AND their company is all for it, so he might be playin it up for that clout?? (Part 2)

[cont.] AND THEN THE SNAKE 3)I narrowed it down to jin, hoseok, and namjoon. It can’t be hoseok cus he’s shown in the texts he at least has some empathy, he’s just chaotic. Then there’s Jin who is looking v suspicious bc he knows EVERYTHING, seems to just in general have a lack of care for ppl, but I dont think its him? He also has shown the tiniest bit of empathy but he might just be being manipulative, idk. Yet he also reminds me of Jin from the TLHC Au, so I think I can kinda trust him?? (Part 3)

[cont.] WHICH LEAVES NAMJOON who I think is the tru snake bc of all his weird interest in Vmin which Jimin even called out as weird. Then there’s the point where he said he didnt know Y/N and Tae were dating, and said he forgets he has irl friends. Then there’s that advice he gave Jungkook which seems nice but it may be a lil too nice by him saying 'its up to them uwu’ KNOWIN TAE IS IN LOVE WITH JIMIN AND GETTIN HIM TO MAKE UP WITH JIMIN WOULD PROBABLY MAKE Y/N AND TAE’S RELATIONSHIP F A I L. (Part 4)

[cont.] I feel like he also abuses the fact Jungkook is in love with him, saying he been knew he loved him, using him possibly for vmin stuff, ect. It’s also rly weird that he has such an obvious thirst for them and their relationship, which JK is maybe too whipped to see past? Then, recently, hes been apparently goin to his geek club and askin Y/N for favors, so hM where’s he at huh?m?Thats why I feel like Jk’s lie involves him saying joon and him cared? (Part 5)

UGH this is such a good analysis… very well done!! i won’t say which parts are right or wrong, but you definitely have sound evidence!! you paid attention to details most people would look over (ex: namjoon’s odd fascination with vmin and how even jimin is weirded out by it; jimin talking about his manager; etc.) and i’m just!! wow anon this message made me so happy because it shows that you guys really read my aus. GOD i feel like im in one of my english lit classes uwu this is super great!! 10/10 A+ you’re summa cum laude my dude!!