#i suddenly got this idea when i was doing an essay for our science class lol | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mypoisonedvine · 4 years ago

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𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖈𝖊 I || professor!helmut zemo x reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 : history is so much more interesting when he’s teaching it. you’d better be careful before the two of you end up with a history of your own.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 : 6k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 : smut (incl. semi-public sex in an office and oral f receiving), significant age gap (reader is 20, zemo is 39; it isn’t actually mentioned though but it comes up in the next part), the slightest bit of angst?, nearly pwp at this point lol

You wouldn’t know it by the way you were enraptured with his lecture, but you weren’t even a history major.

Quite far from it, really, well outside of the college of liberal arts, and yet here you were in the front row, watching him gesture over a large map of Western Europe while he explained the sociocultural impacts of the Treaty of Versailles.

It was probably pretty obvious why you took such interest in all this, though. After all, you were the only one who dressed as well as he did, your blazers and skirts and loafers standing out amongst a sea of hoodies and sweats and flip-flops; and, you were the only one who paid close attention and yet never seemed to be taking any notes…

Why would you, after all? Looking away to write in your notebook would mean missing out on all the fun, and unfortunately you had found that when you copied down the words he spoke, his accent was not retained in writing.

Some kid in the back of the class had asked about his accent the first day; you thought it was kind of a rude question, if you were being honest, but he didn’t seem to mind too much (if perhaps a bit surprised that anyone cared). He explained he was from a small country called Sokovia, but that his accent was a bit unique since he spoke Russian, German, Spanish, and Italian as well.

Because of course he did. Like he was specifically designed to target all your weaknesses.

“Well, I could talk about that for the rest of the evening but I’ll spare you all and let you out a bit early today, how does that sound?” Professor Zemo offered. The other students weakly cheered, a few claps here and there as you heard binders shutting and backpacks being zipped, but you were disappointed. You didn’t want to go back to your dorm, all you were going to do there was think about him anyways.

Damn, I’ve really got it bad, you thought to yourself, shaking your head as you stood up and gathering your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You glanced up at the podium where another student was chatting with Professor Zemo, and either he said something really funny or she was trying way too hard to flirt with him. You rolled your eyes, irritated by the display and yet envious of her audacity to just go up there and talk to him. Imagine having a crush and actually being able to look them in the eye and hold a conversation; you could barely do that with people you didn’t happen to find attractive.

Just as you were about to make it out the door, you heard your name and spun around. You were shocked to realize it was the Professor trying to get your attention. If only you’d thought to pretend you hadn’t heard him.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?” he requested, motioning you over with two curled fingers. With a swallow and a nod, you stepped out of the flow of students exiting into the hallway and approached the desk at the front of the room.

“What is it?” you asked.

“I just wanted to discuss your most recent paper, if you have some time,” he explained, and your heart sunk. Of course it was garbage, you’d written the whole thing last minute during a near-all-nighter. “I still have the copy you turned in here in my bag.”

“Right, of course— sure,” you nodded. By now the classroom was empty spare for the two of you, your words echoing slightly; presumably that was intentional, since these places were built for acoustics, but it made you worry you’d have to hear whatever criticism he had for you multiple times.

He pulled out the slightly-wrinkled paper and took his glasses off of his vest to wear (fuck, did he have to wear the glasses, just to personally attack you?) as he glanced over the top page before folding it over the staple.

“This essay,” he continued, “it’s—”

Ridiculous. Idiotic. A blight on humanity and a waste of printer ink.

“Fascinating,” he finished, surprising you. “After I read it, I searched your student profile on my office computer—”

You gulped, trying not to take that as a compliment.

“I’m looking at your information and I’m seeing you aren’t even a history major— is this a mistake, when it says your major is computer science?”

“No, that’s my major,” you nodded.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he decided, “because you have some really interesting ideas in here, clearly you must have studied history before.”

“I mean, not really,” you shrugged. “I didn’t even care that much about history until, you know, you...r class,” you finished quickly, realizing it sounded too odd otherwise.

And that smile, the way he looked down at the floor suddenly, was he blushing? “Thank you. I’m always… glad to inspire.”

If only you knew everything you’d inspired in me, Professor.

“If you didn’t care about history, what would motivate you to register for an honors history seminar?” he asked suddenly.

“Well…” you trailed off, reaching up to scratch the back of your neck as you dodged his gaze.

“It couldn’t possibly be because I’m teaching it,” he realized.

“I came to your talk last year, the one you did about the Sokovian civil war,” you finally admitted, letting out a lungful of air as you said it and looking up at him sheepishly.

“Ah,” he nodded, “yes, that might make a bit more sense. But we still haven’t found the real reason, have we?” His eyebrow raised slightly and you felt like he was toying with you— but you liked it, the shiver that ran up your spine made that obvious. “Because the question remains of what would possess a computer science student to take time out of her busy schedule on a Friday night— if I recall the night correctly— to listen to some stuffy visiting scholar talk about a bloody war in a country she may not have even heard of before.”

“My friend brought me,” you defended.

“Under what guise?” he pressed.

“She… may have mentioned something about… a cute professor with a sexy accent…” you stammered, cringing slightly as you spared a glance back up at him. He was staring back at you with the most bewildering expression. His eyes said ‘you thought I was cute?’, and yet his smile said ‘I knew it.’

“You must’ve been horribly disappointed when I took the stage,” he finally replied, voice a bit lower, softer, not echoing around the room anymore.

“Not at all,” you returned, almost below your breath now, and suddenly you became very aware that you were standing too close to him, but you couldn’t move away, you couldn’t even look away anymore. “I’m here, aren’t I? Taking your class?”

“And you make it nearly impossible to focus, did you know that? I swear your eyes never leave me, I can feel them on me. It’s quite unfair, because I can’t stare back at you no matter how much I want to.”

Just as you looked down at his lips and back up to his eyes, which seemed to be following a similar pattern on your own face, just when you thought this might be it and you were about to do something you really shouldn’t (but really wanted to), you heard the door open behind you and you spun around so fast you nearly hurt your neck.

“Oh,” the man in the doorway mumbled, apparently surprised to see you enough to nearly drop the papers tucked under his arm. “I’m teaching the next class in here— Honors History of Islam?”

“Professor Waters, yes, my apologies,” Zemo nodded, “we were just… our discussion ran a bit long, we’ll get out of your way.”

You and Zemo awkwardly gathered your things and made a dash for the door as the older professor took his place at the podium. Once the two of you were out in the hall, you let out a sigh and gave each other a glance, like you were each waiting for the other to either acknowledge or ignore what had just (almost) happened.

“I have my next class across campus in a half hour,” he remembered suddenly, lifting his arm and pulling back the brown sleeve of his coat to look at his watch.

“Right, you should… get to that,” you nodded.

“Walk with me?” he proposed, and you hoped your smile wasn’t as beaming as it felt.

“I’d love to.”

So maybe you ended up skipping your evening class to sit in the back of his History of England course. And, perhaps, he ended that one early, too, this time to buy you coffee at the student center; and your discussion ended up going on so long that the coffee shop closed and you had to go to his office to finish the conversation.

But, in a certain sense, it could be argued that you never really got a chance to finish that conversation after all… because a few moments after he shut the door to his office, you, for lack of a better term, jumped his bones.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips as you pulled him closer by his jacket, “we can’t do this.”

You nodded, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. “Mhm, yeah, you’re right,” you agreed breathlessly.

His hands took their place at your waist as you both stepped back, the back of your legs bumping into his desk which you jumped up slightly to sit on.

“I mean, we really can’t do this,” he continued, kissing your neck instead now while your legs wrapped around his hips, your skirt riding up slightly, your fingers fumbling with the buttons on his collar. “I want to, overwhelmingly so, but we can’t.”

“I know,” you sighed; your head fell back when his teeth grazed over your pulse, and his hand was right there to catch it and hold it up, gripping the back of your neck.

“This absolutely cannot happen,” he groaned when your legs pulled him closer, something hard and hot pressing up against your thigh through his trousers and you were really hoping it wasn’t just his cell phone.

Then he rocked his hips, just barely, and you felt the outline of the ridge of his head and it was definitely not his phone unless he had the most suggestively-shaped phone case of all time. You gasped and grabbed his face to kiss him again, shamelessly desperate now, weaving your fingers into the hair just above the back of his neck.

By now you had managed to get a few of his buttons open so when you slid your fingers down from time to time, they ran over his chest and the patch of dark blonde hair there. Funny enough, you couldn’t remember having any strong opinions on chest hair before this afternoon, but now you felt your walls fluttering around nothing.

He helped you shed your blazer just before tossing his own coat aside, never breaking the kiss, holding your face gently while he pushed you down to lay on his desk— he reached behind you to clear a few stray papers out of the way first.

Your back hit the glossy wood and his weight pinned you down, rough hands sliding up your legs and under your skirt as you tried to push your hips up for more friction where you needed him most.

He pushed your hips back down, not too roughly but definitely enough to get your attention, before sliding his hands up your skirt again where he toyed with the hem of your panties.

You wanted to say something, more specifically you wanted to beg him to touch you, but you had this fear that if you spoke now it would all become real and he would stop because, as he had so poignantly noted, this can’t happen. And both of you knew that… so maybe it would be easier to let it happen if neither of you really acknowledged it.

Luckily, he didn’t tease you too long, reaching under the fabric and swiping the rough pads of his fingers over your slickened folds. You choked on your gasp, accidentally digging your nails into his shoulders when he drew delicate circles around your clit. All at once, he suddenly pushed those fingers right inside you and your back arched; you needed so much more than just his fingers but the way they twisted and curled against your walls was nearly perfect as well.

They didn’t stay long, quickly pulling back as you watched him quickly open his trousers just before you felt the head of him pushing up to your entrance.

His eyes met yours, dark with need, yet somehow clearly asking you for permission, making sure this was what you wanted: and fuck, you wanted it more than anything. The moment that you nodded, he began to push forward— slow and deliberate, but unyielding.

Perhaps as a perfect healthy college student in a male-dominated major, you had no real excuse for it to have been so long since you’d had sex. As you liked to put it: dating as a woman in computer science means the odds are good but the goods are odd. Truth be told, you weren’t sure at this point if having had sex any time in the past year would’ve prepared you for him anyway. It felt like he was forging a new path inside you— certainly a wider one than anyone else ever had since he was so thick.

With his hips fully seated against yours, the tip of his cock just reached the end of you, just barely brushed over those sensitive spots you didn’t even know you had before.

It stung a bit to be filled this thoroughly, so it was no wonder you were biting down on your lip hard enough to bruise it, your fingers clutching at his shirt tightly.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered, finally breaking the silence, voice strained like he was struggling just as much as you were (though in an entirely different way).

“A little,” you admitted. “Please don’t stop.”

He groaned a few curses as he started to move back, and forth, and so slow you could hardly stand it.

“Fuck,” you breathed, “oh my god, harder, please…”

A little smile crossed his face, a sharp exhale almost like a laugh, and it made your cheeks burn even hotter than they already were. But, he obeyed, regardless, more aggressive in his movements yet not any faster as he held your hips to keep you from sliding across the desk’s glossy wood surface.

Your moans were starting to echo around the office’s beige walls at this point, and he snarled as he bit down on your neck. “You need to stay quiet,” he hissed in your ear. “Can you do that for me? Can you stay quiet even when I’m making you feel so good?”

“I-I’m trying,” you whimpered, “your cock is… so deep…”

“Oh, I know,” he cooed, voice heavy with faux pity, “poor thing, you can’t take it?”

“No!” you yelped. “I can take it! Please, please don’t stop.”

“I won’t have to if you stay quiet, darling, we can’t have somebody hearing you now can we?” he chuckled, licking and sucking at your pulse point as your eyes rolled back in your head. “We can’t have somebody hearing you cry for me, and coming in here, and seeing you laying on my desk getting fucked by your professor, right?”

What the hell was wrong with you that that idea actually turned you on? Why did it actually make you want to moan louder until everyone could hear you?

And when his cock speared right against that spongy spot inside you, you did exactly that and he had to suddenly clamp his hand down over your mouth.

“Fuck,” he growled, “you’re going to get us both in trouble.”

Your attempts at apologies were totally incomprehensible with his hand over your mouth, not that they were likely to have made much sense either way.

Blinking your eyes shut, your legs began to quiver slightly as he rutted into you, your toes curling inside your loafers. You felt so full you could hardly stand it, stretched so wide that you were forced to feel every detail of his cock as it filled you. Already your walls were bearing down on him; you couldn’t help it, it was like your body was just his instrument now and instinct had taken control of your movements.

His accent was definitely stronger now as he whispered in your ear, praising you gruffly. You knew from the beginning that you loved high marks and encouragement from your teachers, but this… this was different, and you hadn't known how much it would affect you.

"Good girl," he breathed, "you're taking me so well, draga, you feel so perfect around me."

You whined from behind his hand and he chuckled at your obvious neediness.

"You like making me feel good, darling?" he presumed, his smile pressing against your neck between nipping kisses to your pulse point. "You like knowing that I can barely take this tight cunt gripping me so well, that I'm already addicted to your precious body and want to fill it with my seed?"

With your eyes rolling back in your head you nodded feverishly, heavy in your state of total delirium as he pumped his cock deep into you over and over.

You reached up to try to pull his hand away from your mouth, and he met your gaze with fire in his eyes.

“If I take my hand away, will you be good?” he challenged, and you nodded feverishly. He was a bit hesitant but slowly moved his hand down, and though you did have to keep biting your lip, you managed to restrain yourself.

Every drag of the ridge of his head inside you was somehow more intense than the last, somehow hitting right at your spot and it was like each rough thrust knocked his name out of your mind and onto your lips until you were chanting it like a prayer, or a plea.

And each time you said it, he fucked you harder, snarling and whispering your name back to you a few times, in between little praises; "Beautiful," he mumbled, "such a sweet little girl… such a perfect cunt."

“I— fuck, I’m gonna—” you stammered your warning.

“Will you come for me?” he finished for you, and you nodded quickly.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you hissed.

It was obvious just by the build-up that you were going to come hard, pleasure tightening in your core until you were sure that it would spill over but it just kept going, making you wonder if it would ever reach the breaking point.

And oh boy did it, it slammed into you in fact, and your legs quivered as you struggled for air. He growled in your ear, fucking you harder through it all, stroking every place that had only become even more sensitive. The moment you could form words again, you were wasting the ability on a string of swears and promises you couldn’t keep.

“Yours, fuck, it’s yours,” you sobbed. He chuckled a little, pulling back to examine your face which must have given away how fucked-out and cockdrunk you were already.

“Say it again,” he demanded darkly, holding you tighter, fucking you a bit more deliberately though not any less aggressively.

“Yours,” you gasped, cut off by a rough and dominating kiss. Your moans were lost to his tongue but he didn’t need them to know you were coming, the way your body gripped him tighter than ever was sign enough.

“So good,” he whispered against your lips, “you’re doing so good for me…”

His words washed over your skin and soothed you like a salve, bringing some relief from the overwhelming feelings his body was assaulting yours with.

All things considered, he was still moving rather slowly, each of his thrusts measured and patient, and never really changing speed even as you were coming around him. Weak little cries fell from your throat each time his hips met yours and the tip of his cock kissed the deepest parts of you.

Your body went limp in his arms and you hadn't noticed before how good it felt for him to hold you, for his strong hands to support you like it was nothing. His thumb gently stroked your back through your shirt and you mewled weakly into his shoulder.

"So good, draga, so fucking good," he mumbled, holding you closer.

"Please… faster," you whimpered, "I want you to come."

"Is that what you want?" he taunted, ignoring the way you nodded immediately. "You want to make me come, darling?"

"Yes, please, want it so much," you gasped.

He finally sped up, though it was still nothing like the lightning-speed jackhammering you were used to from guys your age: it was better, certainly, especially when he lifted your leg onto his shoulder and pushed so deep you saw stars.

The second one seemed to hit you all at once, almost out of nowhere, and you heard yourself mumble, “Professor, I’m coming.” It sounded a bit pitiful, the way you said it, but he apparently didn’t mind as you felt him nod encouragingly in the crook of your neck.

You felt totally drained by now, exhausted even though all you’d been doing was lying there and taking it, but you knew he wasn’t done with you yet. But, if the way his thrusts were becoming more desperate and erratic were anything to go by, he might be done with you soon.

"I'm going to come inside you," he groaned against your ear. You were, like, 99.9% sure that if you told him not to, he would pull out, but the way that he phrased it, like a demand, like you didn't have a choice and he would do it either way… it had an effect on you, one he noticed when your channel tightened around him instantly. "Oh, you like that idea, hm? You want to be full of my come? Your sweet little cunt is already trying to milk every drop from me."

"Yes," you breathed, "fuck, I want your come in me, please!"

He sped up quite a bit then, each slam of his hips into yours making you choke on a whine, your arms weakly clinging onto him for dear life.

You could feel his cock swelling, flexing, pushing your body to its limits as he moaned lowly through his teeth, streams of come making you feel warm and full.

He didn't stop until every drop was in you, thrusting in time with each pump of his release until he slowed to a stop.

Strands of hair fell into his face as he hung his head, panting hard and fast. You melted back onto the desk, realizing this might be the first time in a solid half hour your back wasn’t arched.

It was a bit of a struggle to keep your eyes open against the heavy fog of afterglow that filled your mind; you couldn’t remember the last time you felt so… satiated. As a college student, you were always thinking about the next assignment, mentally re-evaluating your calendar, or preparing for something— and usually all on less than six hours of sleep.

But now your mind was as close to a blank slate as it had been in at least a decade. Even though you probably should’ve been, you weren’t even thinking about the potential consequences of this, the implications, the risks. No, you were just staring up at him, thinking about kissing him again.

He would have to lean down for that, though; there was no way you were going to sit up now.

You hadn't even noticed that you had closed your eyes, almost falling asleep right there on his desk, until you felt his hand cradle your face softly, a calloused thumb rubbing over your cheek.

In unison, the both of you sighed deeply.

As much as it felt like a real effort, you blinked open your eyes and looked up at him, watching him comb his fingers through his hair. It only messed up the style even further yet he looked better than ever.

He slowly moved his hips back, leaving you annoyingly empty, and readjusted himself until he almost looked put together again… but his collar was still uneven and his lips still looked bitten and there was still that precious pinkish hue on his cheeks. If anyone else saw him in this state, they’d either know what happened between you two or think he’d just run across campus or something.

If anyone else saw him in this state, you’d be a little jealous, to be totally honest.

You got back to work trying to right your appearance as well, though you knew the best you could hope for was only mildly presentable; he looked at you like you’d never looked better, though.

“Well, this was fun,” you chuckled breathlessly, “but it’s getting pretty late and I have an eight a.m. tomorrow…”

“Yeah, so do I,” he nodded, glancing away.

You picked up your bag from where you’d dropped it by the door, lifting the strap over your shoulder and starting to turn to leave.

"I… I should walk you back to your dorm," he announced, making you smile.

"That's sweet, but save your chivalry. I can take care of myself just fine."

"But—"

"I think it's safer if we're not seen together walking together by my dorm," you interjected, "especially when I'm walking a little funny…"

"I hope I didn't hurt you," he winced sympathetically.

"No, trust me, that was… exactly what I needed," you breathed. He smiled a little, looking down at the floor.

"Then I'll see you in class," he nodded, watching you closely as you stepped back and picked up your bag, starting to leave his office with one last small wave goodbye. “Wait, wait!” he whispered harshly just before you could let go of his door, and you giggled as he leaned out into the hall and glanced around to make sure no one was nearby.

When he confirmed the coast was clear, he smiled and grabbed your face with one hand, pulling you into a sudden kiss. And you smiled too— you couldn’t help it— as you kissed him back, almost ready for him to drag you back into that office and start this all over again. He did let you go, though, with one more whispered ‘goodnight’ and a look that made your heart do little somersaults.

As you finally did make your way back to your dorm, you tried to figure out if that was a goodbye kiss or a ‘see you soon’ kiss. Or maybe a ‘thanks for the one-time office quickie’ kiss? But you didn’t know enough about this sort of thing to know if that was even an option.

All you did know was that you really hoped it wasn’t the last kiss you’d have with him.

Can I speak to you in my office today after class? Thank you.

-Z

You may ask yourself: can one simple email, in only thirteen words, strike fear into the hearts of those who read it? And the answer is yes, assuming that email is from Professor Helmut Zemo and read by the lovestruck student who slept with him two days ago and hasn't stopped thinking about it since.

Only one of a few things could happen in his office after class, and there was a massive gap between the best and worst case scenarios. You dressed for the best but prepared yourself psychologically for the worst.

You caught him staring as you walked past the teaching podium to your seat in the front; you just hoped nobody else caught him. And if you'd thought paying attention in class was tough before, boy oh boy was it a challenge now. The nerves of what he wanted to discuss with you were bad enough alone, but that combined with memories from two days earlier randomly assaulting your psyche was just overwhelming.

When he pointed at the map with two fingers, you could remember exactly how those fingers had felt inside you, twisting and curling and getting you ready for his cock.

When he spoke, you could hear the difference in his voice compared to how he groaned out his praises while he was fucking you within a damn inch of your life.

And every once in a while, when he couldn’t help but glance at you for a moment, his gaze burned right through you; you were helpless to those brown eyes, completely paralyzed by them, and it must’ve been hours of that before class finally ended.

For the first time, you were the first person out the door when he released the class. As much as it was going to be a little bit weird to beat him to his office, it was certainly better than any of your other options. There was a chair in the hall beside the door, and you took a seat and pretended to read a book just to look busy (there was no way you could actually turn symbols on a page into readable language right now, not when you knew he’d be here any minute to talk about… something).

Your peripheral caught him coming down the hall, but you pretended to be deeply immersed in your book until he was right beside you, unlocking his door and opening it for you and himself. Tucking your book away and following him inside, you found him already staring at you, expression completely unreadable. Your gut sank in anticipation of whatever conversation this was going to become, and a moment passed in heavy silence.

"Hi," you greeted plainly, letting out a quick breath.

"Hi," he returned. "Close the door behind you."

You nodded and did as you were told, quietly pushing the wood back until the door latched before approaching where he had come to stand beside his desk. Though you didn't originally intend to, you found yourself standing a bit too close.

"I'm not quite sure where to start," he admitted, chuckling breathlessly as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. He looked cute flustered, which was a shame because his tone seemed to imply you needed to not be thinking about how cute he was. “Listen, you should know that what happened before… it was a mistake,” he sighed. “It can’t happen again.”

“Do you regret it?” you asked point-blank.

“It can’t happen again,” he repeated in lieu of a real answer, and you looked closely at his face; you didn’t find as much confidence there as you were looking for, it wasn’t the face of a man who knew he was making the right choice. You certainly didn’t think he was making the right choice.

“Why did you want to have this conversation alone in your office, then?” you challenged.

He cleared his throat slightly. “So no one would hear us.”

“Hear us talk?” you pressed. “Is that all?”

“That’s… definitely the plan,” he nodded, swallowing dryly. "Like I said, it was a mistake— my fault, not yours. And I just hope we can put it behind us respectfully."

“All the best mistakes are made at least twice,” you whispered, reaching up to trail your finger down his lapel. “Don’t you think?”

“Don’t do that,” he requested tensely.

"Do what?"

"That," he hissed. "Stop being… irresistible," he clarified, eyes darting from your lips to your finger to your eyes and back again. "A man can only take so much. I'm trying to do right by you."

"You already did when you fucked me that good," you smirked. "Nothing else could be as right as that."

Your fingers were just barely brushing over his belt when he grabbed you by the wrist. Jaw tight and eyes solemn, he shook his head.

You wrenched out of his grasp with a nod. It was worth a shot, but you didn't want to be that person who couldn't take no for an answer— so, you gave him a little smile and readjusted the strap of your bag. “Well, if it was just the once, then you should know that I’m still glad it happened. Even if it shouldn’t have.”

He nodded, strategically not speaking— but you knew he would agree, if he could.

“And if it’s any consolation to you now, you were the best I ever had.”

You reached for the doorknob, just starting to turn it and open your way out when he suddenly slammed it shut with a hand right above your head, making you gasp and spin around to look up at his dark gaze.

“Professor…” you whispered.

“The best you ever had?” he repeated, grinning proudly when you nodded. “Oh, sweetheart, I wasn’t even trying.” He leaned down to brush his lips against your ear as he whispered to you: “You don’t even know yet how good I can make you feel.”

A shiver ran up your spine; your tongue darted out to lick your lips. “Are you going to get on with it and show me?”

He didn’t even let you step away from the door, dropping to his knees right there and pushing up your skirt to kiss and bite your thighs. “Only if you ask very nicely,” he taunted with a brow raised in challenge.

“Please,” you breathed, “fuck, please, want you to taste me.”

His hands slid up your legs, grabbing the hem of your panties before sliding back down.

It wasn’t like you’d never been eaten out before, but this still felt like a first considering your skirt was pushed up to your waist, your panties were pulled down to your ankles, and even just one slow lick over your folds made it obvious he knew exactly what he was doing.

“F-fuck,” you choked, reaching down to weave your fingers into his hair. He grinned against your skin and kept going, exploring you carefully before finally sucking on your swollen clit. Your knees threatened to buckle, your head fell back against the door so hard it almost hurt, but all you could really feel was his mouth on you, moving like he knew your body better than you did.

So it was no wonder, then, that you already began to spiral towards your release, legs shaking around his head as he devoured you mercilessly.

"Oh my god, I—" you tried to warn him, but he already knew, and he pulled back to wipe his mouth with his sleeve and stand up. He grabbed your jaw and kissed you roughly, stopping to whisper to you so close that his lips brushed against yours.

"I'm sorry, draga, but you've spoiled me… now that I've felt you come around my cock, I can't imagine making you come any other way. I need to feel your cunt grip me so fucking tight… it's all I've been thinking about since I last saw you," he admitted.

"I thought about it, too," you sighed. "I was up all night trying to make myself come as good as you did but I couldn't… your come was still leaking out of me."

He growled and leaned in to nip at your ear. "Oh, poor thing… I can imagine it so easily, you laying in your bed with your legs spread, fingers getting exhausted from playing with your little pussy too much, these perfect lips whining for me because you need me to take care of you."

"H-Helmut, please," you whimpered.

"Yeah, something like that," he smirked.

"I can't wait any more, just fuck me. Need you inside me," you breathed.

"Then bend over my desk."

{part 2}

#baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #helmut zemo smut

2K notes · View notes

ahtsumu · 4 years ago

Text

long shots ; miya osamu

pairing: miya osamu x f!reader

synopsis: miya osamu is the teacher’s assistant for food chemistry i. you can’t stop thinking about him.

tag(s): college!au, slow burn, TA!miya osamu, grad student!reader, fluff, reader is a go-getter!! ; warning(s): profanity, suggestive themes, talk of insecurities and imposter syndrome ; wc: 5.6k

a/n: happy birthday to @starrysamu! i love u. pls excuse any errors. i’ll weed them out later! btw this fic is not a sugar daddy au LOL

HIS NAME IS Miya Osamu and he always looks like he has it all figured out. Comes in every class with his black hair perfectly tousled, the sleeves of his dark button-up rolled to his elbows, a cup of coffee in one hand and the strap of that black messenger bag in another.

“He drives a BMW, did ya know?” Isla says in your ear one morning. Your only friend in Food Chemistry I gives you a pointed look before sitting back in her chair in the lecture hall with a smirk on her face. “Saw it this morning. Bet he’s loaded.” The two of you watch the subject in question walk across the classroom and settle in his seat at the table in the corner.

“Shut up,” you whisper with wide eyes. A grin–– far from innocent–– makes its way onto your face. “Imagine being Miya Osamu’s sugar baby.”

“He’s not old enough to be a sugar daddy.” Isla looks at her nails disinterestedly. “And that’s too many AUs in one. He’s already the TA, for god’s sake. This isn’t some shitty Wattpad novel.”

A light giggle slips out of your lips. “I can see the title already. My Sugar Daddy is the TA?!”

Now, if anyone had been listening in on your conversation, they would’ve assumed many things about you. The first being that you’re both gold-diggers. This is untrue–– at least, in your case. Isla, you’re not so sure about, given how your friendship only goes back about one month. But she tags you in memes on Instagram so maybe it’s as real as real gets. Their second assumption would be that you have a big fat crush on your TA. That one’s complicated, mostly because it’s true, but only kinda. It all started in the second week of school when Isla caught you staring at Osamu and slipped you a post-it note with both your initials encircled in a heart. And, because you’re shameless with a good sense of humour, you made a show of kissing it while she was looking. And thus began your meaningless but incredibly entertaining, satirical, co-written fantasy about Miya Osamu.

It also didn’t help that on the first essay you got back, Isla’s paper had been marked up with “are you sure?”s and “this is a jump”s, while yours had “excellent reasoning” and “insightful analysis”. You’d even gotten a little comment at the bottom: y/n, fantastic work. you should speak up in class more often. –– OM

But Miya Osamu doesn’t play favourites because the next week you’d gotten another essay back, this time with another comment at the bottom: y/n, not your best work. you could’ve done better by connecting your first paragraph with the second using grant’s reading. conclusion lacked punch, too. all the best. –– OM

Every time you’d read the words scrawled in blue ink, you’d felt a pair of eyes on you. But you chalk it up to Osamu being a careful grader. A good TA. Someone who cares about his students.

Isla calls bullshit on that. You’re not really sure how to feel about her stance.

The classroom door opens and shuts again. You don’t have to look at your phone to know that it’s nine on the dot. Instead, you and Isla straighten your backs, pull out your notebooks, and focus. Your no-nonsense professor says “good morning” in her usual perky manner before jumping right into her keynote presentation.

“Did you all find the reading okay?” Professor Lee asks an hour into the lecture.

A chorus of “yes”s fill the air. You bite your lip, wondering if revealing that you didn’t understand shit will out you as the class idiot. Or maybe your silence is telling enough��– maybe the people in the seats beside you have noticed the grimace on your face and are having thoughts like ‘gee whiz, am I glad I’m not dumb like her’. Heat rushes to your cheeks. Sometimes you really wonder if you’re smart enough to be here. Occurrences like these do nothing to dispel your insecurities.

You vaguely hear her ask something like, “Any thoughts about the reading?” It’s not that you’re actually dumb. It’s just that this class is ridiculously hard for an introductory course, even for a graduate programme. From the start of the semester til now, fifteen people have dropped the class. There’s just twenty of you left. Guess a ridiculously hot TA can’t save a course’s drop-rate.

Before you can make your mind up on what to say, your professor moves on from her question.

As you look off to the side of the room for a break from your thoughts, you find a pair of blue-grey eyes pointed in your direction.

Everything about you, from the expression on your face to the way your muscles tense, makes you look like a deer caught in headlights–– even though he was the one caught staring in the first place. So maybe your shamelessness works on a scale.

Miya Osamu lifts one corner of his mouth.

And as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all, he looks back down at his laptop and continues typing.

The rest of the lecture goes through one ear and out the other.

“Everyone, I believe Osamu has something he wants to say,” Professor Lee says as everyone begins packing their bags.

The raven-haired TA slides out of his seat and sits on top of his desk. “Yeah.” Osamu clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. You notice how the muscles in his arms bulge from the movement.

“Whipped,” Isla mutters, grinning mischievously.

“Him for me,” you whisper back, though your eyes do travel back to his face where they should’ve been all along. Osamu catches your gaze and holds it. And then he looks away again.

“Now, I know you’re all Nobel prizewinners in the making,” he begins, garnering a round of snickers and giggles from your classmates. Most people say that cliques dissolve in college. That there’s no such thing as popularity amongst graduate students. That much, you agree with. But no one ever said anything about popular teacher’s assistants. Especially smart, attractive, witty teacher’s assistants like Miya Osamu. “But in case you didn’t understand the reading or would like to develop a deeper understanding of it, don’t hesitate to email me. I’ll try to host a review session all of us can attend.”

Professor Lee smiles appreciatively at Osamu, adding, “That’s a wonderful idea, Osamu. Guys, please take this opportunity if you struggled with the reading. I know eighty pages is a lot, but our next three classes are structured around the concepts in the reading and the mid-term next week will almost exclusively be about it, too.”

Well, shit.

To: [email protected]

Hi Osamu,

I was wondering if I could get some help with the reading from last class. To be frank, I couldn’t make it past page 15 and I’m lost like a snot-faced five-year-old in a shopping mall on Black Friday. Sorry. Thanks in advance!

Regretfully,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: [email protected]

no problem. is 5 pm tomorrow at jack’s okay? we start on the concepts from the reading next class so i want to get you up to speed asap. let me know. thanks.

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

It’s five minutes to five when you pull into the parking lot of Jack’s Diner. The shiny, retrofuturistic eatery is a university favourite but the empty parking lot tells you it’s completely deserted right now (and rightfully so–– who eats dinner before six?). The black BMW parked a few spots from your car, however, says that you’re not alone.

Osamu’s figure comes into view as you reach for the handle to the front door of Jack’s. The twenty-six-year-old sits by himself at one of the bright red tables in the back, typing away on his dark grey laptop.

His head lifts up at the sound of the opening door. Osamu calls out your name and waves you over.

“Hi,” you greet with a smile, sitting down across from him.

“Hey.”

You look around before leaning forward on the table. “Is anyone else coming?”

“No.” Osamu sits back in his seat. “I thought about hosting one big group, but then I realised that it’d probably be stressful for the staff here.” He nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. “And I had a hunch that everyone would have different questions. Forcing everyone to review concepts they already know is a waste of time.”

At first, you nod. That makes sense. But then you furrow your brows. “So how long have you been here?”

Osamu blinks. He hadn’t expected you to ask about him. “Hmm? Oh.” He taps his phone to check the time. “Just a while.”

Quirking a brow, you ask, “And how long is ‘a while’ to you?”

“Seven hours,” he admits, chuckling lightly when he sees your jaw drop. “A lot of people had questions. They just don’t act like they do. Anyway, time flies. Really, it does.” Quickly, he clears his throat and sits forward. “So, about your email.” He grins. “Not sure if you meant it to be funny, but it was.”

“I’m glad my distress was entertaining for you. Do you TA just to watch grad students suffer?”

“Perks of the job,” Osamu says. His grin widens when you giggle. He’s never heard you laugh before and he realises at that moment that it’s really nice. And then that same grin falters. Gracefully, of course, and imperceptibly to you. But not to him. Is it okay for him to be… thinking things like that? About a student? But you’re not really his student since he’s just the TA. Right? Osamu ignores the weird feeling that comes over him and clasps his hands together at the edge of his laptop. “Back to your email. Can ya tell me what you’re confused about?”

Three hours and two Impossible Burgers later, you suddenly understand everything about food molecules so well that you wonder why you’d even been confused in the first place. But besides that, you’ve also picked up things about Osamu. As a person and not an idea. Not that you’d been actively searching for fun facts about your TA. But they’d stuck to your brain like gum at the bottom of a desk. He likes to slip sarcastic quips into a conversation every now and then. Eats burgers upside down (“The right way,” as he’d said, smirking). Is friendlier than he looks.

“You’re really good at explaining things,” you comment as Osamu shuts his laptop closed.

“Well, I kinda have to be,” he says. And maybe it’s the mental fatigue catching up on him or the fact that he’s real fond of the reason why he can break big concepts down into morsels but suddenly, the rest of his thoughts spill out his mouth like wine. “I have a twin brother with potato salad for brains.”

“Oh?”

And before he can stop himself, he tells you about Miya Atsumu, the pro-athlete you’ve definitely heard of but never gave too much thought. And then you hold onto the fact that they were both on the volleyball team and you ask of which school, so then he tells you about Inarizaki, the high school he attended, and then his decision not to go pro to go to college, and then––

“Sorry,” he laughs, cheeks turning pink. “You probably didn’t need to hear all that.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say–– and you mean it. “Your life is interesting.”

Osamu leans back in his chair. “Well, I’m sure yours is, too.” He holds your gaze like it’s the key to your presence. It’s an invitation. The kind that comes from people who don’t really know if they want you around but also don’t want you gone.

You take it.

Osamu shouldn’t–– he really shouldn’t–– but he wonders about the things you didn’t tell him the entire drive home.

Isla laughs when you tell her about what happened at Jack’s. You lay in bed with your phone next to you on speaker, your face turned on your pillow so that you’re staring out the window at the city below.

“He wants you,” she sings.

“Or he was just being nice.”

“Methinks not!” Isla giggles. “He’s intrigued, girl! You’re like that cute little new mystery in his life and he just wants to get to know you.”

“I think he was just being polite.”

“Or he’s crushing on you!”

“In your dreams.”

“You mean yours? Boo, you’re no fun today. Usually, you go along with the jokes.” Isla’s tone is playful on the surface but full of implications.

A few silent seconds pass. Yeah, you think, agreeing. I do.

“Girl,” Isla drags out the word in a high pitch, saying it like a scientist says ‘eureka’. “You’re not playing along anymore because it’s real now. You're actually catching feelings!”

“Am not!” you laugh.

“The Y/N I knew would’ve said ‘nah, bitch, he’s catching feelings’ and I think that says all there is to say.”

“Okay, I think he’s cute but it’s not a crush,” you concede, grinning. “And he’s the TA, Isles. It’d never happen.”

“Not while he’s still a TA in a class you take.”

“Isla.”

“Ask him out once this semester ends! Unless you’re chicken.”

“I’m not asking him out.”

“Knew you were––”

“Have you seen me? He’s asking me out.”

Miya Osamu walks through the door at eight-fifty as usual that next morning, dressed in his usual button-up, holding his usual cup of coffee. But this time, as the rest of his tall frame passes through the doorway, Osamu’s eyes subtly scan the faces in the lecture hall, lingering for just a while over yours. The corners of your lips turn up. You hope he saw that.

“Bitch!” Isla whisper-screams. The students sitting around you turn around at the noise and grin at each other when they realise it’s just Isla being… well, Isla. She shoos them away jokingly.

“What?” you whisper back.

“Care to explain why our TA was literally eye-fucking you?”

“That was hardly eye-fucking,” you retort. “Maybe like an eye-handshake.”

“Yeah, a naked eye-handshake where his thang is handshaking your––”

He does it again the next class.

And the next.

And then he doesn’t. Miya Osamu walks through the door to Food Chemistry I at eight-fifty in the morning in a navy blue button-up with a cup of coffee in his hand and looks through the rows of seats in the lecture hall for your face, only to find it missing.

He debates pressing the matter.

To: [email protected]

hey osamu,

i wasn’t in class today because i’ve been sick with the flu (no big deal, just feel like i’m dying). a classmate sent me pictures of the slides from today so i think i should be fine, but is it okay if i email you with any questions? thank you very much!

miserably,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: [email protected]

y/n,

of course. sorry to hear that you’re sick. let me know if i can do anything to help you. the midterm is next week. get well soon.

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

“You writing that the midterm is next week did not offer me any peace of mind, by the way,” you say, spinning around in your chair as Miya Osamu enters your pod in the library.

He offers you a wry grin. “Hello to ya, too.”

“Was that an accent?” You thought you’d heard one at Jack’s, but you couldn’t be sure because it’d been so spotty.

Osamu slips into the seat beside yours and pulls out the laptop in his messenger bag. You catch a whiff of his cologne–– something spicy and woody, but clean. It suits him. “Nice catch. Yeah, I speak a regional dialect. Took me a while to smooth it over but it still resurfaces every now and then.”

“Why?”

“It just didn’t seem fitting for a PhD candidate, I guess,” Osamu explains, opening the slides from the class you missed. A day after your initial exchange, you’d emailed him again (with a much clearer mind) and asked if he could go over the slides with you in person.

i literally feel like i’ve been given the homework from russian lit, you’d written. except the russian has been translated to hieroglyphs and my task is to choreograph an interpretive dance based on the hieroglyphs.

Osamu had snickered when he saw your email. that doesn’t even make sense. must be the fever talking, he’d been tempted to write. But that strange feeling had come over him again, the one that’d screamed at him to keep it professional, goddamnit, so he’d played it safe instead and sent is eight pm at the main library okay? He hates that you’re getting a watered-down version of his personality. Osamu swears he’s a lot more interesting when he’s not, well, a TA.

“I think it’s fine,” you say, smiling. “I like it. It’s you.” And suddenly, you’re wondering if it’s okay to be complimenting your TA. If it’s okay to say that you like things about him, or if that crosses some grey, unclear line. Is it weird to treat your TAs like they’re your friends? It’s not like TAs are real teachers. Right?

A grin–– wide and genuine and almost excited–– grows on Osamu’s face. He rubs the back of his neck as his eyes flit over to the laptop screen. “Thanks. Really.”

You nod. But you feel like there’s more that he might want to say, so you wait.

“I got a lot of shit for it when I came here for my master’s, y’know. Not to my face, of course, but people would refer to me as ‘the guy with the accent’. A professor once said it made me seem crass. Said it’d hold me back in my career.”

“So you changed.”

“Adapted,” Osamu corrects. “It’s hard to admit but conforming is sometimes all you can do when you don’t have the power to change the system. Can’t really make everyone suddenly respect a dialect.”

“And after you’re finished with your PhD, you’ll go back to speaking in that dialect?”

Osamu looks out the window and smiles, probably imagining the plans he’s already made about the future. “Yeah.”

“What if you have to speak the standard language at your job? Like, your boss is all, ‘hey man, if you don’t speak––”’

“I’ll be the boss.”

“Oh?”

And with a little more prodding, Miya Osamu tells you about the restaurant chain he plans on opening after graduation, the slides about food additives left completely untouched.

The librarian knocks on your pod a few minutes before eleven to tell you they’re closing.

“Shit,” Osamu murmurs, running his hands through his hair. You’re still laughing about something he’d said before the librarian interrupted him–– one of his stories from high school–– and he thinks that you’ve completely forgotten that the reason you came to the library was to catch up on the material you were already behind on. And now you’re behind on that. But you look so carefree right now and, actually, you’re very pretty and you’ve got such a good heart and it’s a lot for him to process but he knows he just wants to see you happy a while longer. So Osamu just slumps back in his chair and laughs along with you.

He says your name as his chuckles grow softer. “It’s pretty late. How’re you getting home?”

“I’ve a bike,” you reply. It’s good for the environment and is a pretty solid form of exercise if you do say so yourself. Sometimes you just don’t feel like driving.

Osamu presses his lips in a thin line. Would it be too much to offer you a ride? “I can drive you home. It’s really not safe for you to be alone outside, especially near midnight. You can get your bike tomorrow. Or I’ll get it for you.”

He drives fast. Not the unsafe fast that speed demons drive at, but the kind of fast where you know he’s got some edge to his character. You bring it up to him–– especially since it’s nighttime, for god’s sake, he could hit something–– and all he does is remind you how there are lamps as bright as the sun lining the entire road to your dorm. And the fact that you live in the least accessible dorm on campus.

“A twenty-minute drive?” he’d exclaimed when he saw the GPS monitor.

“A bunch of roads are closed for construction. It’s a ten-minute bike-ride because I can cut through campus.” And suddenly feeling a little burdensome, you’d added, “Sorry. I can still bike––”

“No.” He’d held his hand out in front of you, gesturing for you to stay in the passenger’s seat. “It’s not a bother at all.” Because it wasn’t. Osamu was… happy. Not that he’d admit that.

“So this BMW,” you start in a teasing tone.

Osamu smirks. “A gift.”

“Can I guess from who?”

“Sure.”

“Atsumu.”

His brows rise. “Colour me impressed.” He hadn’t expected you to remember anything he’d said about Atsumu. Or maybe he had but told himself otherwise to lower his hopes.

“I’m smart like that.”

He snorts. “Not if you keep distracting me and using your review time to…” hang out with me, get to know me, tell me things about you… “…goof off.”

You grimace. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Osamu makes a turn down a familiar street. It dawns upon you that you're ten minutes away from your dorm and suddenly you wish he’d just make the wrong turn at the next intersection so that you could talk to him some more. It can even be about the health benefits of fish or the molecular makeup of kale–– you don’t mind. You just want to be around him longer.

“I think you’re really smart,” Osamu says quietly. “I think you’re not processing the readings because you’re distracted, or just not fully applying yourself. Obviously, last class’s slides are a different thing, since you were absent. But you really are smart. I’ve seen your papers.”

You bite your lip to hide your grin, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “Thank you.” You look out the window, too jacked on dopamine to think straight. “I think I still need you, though.”

And that innocuous little sentence floats right out your mouth into the air, settling between you like a little wedge before either of you even realise it. Neither of you says anything. You marinate in the awkwardness before stuttering out a clarification. “To, um, to explain things. Y’know, since you’re, uh, so good at… explaining things.”

Osamu clears his throat and chuckles stiffly. There’s a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he says, looking straight ahead. He can’t even look at you. Fuck. It’s so awkward. “I’ll try to keep… explaining things.” Fuck. What does that even mean?

A few uncomfortable minutes pass in silence. The night can’t end like this, you think. It can’t when everything else had gone so well. You still have to see him for a few more months. “Did you know,” you start, catching Osamu’s attention, “that Jack’s Diner has a location in Italy?”

“Oh?” he asks, making the final turn to the street where your dorm is. He actually hadn’t.

“Yeah. I asked the owner about the chain a while back. Have you ever been to Italy?”

Osamu shakes his head. “I’ve been to Paris, though. To see a friend. He’s a chocolatier.”

Now, if Osamu had been your friend, you would’ve said something like well, let’s go to Italy together, except he’s not. He’s your TA and you’ve been reminded that enough tonight. So instead, you say, “When you open that restaurant of yours in Italy, let me know.”

“That’s gonna take a while,” he laughs. He appreciates how you said ‘when’, though. And he tucks that little bit of confidence you have in him somewhere deep in his mind so that it doesn’t get lost.

“Isn’t that just seven hours?” you shrug, grinning. Osamu’s BMW pulls up outside your dorm and parks as he marvels at what you just said. You’re amazing. You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face your driver.

“Thank you for driving me,” you say, offering him a smile.

“Yeah,” he replies.

You stretch out your hand. With a puzzled look on his face, Osamu grabs it and shakes it. Firmly. You can’t help but notice how nice his hands are. Calloused for sure, but they feel nice.

“Goodnight, Osamu.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He watches you jog into the building before driving away. And it’s like you’ve possessed his car or something because the smell of your shampoo and perfume is everywhere and it’s too much but it’s also not enough at the same time and he can feel your palm against his as he spins the steering wheel to make a turn and for the first time in his life he doesn’t turn on the radio to fill the silence in his car. Osamu replays everything you said in his head.

But he especially thinks about that part where you said you need him.

Weeks melt into months. You turn in essays after essays for Food Chemistry I, each coming back with detailed commentary in an all-too-familiar blue scrawl. All your other classes go well–– extremely well, actually. You might just end the semester with a 4.0 if Food Chem doesn’t fuck you over. Isla still tags you in memes on Instagram. You still tell her about everything that happens with Osamu.

Speaking of.

“That’s the wrong equation,” he says behind your ear as he settles in the seat beside you. The sound of his low voice so close to your ear sends a small shiver down your spine. “You gotta switch the hydrogens.” Osamu knocks on your skull lightly. “What’s goin’ on up in there? Ya got somethin’ on your mind?”

You laugh and elbow him in the side. “Shut up, ‘Samu.” He’d told you during one of his office hours that he’d gone by that nickname because he had a teammate with a foreign name in high school. It sounded so cool, he’d said, grinning.

I think Osamu sounds pretty cool already, you’d teased.

And he’d replied, Let’s trade. I like yours, you like mine, why not share?

You teeter on the line between friends and less-than-friends and, oddly enough, more-than-friends. Sometimes you still play it safe. Sometimes he pauses between texts and real-time conversations, no doubt to scrap an instinctive reply for something more “professional”. Sometimes you say things that make him look at you with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his lips. Sometimes he calls Atsumu to scream about you.

“S’not a no,” Osamu points out. He’s dressed in a black sweater and grey trousers today. You’re suddenly reminded of how the weather’s been getting colder when someone opens the door to the university café and lets in a gust of chilly autumn air.

“Okay,” you admit, setting down the pencil. “I just… don’t really feel prepared for this next test.”

Osamu frowns and looks down at your worksheet. “Your process is correct, though.”

“Right, but… I don’t know. I’ve just not been feeling great about myself lately,” you laugh, looking down at your feet. “Food Chem’s the toughest class I’ve ever taken. And remember how I completely embarrassed myself in that class discussion last week? It’s not really making me feel like I belong here.”

“Imposter syndrome,” Osamu remarks.

“Correct-o.”

He says your name softly and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Maybe you’re not the smartest, but you’re definitely smart. And you belong here. I’ve seen your papers. They’re just as great as anyone else’s and I don’t hand out compliments for nothin’. You’re gonna do some great things but ya can’t improve if you ever give up.” Osamu searches your eyes for a sign of your understanding.

There’re a lot of things you want to say but you don’t know how to put them into words. “Can I hug you?” you finally ask.

Osamu doesn’t even think about it. “Of course.”

He feels you smile against his chest and wonders if you can feel his heart beat faster.

Isla camps out in your dorm as finals come around the corner.

“I don’t understand shit!” she wails, throwing her notebook into the air.

“Isles, it’s okay,” you laugh, slipping out of your chair and walking over to her nest in the corner. “You gotta chill, dude.”

“Not fair! I didn’t have a hunk holding my hand through this course all semester,” she retorts, humour glittering in her dark eyes. “I had the Organic Chemistry Tutor and his accent’s cute enough but, girl, you had Miya Fucking Osamu!”

“You’re literally the worst.” You giggle and sit down beside her. “Tell me what you’re confused about. I’ll try to explain it to you.” The way Osamu does.

You text him that you’d channelled his brains later that night.

His reply comes seconds later. all you, einstein.

From: osamu

good luck on the exam

you’re going to kill it

To: osamu

would u like to divulge any… information about it? 😏 😏 😏

From: osamu

bye

To: osamu

i was kidding :(

From: osamu

fine. tip #1: write your name

To: osamu

not very helpful. 0/10

From: osamu

keep running your mouth and 0/10 is what your score’s going to be

i’m kidding

you got this, y/n

“Holy fuck,” Isla groans as you cross the street to head to lunch at Jack’s. “If you don’t see me next semester it’s because I’ve gotten my grade back and decided to drop out.”

“What would you do?” you ask, amused.

“Maybe move to New Zealand. Raise some sheep. Marry a hot, blond shepherd and fuck off to a cliffside cottage.”

“Solid plan.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“Remember that conversation we had at the start of the year? About your man?” The two of you reach another red light for pedestrians.

“We’re friends. He’s not my man,” you laugh. Though it pains you to. Something about being Miya Osamu’s friend doesn’t really sit right with you, but you don’t know how to not be his friend. You don’t know how to move out of the corner you’ve backed yourself into.

“But you wish he were! And now you can finally hit him with that ‘Hey, Osamu, I’ve been madly in love with you since the start of the semester, wanna fuck like rabbits and then open that store in Italy?’ and he’ll be all––”

A throat clears behind you. With wide eyes, the two of you turn around.

Holy fuck.

Miya Osamu stands behind you with his hands in his pockets and an enormous smirk on his face.

“He’ll be all what?” he asks, eyes fixed on you.

Isla murmurs an excuse and starts walking on her own to Jack’s.

“Um.” You swallow nervously and shrink in your coat. “You heard all of that, right?”

“Yep.” Osamu grins. He grins. He’s grinning. He’s smiling like he’s won the fucking lottery and you honestly don’t know what to do with that information.

“So, like,” you look down at the sidewalk and kick at a pebble, “what are your thoughts about that?” God, you could die. “‘Cause I know you’re a TA and it’d probably look pretty bad and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because I like you and it’s cool if we just…”

Osamu interrupts you with a laugh. “My thoughts,” he says, “are that I want to kiss you.” His fingers lift your chin up. “What are your thoughts about that?”

Well, shit. “I think that’s pretty cool, yeah,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut as his face comes closer to yours.

He tastes like mint. And his lips move softly, slowly against yours like he’s savouring the moment. And then you feel his hands snake around your waist to pull you closer–– closer because you both are tired of forcing the distance between bodies that want to be near each other, closer because he’s thought about kissing you just like this for so long, closer because you remember the last time he’d touched you was three days ago and it was just a brush of his fingers against your arm and that feeling of wanting more haunted you for the entire night. But holy shit, Miya Osamu is kissing you. He’s kissing you.

And then he pulls away. His dark eyes flit over yours. “I,” he breathes, “I need your course load next semester.”

“What?” you ask, disbelief written all over your features, chest rising and falling as you try to steady your breathing. You just kissed, for God's sake, and he's––

“I need to know which courses not to apply to TA for,” he grins, cupping your face in his hands. “Can’t be teachin’ in a class with my girlfriend as a student.”

“So we’re official?” you ask, beaming.

“If you want,” Osamu replies with a smirk.

You grab the front of his coat and tug him down for another kiss. “Hell yeah, I want to be official.”

#miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu scenarios #miya osamu imagines

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reidyoulikeabook · 4 years ago

Text

Invisible String

Ship: Fem! Reader x Spencer Reid

Warnings: None, this is just fluff.

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: You and Spencer Reid don’t know it, but you’ve almost met quite a few times. What happens when you do?

A/N: This is potentially a bit on the wrong side of the cheesy line, but I was listening to invisible string by Taylor Swift and couldn’t get this idea out of my head. Pls bare in mind I’m from the UK and my only understanding of the US college system is from Google searches, so pls be forgiving of any misunderstandings about that.

November 6th, 2007

Dr. Spencer Reid. As you sat, thumbing through the article he’d written about the formation of ionic compounds in a chemical whose name you could not for the life of you spell or pronounce, you couldn’t help but resent the man.

Sure, the paper was very well-written and as cohesive as possible given the complex subject matter. But Dr. Spencer Reid, whoever he was, was the current source of your resentment at selecting chemistry to make up your science credit. Highlighting the name of a substance you’d have to look up later, you sighed. It was getting late but you had to hand in a critical summary of the paper on Friday.

It didn’t help that Dr. Reid was: a) a triple doctorate holder by the age of 22, or b) that your chemistry lecturer was none other than his old chemistry lecturer from Caltech and practically glowed with pride whenever he got to bring him up.

You chew on the end of your pen, having now distracted yourself from the notes. Not that you were particularly focused anyway.

In another life, maybe you’d have been a budding chemist who could describe an ionic lattice off rote. In this one, however, you’d just have to settle for slogging through the list of chemical processes and hoping you understood it well enough to please Dr. Reid’s biggest fan.

***

April 16th, 2008

Spencer hated flaking on commitments. It caused him a great deal of anxiety, the feeling of disappointing someone. He didn’t have much choice in this circumstance though.

Diana had taken ill over the last weekend. Nothing serious, some stomach bug or other. She’d become severely dehydated though, and had been hospitalised as a precautionary measure. Truth be told, he might not have gone if she hadn’t caught him on the phone. He was already feeling guilty for not having visited since Christmas. He wrote her letters everyday, yet still felt like he was neglecting his duties as a son. Rubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a deep sigh. Then takes out his laptop, to send another email.

Dear. Dr Abraham

I sincerely apologise again for my last minute cancellation. Excluding any unforeseen circumstances, myself and SSA Hotchner will be available to present the lecture on May 12th.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Spencer Reid.

***

May 12th, 2008

Considering this was your third year on campus, you sure were bad at finding your way around. In your defence, they were doing maintenance in one of the main buildings, meaning that lectures got shuffled around and relocated. You probably had a higher change of attending the right lecture by accident than on purpose.

It doesn’t help that you’re running a little late this morning. You rush into Room 203. A lot of the seats are taken, you have to meander your way past quite a few people until you end up sat almost directly in the middle. Only moments before the lecture starts.

“I’m SSA Hotchner, and this is SSA Reid. We’re members of the BAU which is based at FBI quarters in Quantico. Today, we’ll be talking to you about profiling.”

This is not your forensic linguistics lecture.

Panic hits you, hot in your gut. Scanning the room anxiously, you suddenly become conscious that you’re drawing attention to yourself when you feel the eyes of the man who is not SSA Hotchner on you. Fuck.

There’s no way for you to escape now, not without disturbing half the lecture hall.

So you sit back in your seat, resigning yourself to sit awkwardly in the lecture you’re not supposed to be in and hoping nobody notices.

But then, it’s really interesting, actually. The work that Dr. Reid does sounds similar to work you’ve done in forensic linguistics, analysing patterns of speech and minor phrase formations that can give things away about the perpetrator. By the end of the seminar, you’re sat leaning forward. Enraptured by almost every word coming out of their mouths.

It seems to be the general mood: everyone is enamoured. People are clammering to speak to them at the end. After a brief inner battle, myou decide that you should talk to them too.

What’s the harm?

You’ve decided that you’ll speak to Dr. Reid, since he seems to share more of a field focus. However, as you’re heading down, you spot him. Dr Adams, your chemistry lecturer from last year. Oh shit, it’s that Dr. Reid.

Speaking to SSA Hotchner will just have to do instead.

----

“I’ve been majoring in forensic linguistics and criminal psychology,” You tell him, “Do you think ... I mean, I know it’s a pretty exclusive team to get on to. But is that the kind of thing that could maybe get me there one day?”

Hotchner nods, “Forensic linguistics is something that comes in very useful in the investigative aspects of cases. The FBI is always looking for new angles and perspectives, those are both good subjects to study if you were thinking of signing up to the academy.”

"Thank you, Agent Hotchner,” You say, suddenly a little bashful as you notice the queue of people lingering behind you, “That was a really interesting lecture. It’s definitely something I’ll think about.”

“You should talk to Dr. Reid if you have a particular interest in the linguistic aspect of profiling. He’s more specialised in that area than I am. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to discuss any research you’re conducting at the moment and suggest materials that might be helpful in furthering your understanding of the area.”

“Thank you,” You smile, and he nods at you again.

Stepping away from Agent Hotchner, you look to your right. Dr. Reid is still engaged deeply in conversation with Dr. Adams. You glance at your watch. There was time before your next class, you supposed, so you could wait. It couldn’t hurt to find out more, could it? It wasn‘t like you were getting your hopes up or anything.

It’s then that you feel a pair of arms around your waist, a familiar scent of cologne.

“Hey!” You whip around to see your boyfriend, grinning widely.

“Hey,” You reply, “How’d you find me?”

“I was walking past when I saw you talking to that FBI agent. Seriously, FBI?” He asks, with a disapproving quirk of his eyebrow, “You want to grab a coffee before Psych?”

You want to say no. But he’s got his hand on the small of your back, leading you out of the room before you even get a chance to reply. You glance back over your shoulder, making eye contact with Dr. Reid for all of two seconds before you’re swept away.

“Seriously though babe, FBI?”

Unsurpisingly, you don’t mention your potential change in career path to him.

***

March 8th, 2009

“Come in,” Hotch calls. He looks up from the paperwork on his desk to see Spencer entering the room, clutching a report in his hand.

“That last case we were on. I was doing some more research, just for future reference about linguistic patterns. Have you read this?” He asks, sliding a copy of your paper across the desk.

Hotch gives it a cursary look over, nodding, “Yes. It’s interesting. She’s signed up as an NAT. I believe I actually spoke to her at one of our lectures last year.”

"Her work is really impressive for somebody whose only studied this at a master level.”

Hotch almost smiles, “Yes. That’s exactly why I’ve recommended to the bureau that she signs up for profiling classes. Her work shows a lot of promise. They’re sending over a copy of her completed thesis, if you’d like to read it.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, thank you,” Spencer says, struggling to conceal the smile playing on the corner of his lips.

“I’ll email it to you as soon as I receive it.”

Spencer nods, smiling properly to himself as he leaves the room. It wasn’t unusual, exactly, for him to share new research that was relevant to cases. It was important that they all kept themselves fresh and acquainted with new theories about the field. Hotch, however, didn’t miss the excited way Spencer had presented it to him. Talking about how impressive you were, as if to subtly hint. He thinks it’s quite typical, actually, that Spencer could take such an interest in someone he only knew via an essay.

Although Spencer’s response does get Hotch to send a follow-up email, inquiring about whether you’d agreed to the classes. If Spencer was this impressed with your work, it must be good.

***

June 1st, 2009

The Metro that morning is packed. It doesn’t help that you’ve not been living here long, and don’t exactly know the route from your flat to the station off by heart yet.

You'd also had to make a detour to the post office. Your, firmly ex, boyfriend had mailed over the last of your things. Really, it was good riddance. His hounding you about your choice in job had only worsened. The relationship had been hanging on by a thread long before you’d moved away last month. You were more than a little grateful that it was finally over, that you could draw a line under it all and focus on your career.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t stopped you having a little cry to yourself on the way over.

Rushing, you make it onto the Metro just as the doors are about to close, falling against the railing on the left side. You grip onto it for dear life.

On the other side of the carriage, Spencer notices someone hurrying for the train. He had been buried deep in the paper he's reading, but the bustle had pulled his attention. Your back is to him, and there’s a scarf at your feet. He wants to say something, to try and get your attention, but he can’t from where he is.

“Miss, I think you’ve dropped something,” The woman you’re standing in front of says, gesturing to the scarf pooled at your feet.

You meet her eyes, sniffling slightly, “Thank you.”

Spencer watches as you pick it up, back still to him. Crisis averted, he turns his attention back to what he's reading: the published copy of your thesis Hotch had emailed him last week.

***

September 2nd, 2009

"This is SSA ____, the newest member of our team. She’s recently graduated from the academy and has an excellent knowledge of linguistics that the bureau feels will be a great advantage to this team. She’s had her induction and now will be joining the team on a probationary basis. She’ll be spending a little time with each of you in between cases to make sure she forms well-rounded knowledge of all aspects of what we do.”

It’s a little overwhelming, having everybody’s eyes on you.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Emily is the first over, offering her hand for you to shake.

“You too, it’s really nice to meet all of you,” You say, shaking hands in turn with her, Morgan, Rossi, J.J, and Garcia.

“Hi,” Spencer calls from behind you.

You turn around to face him. You remember what Hotch had mentioned to you about him being a bit of a germaphobe, so you keep your hand by your side.

“Hi,” You say, “Dr. Reid, right?”

“You can call me Spencer,” He says, a little bashful, “I read your thesis, the study about you did about the construction of passive clauses as an indicator of guilt in adolescent offenders. It was fascinating.”

You feel yourself getting a little warm under his gaze, “Thank you. I'm surprised you’re even aware it existed.”

Hotch interrupts then, “Reid, do you want to sit with ____ while she goes over the case file? It’d be useful if you could go over how you’d go about constructing a linguistic profile.”

That’s how you end up spending much of your first day: with Spencer, huddled up over case files as he explains his profile-building process to you. Spencer’s an incredible teacher, you think. He explains his thought process without ever being condescending, leaving little gaps for you to answer.

You’re incredible, Spencer thinks. You seem to grasp exactly what he’s saying, filling in the gaps based on the clues that are actually in front of you, not letting yourself be guided too much by bias.

***

October 29th, 2009

Spencer loves everyone at the BAU. They’re all the family he never had, and he has relatively good friendships with all of them. Just, they aren’t quite the same as they are with you.

He struggles to put his finger on it, exactly. It’s a unique relationship. He shares very familial bonds with a lot of them: he and Morgan are brotherly, Rossi is fatherly, Garcia’s somewhat like an overexcited little sister.

The friendship he has with you is special. You always listen to him, even as he rambles on about inane things that anybody else would tell him to shut up about. In fact, sometimes about the exact things that they do tell him to shut up about. Just last week, he was rambling on about Star Trek when Morgan told him, not altogether unkindly, to “give it a rest, kid.”

“What was that you were saying?” You’d asked, sidling up to him, “I’ve never watched Star Trek but I thought the quote was beam me up Scotty.”

He’d looked at you, considering you for a moment, “You don’t have to-”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know Spence. You think I’d ask for a 15 minute lecture on Star Trek if I wasn’t interested in it?”

A warm feeling flooded his chest. The look on your face was so genuine, and you’d perched on the edge of his desk as he gesticulated, getting deep into the lore and how the misconception had come about. He still didn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, until he got to the end of his spiel. And then you asked him a question. You asked him a question to make sure you understood what he was talking about. You were listening the whole time, and you genuinely cared about the point he was making.

It's then that he realises, it was hard to pinpoint because it wasn’t friendship. He likes you. Shit.

***

November 2nd, 2009

You like everybody at the BAU. They’re all quite patient with you, really, happy to walk you through how they do things. Morgan’s taught you quite a bit about the tactical side of things already, and Rossi has been working with you on your interrogation techniques. Emily’s generally just a great mentor, always happy to listen and support however she can. She’s more experienced, but still relatively new to the team too, so you feel like there’s a certain understanding between you.

However, you’d definitely be lying if you said the person you hadn’t learnt the most from, or spent the most time with, was Spencer.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed by the rest of the team, either. You seemed to gravitate towards one another, forever sitting side-by-side on the plane. Sharing a line of thinking that usually led to devolved rambling, and scribbling, until you came up with something coherent.

It isn’t until November 2nd that you realise you have feelings for him.

You’re sitting at your desk, filling out a case report that Emily had promised to go over with you before she left for lunch.

“Hey,” Spencer’s familiar soothing voice comes, as he sidles up to you, “I got you something.”

Looking up, you notice the coffee cup in his right hand, “You are my caffeine lifesaver.”

He hands it to you, smiling a little nervously, “It’s actually not that.”

“Oh?”

His other hand is tucked behind his back, and he pulls it foward towards you, brandishing a red sweatshirt.

“I know you uh, left your red sweater behind at the hotel on the last case. And I know it was your favourite one, and I was shopping yesterday and I saw this and...” He trails off, embarassed, “It’s not the exact same, but it’s the same kind. I just thought you might like it.”

You swallow, hard, “Spencer that’s so sweet. C-Can I hug you?”

He nods. Standing up from your desk, you wrap your arms around his frame.

“That was so thoughtful.”

He squeezes you a little, really leaning into the hug, his face pressing against your shoulder. His tousled hair tickles your nose a little and you smile, clinging onto him, relishing in the feeling of safety and warmth.

It hits you then. When you realise you don’t want to let go. When you realise he makes you feel fuzzy. Loved. Cared for in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. Eventually, you have to let him go, and it’s in a daze that you return to your desk. You’re so concentrated on your overwhelming realisation, you don’t realise how reluctant he is to let you leave his embrace.

***

December 22nd, 2009

Driving Spencer home from the office was really just an excuse to get some time alone with him. You’d said something about the Metro being busy, one of the services being cancelled. He hadn’t factchecked you on that.

The BAU had tentative plans for boxing day, with the caveat being that no emergent cases arrived in the meantime. It was only really four days you wouldn’t see him, but that was longer than you’d ever gone without seeing him in all the time you’d known him. You worked together everyday, and it was unusual for you to go a full weekend without seeing each other. Recently, you’d got into the habit of going out for Sunday brunch together.

Pulling up outside his house, you hear him sigh.

“I know it’s only four days, but I’ll miss you.”

Smiling, you turn to him, “I’ll miss you too.”

Something in you changes then. He’s looking at you. You may be relatively new to profiling but you can see something behind his eyes, feel the charge of unsaid words electrifying the air.

“Can I hug you?” He asks.

“You can always hug me,” You reply, undoing your seatbelt and opening your arms for him.

He embraces you the way he always has: tightly. Like he doesn’t want to let go, couldn’t imagine ever letting you go. His face nuzzles to the crook of your neck, and then you feel his thumb brush your chin. Tilting your head down.

You exchange a look. His eyes flicker from your eyes, to your lips, and back. You nod your head, just slightly.

He kisses you then. Tender. You melt into one another, lips moving quickly as you drink one another in. Kissing each other breathless, your fingers intertwine in his hair and his hand comes up to cup your cheek. Nothing has ever felt so right.

***

June 10th, 2011

Neither of you have ever really believed in fate. It’s hard to - especially in your line of work - to want to interpret the workings of the universe as deliberate. Maybe you’d think a little differently though, if you knew about all the near-misses. All the times you could have met. But fate knew better. She waited until you were ready.

And as you exchange vows, promising each other your forever, you both know you couldn’t possibly deny that this was meant to be.

------

Taglists: @takeyourleap-of-faith @sassiest-politician

(let me know if you would like to be added to/removed from this list!)

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #imagine spencer reid #criminal minds x you #imagine criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagines #pls like this it took me so long

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fallen-gravity · 3 years ago

Text

Intellectual Adequacy

Stan hates to start any unnecessary conflict, especially when there’s a very real chance that Ford will be moving to California next year, but he knows deep down that if they don’t talk about this now then he’ll never have the courage to bring it up again.

“Wait,” Stan shouts to Ford, and he stops dead in his tracks.

Notes: In which one little plot bunny that was preventing me from getting any work done becomes its own rabbit hole.

I genuinely cannot believe that in the six-seven years I've been in this fandom, I've never tried my hand at the fix-it-fic where Stan and Ford just talk it out as teenagers, just like they should've in canon. I've seen a lot of different approaches, but I feel like I've yet to see one that tackles it from the perspective of Stan's own battle with his self-worth, rather than the actions he or Ford have already taken.

AO3

Stan hates the principal’s office more than anywhere else in the world.

He swears, he’s called down every other week for something that’s not even his fault. He punched Crampelter in the nose for harassing some poor freshman? Principal’s office. He talks back to a teacher calling his classmate stupid for forgetting an “obvious” geometry equation? Principal’s office. He accidentally drops his pencil during an exam and bends over to pick it up? He must be cheating. Principal’s office.

If you asked him, the whole idea of sending kids to the principal’s office is pointless to begin with. Oh, you did something bad, and now we’re gonna make the big man in charge tell your mommy and daddy? How old do these people think they are?

Stan wishes he could say that this time is okay because they’re not even talking to him. They’re talking up a storm to Ford in there about another college scholarship and all the reasons why he and he alone would be the perfect candidate for some random school all the way out in California

But it’s not okay, because the longer Stan sits in the dumb waiting room the more he’s starting to feel like chopped liver. They’ve been in there for at least five minutes with no sign of stopping anytime soon, but every time Stan asks the secretary if he can just go back to class already she dismisses him with a wave of her hand and it’ll be your turn soon, sit back down.

He’s thinking of just sneaking out the next time the secretary buries her nose back into her magazine. It’s simple: just wait for her to pull it out from her desk, sneak by as quick as he can, and slip out the door and back to class before she can even notice he’s gone.

He stands from his chair, pretending to stretch and preparing to execute, but freezes solid when he hears his name being spoken from within the principal’s office.

“…What about our little free spirit Stanley?”

It’s Ma, and whatever it is they’re talking about in there, she isn’t happy about it. Frowning, Stan glances over at the secretary to make sure that she isn’t staring at him, and presses his ear to the office door to listen to their conversation more carefully.

The principal laughs in response. “That clown? At this rate he’ll be lucky if he graduates high school”

Stan’s taken aback by the harsh choice of words, but if he knows Ford, then he won’t just sit there and let the principal talk about him like that. He presses his ear further into the door, waiting for Ford to interrupt the principal’s rambling about how he’s never going to amount to anything with you just don’t know him like I do, or something along those lines, but it never comes.

Not a single interjection that…anything he’s saying is wrong. Not from Pa, not from Ford….and not even from Ma.

They don’t…all really believe that, right?

There has to be something else he’s missing. He bets they’re defending his honor right now, and the reason they’re not making a big scene about it is because they’re in public.

Yeah.

He’s got nothing to worry about.

He peeks into the window, expecting to see Ma glaring daggers into the principal, or Ford silently cursing him out behind his back, but what he’s met with is so much worse. Ma and Pa are exchanging warm smiles, and Ford is frantically shaking hands with the principal, beaming brighter than Stan’s ever seen in his entire life.

Matter of fact, Stan’s not sure he’s ever seen any of them look so happy in his entire life.

He’s worthless, he’ll never go anywhere, and they’re all smiling about it.

Stan’s heart drops to his stomach, and he slides to the floor to join it.

Is this some kind of cruel joke? Were they expecting him to listen in on their conversation? Is this their cruel workaround of telling him he’ll never amount to shit?

He sighs.

He stays there on the cold tiled floor for what feels like hours, contemplating all the times he’s been called dumb, or stupid, or a terrible influence on his brother. All of those times when he could brush it off just because it was coming from someone he didn’t care about.

But worthless?

Behind his back, spoken directly to people he loves, and they won’t even bother to defend him?

That one’s new, and if Stan is going to be completely honest with himself, it’s much harder to brush off his shoulders than all those other times.

Stan doesn’t even notice the office door opening until it nearly smacks him in the back of his head. He quickly jumps to his feet and brushes himself off, pretending the best that he can that he wasn’t just eavesdropping on them for the past ten minutes.

“Stanley!” Ford comes bursting out of the room, his grin threatening to split his face in two. “I just received the most incredible news! The admissions team at West Coast Tech heard about my science fair project, and-”

The beam suddenly slips from his face, replaced with some sort of mix of confusion and concern. “Is...Something wrong?”

Stan rubs at his eyes to make sure he hadn’t started tearing up without realizing it, but no, his eyes are bone dry.

Curse Ford’s stupid ability to read his mind.

Stan covers up the gesture of rubbing at his eyes with a yawn, and stretches his arms in the air. “Nothing except you taking forever in there” he flashes a fake smile easily. “Talk about a blabbermouth, am I right?” Stan gestures towards the principal with his thumb.

Ford laughs, and returns his gaze to the pamphlet in his hands. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think he’s so bad”

Stan opens his mouth to quip back, but Ford doesn’t seem to be paying much attention anymore. He’s just staring at that dumb pamphlet, his grin slowly but surely returning to his face again.

Instead, Stan shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs, turning his gaze to the floor. “Yeah, I guess you’re right”

~~~

Stan feels like he’s in a haze for the rest of the day. Even when he tries to focus on class to take his mind off of things and redirect it on anything else, he can’t get his mind to stick. Not even final period gym class can save him, which is really saying something, because the gymnasium is usually the one place where he thrives.

Worthless.

The word won’t stop bouncing around in his skull, hitting him where he’s most sensitive.

It doesn’t help a thing that Ford is dead silent on their walk home from school. He’s usually chatting up a storm to Stan about stuff he doesn’t really understand, and under normal circumstances Stan can’t wait to get home so he can bury his head in his pillow and drown out the sound of Ford’s babbling.

But today he’s not even looking in Stan’s direction, just burying his nose in the West Coast Tech brochure with stars in his eyes, and now Stan wants nothing more than to hear Ford babbling on about his advanced physics classes.

It’s almost insulting.

Stan sighs, and lightly taps on Ford’s shoulder to catch his attention. “Can we talk?”

“Hmm?” Ford blinks, like he needs a few moments to readjust to reality. “Oh! Of course. I was actually planning on asking you the same thing” he places the brochure in his pocket. “Same place as always?”

Stan nods. “Same place as always”.

It’s a quick change of direction and a shortcut to the beach before they find themselves on their old swing set. By now they’re both too heavy to use it properly without a risk of snapping it, but they still find it’s a good place to go when they just need to get away and talk.

“You’re not really thinking of going to that stuffy old school, are you?” Stan asks as soon as Ford sits on the swing beside him. “They’ve gotta be crazy if they think four more years of essays and exams are better lookin’ than tanned babes and gold chains. We’re so close to finishing up the Stan-O-War. Soon as graduation rolls around we’re outta here, just like we always promised”.

Ford chuckles. “That is a nice thought, but…” he pulls the brochure out of his pocket again, and unfolds it for Stan to see. “You have to understand that I can’t just pass up an opportunity like this. Maybe I don’t need a degree from any old state school, but this is West Coast Tech we’re talking about!” he beams, the stars returning to his eyes. “They’ve got cutting edge technology and multidimensional paradigm theory”

Stan rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but admit to himself it’s nice to have his brother back again after an entire day of radio silence.

“Beep boop, giant nerd robot oncoming” Stan punches Ford in the arm.

Ford’s grin only widens. “I figured you’d say that, but it’s too late to change my mind. The head of admissions already flew in this morning, and with my go-ahead they’re going to check out my science fair project later tonight and let me know then and there if they want me at their school”

“Well that seems kind of harsh” Stan quips. “What if they say no?”

Ford shrugs. “Well, then it’s like you said. If they don’t want me, you and I sail off on the Stan-O War and never look back”.

Stan frowns at the strong emphasis on if. He really thinks he’s going to get this, doesn’t he? Stan can’t exactly blame him when he’s been the reigning valedictorian of their class every year since they were kids.

“And if they say yes?”

Ford grins. “Well, then you better visit me on the other side of the country” he punches Stan in the shoulder, and stands to his feet without saying another word.

Stan can’t bring himself to join him. He knows that Ford didn’t mean anything by it, but he can’t help feel wounded by his brother’s implication that while he’s off in California having the time of his life, Stan’s still gonna be stuck living with their parents in New Jersey.

It’s just like their principal said. He’ll never amount to anything anyway, so why wouldn’t he stay in New Jersey? Where else would a worthless piece of shit like him end up?

Stan shifts on his swing and watches as Ford walks away, and he can’t help but wonder just how much of the principal’s tangent that Ford believed.

All of it?

Some of it?

Had Ford even been listening to what he said at all?

As he continues to watch his brother walk away, he can’t help the feeling in his gut that he has to know. He hates to start any unnecessary conflict, especially when there’s a very real chance that Ford will be moving to California next year, but Stan knows deep down that if they don’t talk about this now then he’ll never have the courage to bring it up again.

“Wait,” Stan shouts to Ford, and he stops dead in his tracks.

“Yeah?” Ford says, turning around to face him. Stan suddenly finds himself very aware of his heart loudly pounding against his chest, but he forces himself to squash that down. He’s never felt shy or anxious about asking his brother anything, and he sure as hell isn’t letting that start now.

“You don’t…uh,” he swallows. “You don’t think I’m…worthless, do you?”

Ford looks appalled. He neatly folds the brochure back into his pocket and starts walking- no, jogging, almost sprinting back to the swing set. He pauses in front of the empty swing beside Stan for a moment, like he’s debating whether he should sit down or not, but eventually he shakes his head and sits down anyway.

“What on earth makes you say that?” There’s a hint of anger to his tone, but Stan’s not entirely convinced it’s directed at him. “Why would I think you’re worthless? You’re my twin brother! What could’ve possibly put the idea in your head that I thought that?”

There’s a tiny voice in the back of his head screaming at him to back out, brush it off with a joke and have this conversation later, but there’s an even louder voice shouting at him that it needs to be had now.

Stan sighs. “I…overheard everything in the principal’s office today”

Ford blinks, like he doesn’t understand a word that Stan just said. “About…West Coast Tech? Is this because you’re afraid that I’ll get in, but you know you won’t because you’re not even interested in applying anyway, but you know you’re going to miss me, and you’re not sure if you can handle-”

“About me, Sixer!” Stan shouts, and tries his damn hardest to ignore the waver in his voice. “He practically called me a useless piece of shit directly to Ma and Pa and neither of them said a word about it!” He scrubs his hands down his face because he’s not choking up, not over something so pointless and stupid. “You’re going to travel the world and become the smartest person the scientific community has ever seen, or whatever, but me? Apparently I’ll always be stuck here in New Jersey to pick up after everyone else’s messes, because that’s all I’m ever good for”

Stan buries his face in his hands. He hadn’t meant to blow up, and he certainly hadn’t meant to direct his anger at Ford, but he just feels so hopeless, and he’s the only one around who’s willing to listen. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ford returned with anger of his own, or told him off for being selfish, or even if he just decided to stand up and walk away from him for being such an embarrassment.

The silence that follows is thick and heavy. Stan is so convinced that he must’ve driven Ford away that when he feels a hand on his shoulder he nearly jumps a mile out of his skin. When he finally pulls his hands out of his face to meet Ford’s eyes, his face is flushed pink and he looks…embarrassed.

“Stan, I had no idea, I…” he awkwardly pulls his hand away and grips tightly to the chain of his swing. Stan can see Ford’s face shifting through about a dozen different emotions at once. “I…must’ve been too focused on everything else to realize he was saying those things about you.” He shakes his head. “I know it’s not an excuse, but…” he sighs. “I’m sorry”

There’s another bout of silence between them. Stan’s half-expecting that to be the end of it, and for Ford to walk away without another word.

But Ford breaks the silence with a sigh, and when Stan glances over at him he’s staring down at the ground.

“If it’s any consolation...you’re much smarter than me in a lot more places than you realize”

Okay, now Stan has to laugh. “Okay, now you’re being too nice to me. You don’t need to lie to make me feel better”

“I’m serious!” Ford’s cheeks flush pink again, and he adjusts his glasses before returning his gaze towards Stan. “There’s actually been a fascinating number of studies about intelligence lately, and, well…” Ford’s face is turning redder by the minute, Stan swears. “It turns out that…there’s more than one type”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “You’re losing me here, Sixer”

“Well, you see, I thrive in academic intelligence. Math, science, history, you know, school stuff. That’s the most commonly known type of intelligence because a lot of our formative years are based on it”

Stan doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrow even further.

“But,” Ford continues quickly, “They’ve also made discoveries about the existence of social intelligence”

“Social?” Stan blinks, suddenly finding himself significantly more interested. “You mean like talking to people and stuff?”

Ford nods. “Precisely. They say people with high social intelligence are much better at picking up on social cues, and can make friends with others much easier than those with lower social intelligence.” Ford kicks at the sand. “The reason social intelligence hasn’t been recognized is because it’s often mistaken for having a friendly personality”. His face flushes pink again, like he’s afraid he said the wrong thing. “Not that a person can’t have both, but…”

Stan smirks, nudging at Ford with his elbow. “Stanford Pines, are you calling your good-for-nothing brother intelligent?” He teases, but can’t help the genuine smile creeping to his face.

“Think about it!” Ford throws an arm into the air, the other one tightly gripped on the swing to prevent himself from falling off. “Every time Ma and Pa leave us in charge of the shop so they can go to Atlantic City for the weekend, who’s the one bringing in all the customers? Who’s the one selling out our daily stock less than two hours after we’re open? You are, Stan, just by being yourself. You know how to persuade people into buying our stock at ten times the listed price.”

“You can’t learn that from twelve years of public school. They can try to teach you, but at the end of the day it’s all about your ability to connect with people” Ford rubs at his arm. “I’ve tried teaching myself those kinds of tricks for years, but at the end of the day…” he shakes his head. “I’ve never been able to catch up.” He smiles. “I raise my white flag to you, Stan. You’ve outsmarted the smartest brother in the world”

Stan chuckles. “Try telling that to Principal Comb-over. He hears you saying the so-called dumbest clown in the entire school system is smarter than you and he’s going to cart you away to the loony bin”

Ford laughs. “You know, now that I think about it, there may actually be a way to tell him off for what he said about you and get away with it scott-free”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? How so?”

Ford smirks. “I think you should try to graduate out of spite”

Stan’s not sure he follows. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean, think about it” Ford stands from his swing and begins to pace back and forth. “The principal called both of us down even though he only wanted to speak to me, and then he talked shit about you even though he knew you were sitting right outside his door?” he pauses in his pacing. “Stan, he knew that you could hear him. Maybe he didn’t intend for you to listen in when he was talking to Ma and Pa about my scholarship opportunity, but he knew you’d be listening the moment you were brought up in the conversation”

That’s…true. Stan was just about to sneak out before he heard them say his name.

“He’s expecting you to fail, and he wants to put it in everyone else’s head too. He thinks it’s the easy way out, because if you choose to fail out on your own than he doesn’t have to take responsibility for being such a shitty educator. It gives him the chance to say look how he didn’t even try instead of look at how we failed him.”

“But if you proved him wrong? Imagine the look on his face when he has to be the one to place that diploma in your hand. Imagine him having to look you dead in the eyes and tell you he’s proud of you. You’ll know he’s speaking bullshit, but he knows he can’t talk shit about you anymore without making himself look bad.” Ford smirks. “Matter of fact, imagine the looks on the faces of everyone who’s ever doubted you walking across that stage. Pa alone is gonna have a heart attack”

Ford’s smile softens. “I already know that you’re much smarter than you’re given credit for, and I think it’s about time that everyone else recognizes that too”.

Stan’s cheeks burn red, and he shyly kicks at the sand. “Heh, thanks. I appreciate it.” He says. “But even if I did manage to graduate, what am I supposed to do with a high school diploma? Every job application I’ve been skinning through recently says college, college, college”

“Well…” Ford taps at his chin. “Then why not go out for college?”

Okay, now he’s taking things too far.

“Pardon?” Stan mocks, because if Ford thinks that Stan’s going to willingly take four more years of classes than maybe he should be carted away to a loony bin.

“I’m serious!” Ford blushes. “Maybe not a high intensity school like West Coast Tech, but college is so much more freeing than high school, Stanley. It’s not class after class on subjects that other people tell you to take. It’s personalized. If you hate science class so much, you never have to take another science class again”

Ford’s blush darkens. “I know that school is a big drag and all, but if you asked me?” he averts his gaze. “I think you’d really benefit from business school. Charisma and social intelligence is the number one thing that big name businesses are looking for, and I know you’re filled to the brim with both. Ultimately it is your decision, but…” Ford fiddles with his thumbs. “Just…just consider it, okay?”

For a brief moment, Stan just wants to burst out into hysterical laughter. Ford’s been offered the opportunity of a lifetime at one of the best schools in the country, and he’s still taking the time to help out his good-for-nothing brother who’s been cheating off of his exams for the past ten years.

Instead he settles for a roll of his eyes. “Alright, Professor Poindexter, I’ll consider it”

Ford giggles at that, and for a few moments neither of them says anything, watching the waves gently lapping on the beach in the short distance. It’s a comfortable silence, a reassuring sort of feeling that Stan hasn’t felt in a long time.

The frantic beeping of Pa’s wristwatch interrupts them, and both boys flinch at the sound in unison. For a moment Stan is worried that Pa’s standing behind them having heard every word, but when he glances over at Ford, he sees him rolling up his shirt sleeve to reveal that he’s the one wearing the watch, and clicks the alarm off.

“Pa made me borrow it so I wouldn’t be late for the presentation with the school board” he rubs awkwardly at the back of his head. “I’ll probably give it back as soon as I get home tonight”

Stan smirks. “You still hate the sound of that thing too, huh?”

“I can still hear it in my nightmares,” Ford exaggerates, his eyes going wide, and the twins burst into laughter as they both stand from the swings and stretch their arms and legs to wake them up from sitting for so long.

Ford wipes at his eye as he fidgets with the wristwatch. “So…do you think you’re going to be okay?”

That in itself is a pretty loaded question that could take him all night to answer, but all things considering…

“Yeah,” Stan smiles. “I think I’ll be okay”

Ford smiles back, and gestures with his thumb towards the direction of the pawn shop. “Then I’m going to head home and get ready for my presentation. You coming?”

Stan shakes his head. “I think I’ll stay out here and just…watch the ocean for a little while longer”

Ford’s smile softens, but he doesn’t say anything else. He turns heel and walks back towards the house, and it feels as though a giant weight has just been lifted off of Stan’s chest. He glances back to watch Ford go, but finds comfort in the feeling that he feels nothing at all.

~~~

Nearly five hours later, Stan sits at home, watching television on the couch to pass the time. Just out of the corner of his eye he sees Ford slip into the kitchen and gently click the door closed. Stan shuts the TV off, and spins around on the couch to face his brother.

“Well?” Stan asks, though he knows he doesn’t even need to bother asking, given that Ford looks like he’s about to burst. With a shaking hand, Ford reaches into his pocket and pulls out a glinting white envelope.

If he’s trying to keep an air of mystery about it, he’s doing a really bad job, because all at once his composure breaks and the smile that spreads across his face looks as though it could burn out the sun.

“They loved me!” He shouts, excitedly pacing the floor. “They told me they’ve never seen anyone else like me!”

His smile is so contagious that it hurts.

Perhaps another day, in another timeline, Stan would take offense to Ford’s excitement to bounce off to the other end of the country without him. Perhaps he’d even lash out, or do something he would’ve immediately regretted.

But here and now, Stan couldn’t be happier for his brother if he tried.

#my writing #gravity falls #stan twins #stan pines #ford pines

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theskzvibe · 3 years ago

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MIXED UP JAKE SIM

CHAPTER 1

you dragged your feet throughout the halls and towards your locker, one cup of coffee this morning was not enough to keep you going. as you opened your locker, someone tapped your shoulder. “y/n!!” your best friend sunoo smiled at you, instantly energizing you. “hey bestie” you smiled back at him while you put your books in your locker and shut it closed. “what happened to you? you look like the walking dead.” Sunoo said making you scoff. “I was up late last night, I practiced for the dance team tryouts after school, and then I practically pulled an all nighter on homework and essays.” you grumbled. “you’re a really good dancer I don't understand why you are still practicing. was Giselle with you?” sunoo asked while you two both walked to your first class, and you nodded. “speaking of the devil” sunoo laughs as a very tired Giselle slowly walks up to you both. “hey zombie girl” sunos smirks at Giselle while she hits his arm. “I am tired. “sunoo don't forget that picture I have of you with ramen up your nose.” Giselle raises her eyebrows. “my dear best friend is threatening to blackmail me right now?” “yes but I don't have the energy to keep going.” Giselle says while yawning. Suddenly Giselles eyes widen and she straightens up. “what just woke you up?” Sunoo said while looking behind him. There they were, the soccer team; Heeseung, Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, Niki. “gross Giselle stop drooling over Heeseung, and grow some balls and ask him out.” sunoo rolls his eyes. “what would I even say to him, he doesn’t even know me.” Giselle whines. “why don't you ask your little brother to set you two up?” you ask. “NO! I can never tell Niki about my crush on his soccer captain. He will never stop making fun of me, I can see it already.” “well maybe y/n will grow some balls to ask out ‘pineapple’ and then you guys can double date.” Sunoo laughs. “SHHHH hes right there!” you whisper yell. “Y/n I literally said his codename you made for him when we were in middle school. plus hes busy talking to Jake.” Sunoo rolls his eyes. “wait y/n it would be so cute if you went out with Sunghoon and I went out with Heeseung and we double dated!” Giselle gushed. “SHHHHH Giselle!! please say pineapple. I’d be screwed if he found out I liked him.” you worried. “ugh fine, but code names are cringey, like why pineapple? he reminds me more of an apple to be honest.” Giselle says while starring at him. “Don’t stare directly at him! he’ll know we are talking about him” you say. “talking about who?” someone asks right behind Giselles shoulder making all of you jump. “NIKI YOU LITTLE BITCH! DONT EVER SCARE ME AGAIN” Giselle yells at her brother while he just laughs. “why are you guys drooling over my teammates? its gross.” niki makes a disgusted face. “y/n has been hopelessly in love with sunghoon for 4 years now, and she hasn't made a move yet.” sunoo bluntly says. Niki gasps and covers up his mouth, “noway” he starts laughing. “Sunoo! why would you tell him?! Niki please don't say anything.” you plead. “I won’t tell him, but you should make a move fast, ever since he had that growth spurt, more girls are hitting on him by the day.” niki states. “but he grew like last year, and girls have always been over him” you argue. “damn girl you study him or something?” niki says, making sunoo laugh. “in fact she does.” sunoo states. “sunoo we should set them up.” niki says out of nowhere. “that's not like you Niki, what's the condition?” Giselle asks. “well you guys are trying out for the dance team, and that hot girl Yuna is on the team...” niki pleads with his eyes. “NO WAY YOU LIKE YUNA?” Giselle screams, and as a reflex niki covers her mouth. Giselle smacks his hand off her mouth, “she's too nice for you but whatever, deal.” Niki smiles in satisfaction. “okay after school today you guys should come to soccer practice to watch, after practice you guys come up to me and it could be a good excuse for you guys to talk to them” Niki schemes. “good idea, niki we can text about our y/n & sunghoon plan ideas” sunoo says while already starting a to do list on his phone. “you guys are something else.” Giselle says while rolling her eyes at her brother and best friend. “Okay we got physics class to get to, bye bestie! bye stinky!” Giselle says to the boys while linking arms with you, and turning in the direction of your classroom. “watch what you call me! I’m helping you and your hopeless romantic best friend out?” Niki yells back at you two. you two laugh all the way to your classroom. “oh hey y/n! Giselle!” Jake sim greets you both with a smile at your shared classrooms door. “hey Jake!” you say in return, as he holds the door for you and lets you enter the room first. you mutter a quiet “thank you” and head towards your desk. you have been friends with Jake since preschool, your mothers were and still friends, making you two friendly. you two used to be close in preschool, but as you guys got older, you drifted and things became a bit more awkward. the extent of your conversations were just hellos, and jakes occurring morning niceness when he holds the door for you. sometimes you guys discuss work in class or quietly joke when your teacher is making no sense again. you sat down at your seat, with Giselle who always sits next to you, and Jake who decided to sit behind you, and following him was his best friend sunghoon.

as your teacher started with the lesson, everything was good, but then with the equations, you suddenly got lost. “oh my god.” Giselle practically smacked her head on the lab desk. “what happened?” you whispered. she showed you her phone that presented a text from her brother Niki. “he’s making me do errands for him because of the deal” she groaned. “oh no im sorry g” you rubbed her back. “what does he want?” you asked. “he wants hot coco from the cafeteria. its fine this class is boring anyways, ill be right back.” and Giselle took the bathroom pass and left.

The teacher left you guys to work with your partners but you physically groaned out of confusion, and not having a partner because Giselle was being used by her brother. “what?” you whisper to yourself. Jake with his super hearing must have heard you because he called your name making you turn around. you make eye contact with Jake and then look next to him and see sunghoon, making your heart rate instantly increase. your cheeks reddened and you looked back at Jake, “yeah?” you asked. “I was wondering since you don't have anyone to work with right now, if you wanted to work with us?” he shyly smiled. you sighed out of relief, “honestly yes please because I am so confused right now.” you laughed. “yeah mr.kim doesn't even teach, the only reason why i’m passing is because Jake gives me his notes. he’s a science whiz.” sunghoon jokes, making Jake shy. “yeah I always remember Jake was always the smartest in our class, even in preschool” you laughed, making Jake blush harder. Jake clears his throat and looks up at you “well tomorrow night we are going to the library to work on physics, if you want to join us?” Jake asks. “that would be really helpful Jake, thank you.” you smile again and turn around as you see Giselle walking back in. “hey” you greet her while she sits down. “why is my little brother the literal devil reincarnated?” she says making you laugh.

MIXED UP MASTER LIST

next: chapter 2

taglist: @zylenes

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grubbyduck · 4 years ago

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No Man’s Land - an essay on feminism and forgiveness

I have always proudly named myself a feminist, since I was a little girl and heard my mum proudly announcing herself as a feminist to anyone who would listen.

But I believe the word 'feminist' takes on a false identity in our collective imagination - it is seen as hard, as baked, severe, steadfast, stubborn and rooted. From a male perspective, it possibly means abrasive, or too loud, or intimidatingly intolerant of men. From a female perspective, though, these traits become revered by young feminists; the power of knowing what you think and never rolling over! My experience of being a feminist throughout my life has been anything but - it has been a strange and nebulous aspect of my identity; it has sparked the familiar fires of bravery, ambition, rage, sadness and choking inarticulacy at times, sure, but at other times it has inspired apathy, reactionary attitudes, bravado and dismissivness. And at other, transitive times, it caused me to rethink my entire outlook on the world. And then again. And then again.

In primary school, I read and re-read Sandi Toksvig’s book GIRLS ARE BEST, which takes the reader through the forgotten women of history. I didn’t feel angry - I felt awed that there were female pirates, women on the front line in the world wars, women at the forefront of invention, science and literature. I still remember one line, where it is revealed that NASA’s excuse for only hiring six women astronauts compared to hundreds of men was that they didn’t stock suits small enough.

When I was 13, I tried to start a girl's rugby team at my school. I got together 15 girls who also wanted to form a team. We asked the coaches if they would coach us - their responses varied from 'maybes' to straight up 'no's. The boys in our year laughed at us publicly. We would find an old ball, look up the rules online, and practise ourselves in free periods - but the boys would always come over, make fun of us and take over the game until we all felt too insecure to carry on. I shouted at a lot of boys during that time, and got a reputation among them as someone who was habitually angry and a bit of a buzzkill. Couldn't take a joke - that kind of thing.

When I was around 16, I got my first boyfriend. He was two years older (in his last year of sixth form) and seemed ever so clever to me. He laughed about angry feminists, and I laughed too. He knew I classified myself as a feminist, but, you know, a cool one - who doesn't get annoyed, and doesn't correct their boyfriends' bulging intellects. And in any case, whenever I did argue with him about anything political or philosophical, he would just chant books at me, list off articles he'd read, mention Kant and say 'they teach that wrong at GCSE level'. So I put more effort into researching my opinions (My opinions being things like - Trump is a terrible person who should not be elected as President - oh yeah, it was 2016), but every time I cited an article, he would tell me why that article was wrong or unreliable. I couldn't win. He was a Trump supporter (semi-ironically, but that made it even worse somehow) and he voted Leave in the Brexit referendum. He also wouldn't let me get an IUD even though I had terrible anxiety about getting pregnant, because of his parents' Catholicism. He sulked if he ever got aroused and then I didn’t feel like having sex, because apparently it ‘hurts’ men physically. One time I refused sex and he sulked the whole way through the night, refusing to sleep. I was incensed, and felt sure that my moral and political instincts were right, but I had been slowly worn down into doubting the validity of my own opinions, and into cushioning his ego at every turn - especially when he wasn't accepted into Oxford.

When I was 17/18, I broke up with him, and got on with my A Levels. One of them was English Literature. I remember having essay questions drilled into us, all of which were fairly standard and uninspired, but there was one that I habitually avoided:

'Discuss the presentation of women in this extract'

It irritated me beyond belief to hear the way that our class were parroting phrases like 'commodification and dehumanisation of women' in order to get a good grade. It felt so phony, so oversimplified, and frankly quite insulting. I couldn't bear reading classic books with the intent of finding every instance that the author compares a woman to an animal. It made me so sad! I couldn't understand how the others could happily write about such things and be pleased with their A*. As a keen contributor to lessons, my teacher would often call on me to comment in class - and to her surprise, I think, my responses about 'women's issues' were always sullen and could be characterised by a shrug. I wanted to talk about macro psychology, about Machievellian villains, about Shakespreare's subversion of comic convention in the English Renaissance. I absolutely did not want to talk about womb imagery, about men’s fixation and sexualisation of their mothers or about docile wives. In my application for Cambridge, I wrote about landscape and the psyche in pastoral literature, and got an offer to study English there. I applied to a mixed college - me and my friends agreed that we’d rather not go if we got put into an all female college.

When I was 19, I got a job as an actor in a touring show in my year out before starting at Cambridge. I was the youngest by a few years. One company member - a tall, handsome and very talented man in his mid-twenties - had the exact same job title as me, only he was being paid £100 more than me PER WEEK. I was the only company member who didn’t have an agent, so I called the producers myself to complain. They told me they sympathised, that there just wasn’t enough money in the budget to pay me more - and in the end, I managed to negotiate myself an extra £75 per week by taking on the job of sewing up/fixing any broken costumes and puppets. So I had more work, and was still being paid 25% less. The man in question was a feminist, and complained to his agent (although he fell through on his promise to demand that he lose £50 a week and divide it evenly between us). He was a feminist - and yet he commented on how me and the other woman in the company dressed, and told us what to wear. He was a feminist, only he slept with both of us on tour, and lied to us both about it. He was a feminist, only he pitted me against and isolated me from the only other woman in the company, the only person who may have been a mentor or a confidante. He was a feminist, only he put me down daily about my skills as a performer and made me doubt my intelligence, my talent and my worth.

When I was 20, I started at Cambridge University, studying English Literature. Over the summer, I read Lundy Bancroft’s book ‘Why Does He Do That’ which is a study of abusers and ‘angry and controlling men’. It made me realise that I had not been given the tools to recognise coercive and controlling behaviour - I finally stopped blaming myself for attracting controlling men into my life. I also read ‘Equal’ by Carrie Gracie, about her fight to secure equal pay for equal work at the BBC in 2017-2019. It was reading that book that I fully appreciated that I had already experienced illegal pay discrimination in the workplace. Both made me cry in places, and it felt as though something had thawed in me. I realised that I was not the exception. That ‘women’s issues’ do apply to me. In my first term at Cambridge, I wrote some unorthodox essays. I wrote one on Virginia Woolf named ‘The Dogs Are Dancing’ which began with a page long ‘disclaimer for my womanly emotions’ that attempted to explain to my male supervisor how difficult it is for women to write dispassionately and objectively, as they start to see themselves as unfairly separate, excluded and outlined from the male literary consciousness. He didn’t really understand it, though he enjoyed the passion behind my prose.

The ‘woman questions’ at undergraduate level suddenly didn’t seem as easy, as boring or as depressing as those I had encountered at A Level. I had to reconcile with the fact that I had only been exposed to a whitewashed version of feminism throughout my life. At University, I learned the word Intersectionality - and it made immediate and ferocious sense to me. I wrote an essay on Aphra Behn’s novella ‘Oroonoko’, which is about a Black prince and his pursuit of Imoinda, a Black princess. I had to get to grips with how a feminist author from the Renaissance period tackled issues of race. I had to examine how she dehumanised and sexualised Imionda in the same way that white women were used to being treated by men. I had to really question to what extent Aphra Behn was on Imionda’s side - examine the violent punishment of Oroonoko for mistreating her. I found myself really wanting to believe that Behn had done this purposefully as social commentary. I mentioned in my essay that I was aware of my own white female critical ingenuity. For the first time, I was writing about something I didn’t have any personal authority over in my life - I had to educate myself meticulously in order to speak boldly about race.

As I found myself surrounded by more women who were actively and unashamedly feminist, I realised just how many opinions exist within that bracket. I realised that I didn’t agree with a lot of other feminists about aspects of the movement. I started to only turn up to lectures by women. I started to only read literary criticism written by women - not even consciously; I just realised that I trusted their voices more intrinsically. I started to wish I had applied to an all female college. I realised that all female spaces weren’t uncool - that is an image that I had learned from men, and from trying to impress men. The idea that Black people, trans people, that non binary people could be excluded from feminism seemed completely absurd to me. I ended up in a mindset that was constructed to instinctively mistrust men. Not hate - just mistrust. I started to get fatigued by explaining basic feminist principles to sceptical men.

I watched the TV show Mrs America. It made my heart speed up with longing, with awe, with nerves, sorrow, anger - again, it showed me how diverse the word Feminism is. The longing I felt was for a time where feminist issues seemed by comparison clear-cut, and unifying. A time where it was good to be angry, where anger got stuff done. I am definitely angry. The problem is, the times that feminism has benefitted me and others the most in my life is when I use it forgivingly and patiently. When I sit in my anger, meditate on it, control it, and talk to those I don’t agree with on subjects relating to feminism with the active intent to understand their point of view. Listening to opinions that seemed so clearly wrong to me was the most difficult thing in the world - but it changed my life, and once again, it changed my definition of feminism.

Feminism is listening to Black women berating white feminists, and rather than feeling defensive or exempt, asking questions about how I have contributed to a movement that excludes women of colour. Feminism is listening to my mother’s anxieties about trans women being included in all-female spaces, and asking her where those anxieties stem from. Feminism is understanding that listening to others who disagree with you doesn’t endanger your principles - you can walk away from that conversation and know what you know. Feminism is checking yourself when you undermine or universalise male emotion surrounding the subject. Feminism is allowing your mind to change, to evolve, to include those that you once didn’t consider - it is celebrating quotas, remembering important women, giving thanks for the fact that feminism is so complex, so diverse, so fraught and fought over.

Feminism is common ground. It is no man’s land. It is the space between a Christian housewife and a liberated single trans woman. It is understanding women of other races, other cultures, other religions. It is disabled women, it is autistic women, it is trans men who have biologically female medical needs that are being ignored. It is forgiveness for our selfishness. It feels impossible.

The road to feminism is the road to enlightenment. It is the road to Intersectional equity. It is hard. It is a journey. No one does it perfectly. It is like the female orgasm - culturally ignored, not seen as necessary, a mystery even to a lot of women, many-layered, multitudinous, taboo, comes in waves. It is pleasure, and it is disappointment.

All I know is that the hard-faced, warrior version of feminism that was my understanding only a few years ago reduced my allies and comrades in arms to a small group of people who were almost exaclty like me and so agreed with me on almost everything. Flexible, forgiving and inquisitive feminism has resulted in me loving all women, and fighting for all women consciously. And by fighting for all women, I also must fight for Black civil rights, for disabled rights, for Trans rights, for immigrant rights, for homeless rights, for gay rights, and for all human rights because women intersect every one of these minorities. My scoffing, know-it-all self doing my A Levels could never have felt this kind of love. My ironic jokes about feminists with my first boyfriend could never have made any woman feel loved. My frustration that my SPECIFIC experience of misogyny as a white, middle-class bisexual woman didn’t feel related to the other million female experiences could never have facilitated unity, common ground, or learning to understand women that existed completely out of my experience as a woman.

My feminism has lead me to becoming friends with some of those boys who mocked me for wanting to play rugby, and with the woman that was vying with me over that man in the acting company for 8 months. It is slowly melting my resentment towards all men - it is even allowing me to feel sorry for the men who have mistreated me in the past.

I guess I want to express in this mammoth essay post that so far my feminist journey has lead me to the realisation that if your feminism isn’t growing you, you aren’t doing it right. Perhaps it will morph again in the future. But for now, Feminism is a love of humanity, rather than a hatred of it. That is all.

#Feminism #yooo i have written a thesis lol #didn’t mean to do that it all kind of flowed out #intersectional feminism #forgiveness #carrie gracie #mrs america #why does he do that #lundy bancroft #equal pay #equal rights #literature #university #school #oroonoko #aphra behn

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emisfritish · 5 years ago

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The risk it took to blossom (Part 1)

Pairing : Sarawat / Tine (2gether the series)

Summary : Five times someone talked Tine through his self-doubt and helped him see his worth, and the one time he didn't need them to. Chapter : 1/6

Next chapters : 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 Notes : Because the idea of an insecure Tine has been in my head for the past couple of weeks now, I just wanted a chance to explore that a little more, and for our boy to learn to see his self-worth. So I guess this is my attempt at that ! I’ll post one part a day until Friday’s episode.

---------

“I’m sorry, but the idea that the government chose this solution to implement at the time because it was the only one available to them is simply preposterous. I understand it was a different time, but I find the mere concept of it to be completely unfathomable, and I frankly don’t understand how you can even entertain this idea,” argues Marc, and Tine… well. Tine just wants to get out of there, to be honest.

Tine and Sarawat had been eating lunch at the cafeteria, enjoying a quiet meal before they were supposed to make their way back to Tine’s dorm room to hang out with Type and Man who were going to join them there directly, when a guy in Sarawat’s Political History class had stopped by and started to talk about their latest lesson with Sarawat, ignoring Tine completely in the process.

He doesn’t know exactly when he completely lost track of the conversation, but all Tine is hearing now are words like ‘preposterous’ and ‘unfathomable’, and he frankly just wants to go home, where he can have regular conversations with regular people and not feel so dumb all of a sudden.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Sarawat argues back, rolling his eyes at the other boy. “I’m just saying that you can’t simply overlook the historical context at the time to make your argument fit better. Obviously, it’s going to impact whatever decisions were being made at the time and pretending that it’s not the case is just greatly oversimplifying the issue.”

Marc opens his mouth, probably to argue back with a bunch of words that Tine doesn’t know again, but he decides to intervene before the boy gets a chance to.

“Wat, I’m going to start heading up to my room so that I can let Type and Man in without them having to wait too long for us. Are you okay to join us later ?” he asks his boyfriend.

Sarawat turns towards Tine at the interruption and smiles softly at him.

“Yeah, I’ll join you guys as soon as we’re done here,” he answers back, prompting Tine to smile at him in answer, before getting up to make his leave, Marc’s voice still audible in the background.

As he is walking towards his bedroom, Tine can’t stop his thoughts from going back to the conversation. He knew Sarawat was smart, of course, but he hadn’t realized that Sarawat spent his days talking with people like that. If those are the conversations he has during the day, what must it feel like when he meets up with Tine. Does he have to constantly dumb himself down for Tine ? Does he even truly enjoy talking with him ?

Deep in thought, Tine reaches his dorm room quicker than he would have thought and finds his brother, sitting on the floor in front of it.

“Sorry for making you wait. Where’s Man ?” he asks his brother, as Type gets up and looks at him intently.

“He got caught up on an essay and will join us as soon as he’s done,” he says in answer as both brothers make their way into the bedroom, Tine putting his bag down on his bed before sitting on it with a sigh.

“What’s wrong ?” asks Type, clearly being able to read his brother enough to know something is bothering him.

“Do you ever have these moments where you are suddenly reminded of how stupid you actually are ?” Tine asks in a small voice, and Type makes his way towards the bed, seating himself next to his brother and turning towards him.

“What are you talking about ? You’re not stupid,” he answers back with a frown.

“A guy from one of Sarawat’s classes stopped by while we were having lunch, and they started talking about one of their lessons and I swear I had no idea what they were even talking about half of the time.”

“Well you’re not a Political Science student Tine, you not being to understand everything they were saying makes sense,” his brother tries to reassure him, but Tine cuts him off.

“That’s not it Type though. I’m not even talking about the Political aspect of it..., This guy was talking and I swear I couldn’t even understand a third of the words that were coming out his mouth !” explains Tine, distress clear in the way he keeps running his hands through his hair, almost pulling. “Like what is Sarawat even doing with a dumb guy like me ? I certainly can’t hold conversations like those with him.”

“Please don’t speak of yourself that way. I really hate it when you do,” his brother whispers, frown getting deeper and worry pooling in his eyes. “You’re not dumb Tine. You know so much about different subjects, you’re curious and you know all these tidbits of information about the various interests you have. So you don’t know all the fancy words this guy was using ? That doesn’t mean anything. You got into this university to study law Tine. Obviously, you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

Tine sighs deeper at his brother’s words. Intellectually, he knows that what Type is saying is probably true. It’s just not what it feels like and Tine just hates his brain sometimes.

“What’s bringing this on Tine ?” his brother asks, one hand reaching towards his shoulder to turn his brother towards him.

“I just don’t want Sarawat to ever feel like he settled with me. He could have been with any of those guys and half of the university has to be pining after him, judging by his fan club. I just don’t want him to get…” Tine starts to explain, voice wavering in the middle of his sentence.

“Bored ?” prompts his brother, and Tine just nods his head in answer. “Tine, I swear I’ve never seen someone be as in love with another person the way Sarawat is with you. And the only person I’ve seen come close to that is how you feel towards him. And you think he’s bored ? You guys have so much in common ! You’re not the same people and you’re bound to have different interests, but you were friends before you even started dating and you talk so much. About everything. Of course, Sarawat isn’t bored. You know he loves spending time with you, he was in love for you months before you even got together !”

Tine nods his head in answer, recognizing that his brother does have a point. Even before they got together, him and Sarawat would often get lost into these deep discussions about various subjects, and Sarawat certainly never looked bored, at least.

“I know you don’t see yourself very clearly sometimes Tine,” his brother continues. “But I can promise Sarawat doesn’t think you’re stupid. And I know for sure that he doesn’t feel like he settled with you. Going by the look of adoration he gets every single time he looks at you, I’d say the idea that he could have settled never even crossed his mind.”

At those words, Type puts a hand around Tine’s shoulder and brings him closer, Tine resting his head on his shoulder.

The moment is interrupted a couple minutes later when Tine hears his door open. He lifts his head up from his brother’s shoulder, just in time to see Sarawat make his way into the room and smile towards the both of them.

“Hi Type,” he says, greeting the other boy, before he bends forward and takes Tine’s face in both of his hands to kiss him soundly.

“What was that for ?” asks Tine when he pulls away, not used to Sarawat being this forward in front of other people.

“This was a thank you. For giving me the perfect excuse to escape this conversation. Because god… I hate that pompous ass,” he says with a shake of his head, before sitting down in Tine’s desk chair.

“Really ?” asks Tine in surprise.

“God, yes,” he confirms, before turning towards Type to explain. “You know the type of people that will like, purposefully use all those fancy words of vocabulary to make themselves look smarter, when in reality what they’re actually saying makes no sense whatsoever ? Yeah. That’s Marc to a T.”

“You don’t say,” says Type, throwing Tine a knowing look.

“Seriously, I can’t take it with guys like him. Look at Tine, for instance ! He’s obviously smart and he studies law, yet he doesn’t feel like he has to walk around talking like a freaking encyclopedia all the time,” he says with an eye roll, and obviously still worked up about his conversation with Marc.

At these words, the uneasiness that has been pooling in Tine’s stomach since the conversation earlier in the day starts receding, and he feels a wave of relief rush through him.

Not saying anything in answer, Tine gets up from the bed and makes his way towards the desk, bending forward to place a gentle kiss on Sarawat’s lips.

When he pulls back, Sarawat looks at him with a small smile.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what did I do to deserve this ?” he asks with a teasing smile, and Tine just shakes his head and smiles at Sarawat in answer, no longer wanting to dwell on the subject.

When he turns back around towards his brother, Type is watching them with a fond look. He lifts an eyebrow and looks at his brother with a smirk.

The “See ? I told you so,” is left unsaid, but Tine hears it loud and clear anyway. And frankly, he’s never been happier for his brother to be right about something.

#sarawat x tine #saratine #2gether the series #2gether #2gether fanfic #2gether fic #saratine fanfic #saratine fic #emi's writing #I refuse to let a bunch of crazy fans ruin this for me so I guess I'll find my solace in fic and gifs #while fans learn some respect and learn to butt out of actors private lives

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ijustwant2write · 6 years ago

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‘You knew I was going to ask you out?’-Peter Parker x Powers!Reader

(GIF credit to @marvelheroes)

Masterlist

Requested by: @annoyinglyobsessive)

Can I request a peter Parker x reader where the reader has the same powers as Wanda like it’s her lil sister or smthn and Peter is in awe and thinks your powers are so cool and just constantly fawns over you and you. You’re both always together and being the cutest couple EVER (p.s. if you can include it the avengers are your biggest shippers and love you guys together) it’s totally cool if you don’t wanna do it💕💕

Characters: Peter Parker x Powers!Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: just pure fluff

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Come on Wanda, you really think you can beat me now? The student has become the master!" I teased my older sister as we partnered up to practice fighting.

"Seriously (Y/N)?" she chuckled."Don't hurt yourself now."

We stood opposite each other on the sparring mats, waiting in silence for someone to strike first. Being the inpatient person I was, I quickly thrust my arms forward, hands glowing an amber colour; Wanda defended herself, our powers colliding between us. The gym was alight with colours as we continued to fight, though we matched each other, meaning it was getting tedious.

"Truce!" Wanda shouted, out of breath.

We immediately stopped, but I kept my senses about me, just in case she was bluffing. Trying to catch our breaths, Wanda started walking away, suddenly turning around to attack, however, I was prepared, deflecting her powers back to her. It wasn't harsh, only making her tumble down to the floor.

"OK. I deserved that." Wanda admitted.

"Need some help?"

After getting her back on her feet, Wanda looked over my shoulder, a smug smile reaching her face; I went to look but she caught my chin in her hand, keeping it facing her. I furrowed my eyebrows until my mind filled with someone else's thoughts.

'Shit, I didn't realise she would be here too!'

It was Peter.

'OK, just play it cool, don't make yourself-'

I heard the clang of weights falling to the floor and couldn't help but glance back. Peter stood there, a variety of weights spilled a his feet, two of them still spinning. I held back a laugh, smiling at him when he looked at me. He nervously laughed, scratching his head before scurrying away from the mess he created.

Wanda leaned in to whisper to me."I think you may have a secret crush. Well, not so secret seeing as we can hear him but-"

"I wish I couldn't hear his thoughts. I wish that it was a surprise you know? Like one day we would be talking, and suddenly he asks me out."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know. Maybe because it's...normal?"

My sister sent me a sympathetic smile, changing the topic back to training. But I couldn't let that thought leave my mind, well, Peter’s thoughts that is; it didn’t help that they were so loud. After another hour of training (and desperately putting my focus into my powers, blocking out Peter’s thoughts), I decided that I was done, gathering up my things before leaving.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Peter called out behind me.

I stopped to turn around, blushing as my eyes instinctively roamed over his toned arms after his workout. God, he was so cute.

“Hi, what’s up?” I smiled, wishing I hadn’t sweat so much earlier.

“Uh, nothing really. I-I-I was just wondering, if uh, if you would like to go out sometime?”

If I wasn’t blushing already, I certainly would have done after that.“Really?”

He took my word the wrong way.“Oh, if you don’t want to then I understand-”

“No, Peter, I was just shocked.”

“Shocked? Why would you be shocked?”

“Because you’re asking me out! I’m a girl with these weird powers that doesn’t even know how to use them. Wouldn’t you rather ask out a normal girl?”

“Normal? You do realise I’m Spider-Man right?”

“Oh, you have a point.”

“So...”

“Oh! Yes, my answer is yes!”

It only seemed like yesterday we started dating, even if a couple of months had passed by. I had never been in a relationship before. Most of my life was spent caged up, being experimented on, forced to fight people I didn’t want to fight. But now with Peter, he was finally making me feel normal, even when we went on missions together.

“You OK?” He asked out of breath, slumping into the seat next to me as we flew back to the Avengers HQ.

I nodded.“Yeah, you?”

He copied my actions, his hand finding mine. I leaned my head on his shoulder, exhausted from the mission. It had been harder than we thought, but it was part of our training.

“You staying with me tonight?” I suggested.

“Course, it’s the weekend.”

“I hope May doesn’t mind. I feel like I’m spending more time with you than she does.”

He kissed my forehead.“Nah, she doesn’t mind.”

“Look,” Sam spoke up as he walked past us,“this is cute and all, but could you keep the PDA to a minimum? My stomach hurts enough after being beaten to a pulp.”

Peter and I chuckled.“Sorry Sam. But I hardly see Peter as it is.”

“Yeah, lay off them. It’s nice to see something so sweet after a mission.” Natasha defended us.

As they walked away, I glanced up at Peter, feeling at peace in that moment. We used to be so awkward and embarrassed around each other, even when we got comfortable with the idea of being in a relationship, it was strange being together around the others. After some sort of epiphany, I realised that it really didn’t matter, everyone was supportive and I finally felt like a normal girl. Wanda had been so happy when she found out, for the first week of our relationship, all she ever talked about was how cute we were.

“You were amazing out there.” Peter said to me as we tucked into the pizza we ordered. Everyone sat at the table, fully engrossed in their own conversations.

I crossed my legs on the chair, picking up a slice.“Thanks, you too.”

“No, I was nothing compared to you. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how cool your powers are, you just wave your hands around and attack! It’s just...I have an amazing girlfriend.”

I went to speak before realising that it was suddenly silent. Looking around, everyone seemed to be listening in on the conversation, all with sweet smiles on their faces. I closed my gaping mouth, covering my face with my hands, awkwardly laughing.

“No, no, keep going. I wanna hear more about how amazing (Y/N) is.” Tony teased, leaning back in his chair.

“Come on guys, let’s not embarrass them.” Steve smiled.

“I agree with Tony, go on about my amazing sister.” Wanda smugly smiled, winking at me.

“OK, you’ve had your fun, now stop.” I lightly said, trying to stop myself from blushing.

“Why would we stop?” Tony shrugged.“I hardly see you kids as it is, let me have this moment to play the embarrassing father.”

After dinner, Peter and I headed up to my room, our steps sluggish as we walked. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, mine around his waist, holding us close to one another. Just as I thought we were safe from the others, my sister shouted from behind us, and I rolled my eyes, inwardly groaning. Could we not have a moment together?

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but can I have a quick word with Peter?” Wanda motioned to him, and I felt him tense up.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” He nervously said, following her down the hallway. They stopped at the end, thinking they were out of reach of earshot, but I knew what Wanda was thinking about saying.

“You’re good for her you know. I’m glad you finally asked her out. She’s definitely happier because of you, doesn’t stop talking about you actually. And I’ve always liked you anyway Peter. Though, what I’m really trying to say is, Pietro would have liked you too, he was a very protective brother. Since....since he passed, (Y/N) never really got over it, neither did I actually, and although she’s always put on a happy face, it’s never been genuine. Until you that is. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

I felt myself getting emotional at her words. I missed Pietro so much, wishing desperately that he was still here and that he could have met Peter. He walked back to me, Wanda disappearing into the elevator. Grabbing his hand, I pulled him into me, giving him an unexpected kiss.

“Hey, Wanda just said-”

“I know what she said. And I agree with her one hundred percent, Pietro would have loved you...just not like I love you.”

When we first climbed into bed, I had thought that we would have fallen asleep straight away. However, we were wide awake, somehow talking nonstop for hours on end. It was all random things too; past missions, the team, TV shows, his school. I laid my head on his chest, his hand stroking my hair, we were silent for only a few moments before he spoke.

“Could you...could you maybe make your hands glow? I really like watching your powers.”

Reaching my arms up, I made the amber colour of my powers appear, swirling my fingers around in a graceful fashion. It illuminated the pitch black room in the gentle amber colour. Instead of watching my hands, I watched my boyfriend, his eyes reflecting the amber, making him even more beautiful. He looked like a child in a toy shop, full of amazement and wonder. And I was the one causing this. My powers, which I had hated at one time, thinking that they were the worst things in the world, were a wonder to him.

“Hey, so, I have to write an essay on a strong individual in my life, like how amazing they are and how they’ve impacted me. I already wrote about Tony for a science essay, and May in another social studies class, so I was wondering if I could write about you?”

I kept my powers swirling above us.“Me? What would you write about?”

“About you in general, your powers, training, how you save lives...perhaps about your past if you let me. Only to display how it has shaped you into the person you are today.”

“Would you really want to write about me? Talk about me to your peers?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be able to talk about you like I do now, like you’re my girlfriend, but I could make up an excuse that I met you through Tony one day.”

“Peter, that’s so sweet of you. I’ll tell you everything. You’ve made me feel the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”

“And I always will.”

I lowered my hands, the room slowly going back to darkness.“Did you know that I knew you were going to ask me out?”

“You knew I was going to ask you out? But you were so shocked when I asked?”

“I knew you were thinking about it, but the fact that you did was surprising. Especially since I’m a weirdo.”

“Stop that. Even if you are a weirdo, you’re my weirdo.” He pulled me in closer, squeezing me closer to him.

I giggled at him, holding him just as close.“Oh my god, you’re so cringey. It’s a good thing I love you.”

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pandawritesmanythings · 5 years ago

Text

Halfrid // Part 4

Platonic!Loki x Teen!Reader

Summary: Your life has always been dictated by the fact that you are smarter than most adults. This has made you antagonize many of them, it isn’t your fault that you are just citing facts! However, when the god of mischief becomes your friend, are there enough facts you can cite to prove his innocence?

Warnings: Censored Curse Words, dude being an entitled jerk (not Loki), Angst, Panic attack, bad writing.

Word Count: +4000K

A/N: Thank you so much for the support guys, just a heads up, some things in this chapter may not make sense now, but they will later. I don’t curse, personally, but it was important to have a catalyst in this chapter, that’s why I censored them. Leave feedback, I highly appreciate it!

TAG LIST IS OPEN!!!

PRESENT TIME

“I wish we could have met at a better time. I honestly do.” Fury had returned to the room and you had told him a short version as to why you started to investigate Loki.

“Why do you say that all of a sudden?” You asked, slightly confused.

“You see, I don’t find this kind of fire or passion in agents anymore. If we get out of this, and you are still around, come find me when you are 17, maybe I can find you an internship somewhere you can use your talents.”

He was sincere, you could see it in his eyes… Eye.

“Well, you might be the first. But thank you.”

He cleared his throat, the rumbling above had ceased a bit, according to Fury because the ground above had become a literal war zone. Military aiding the hero’s battle. The enemy ceased fire, but they were sure to resume it at any moment.

“So when was the next time you met the god of mischief?”

You almost giggled. “Ah. That was about six months after. I wish it had been under better circumstances. But the fact that our paths crossed again, is surprising in itself.”

NEW YORK 2015

Both you and Ashley leaned over to be able to look at your crush for a distance.

“We are not staring okay?” “Yeah, we totally aren’t.” You told each other.

You huffed and closed your locker with a thud, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“I’m not doing it.” You finalized.

“Aw, come on! Be a little courageous!”

“Being courageous is to know your mom may find out that you have been researching Loki for 6 months and still risking it by logging onto, probably, illegal websites and the dark web.”

“Soooooo, she doesn’t check your history anymore?” Ashley mused.

“Not manually, and I may have hacked into her phone so, I have that going for me.” You walked towards the exit, other middle schoolers filing after you.

“Still, if you just go and talk to him-” “Are you CRAZY?” “Don’t interrupt me. If you just ask him to walk you home, maybe then you could at least ask him out!”

“Not all of us have been able to have seven boyfriends on their 12-year life span.” You cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on! I still haven’t kissed anyone. I’m waiting ‘till I’m thirteen!” She chirped.

“Why thirteen?”

“It’s supposed to be the unlucky number, right? That way I can pass my bad luck to whatever jerk deserves it!” She seemed too proud of herself.

“You are a jerk.”

She flipped her hair. “Wow. Thanks!”

You both giggled. Through the months you had learned to read her bull, call her out on it, and she had pushed you to try new things. It was a mutual relationship, she knew where your limits were and vice versa. Yet, in a way, you seemed to balance each other out.

“Anyway. Not all of us have your confidence, Ashley.”

“Well, if you don’t do it, I will.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” You gasped.

“Wanna bet?” She playfully glared at you, and you glared back.

Suddenly she made a run for it, dashing towards the exit where your crush was hanging with his friends. “Malcolm! Hey, Malcolm!”

“ASHLEY FOR THE LOVE OF G O D!”

Your crush turned around as you tackled Ashley onto the ground.

“Hey! You guys okay?”

You froze when you heard his voice. Oh, you were so sure your smile looked like a weird grimace.

“N-Nothing. It’s just someone was about to do a stupid.” You said as you got up and brushed off imaginary dust.

“A stupid?” He asked amusement in his voice.

“Is my constant state of being.” Ashley chirped.

Malcolm, your crush, raised an eyebrow in amusement. Another guy behind him chuckled.

“Well, I think we are all in a pretty similar state.” He smiled looking at his friends.

“You mean, you Malcolm.” The guy behind him called out. “Parker wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Ah, as if you weren’t in that state often Morales.” Malcolm retorted. You knew he was joking, but there was something in his tone that just…

“Actually, my friend wanted to ask you something.” Ashley pushed me towards him.

“No. I don’t.” I squealed.

“What is it?” He asked with a smug grin.

“Umm… I-I…" STOP STAMMERING BRAIN!!! "I-I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

Ashley was dying inside. You definitely needed to work on your communication skills.

“I-I…” She placed a hand on your shoulder. You took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you r-remember, b-but in… science class? Yeah! Science. We have a project together, and since Ashley is already not coming with me home today… I was wondering if maybe you… Wanted to have a coffee? To… Plan the project out! Of course!”

He had a smug grin on his face, but it softened into a smile and he nodded. “Of course, I would love to accompany this lovely damsel in distress…” He winked at you kissing your hand. You pulled it from him, there was a way that he talked that you had never noticed before. However, since you actually did have a project to do, you ignored it and gave him a smile.

“Alright! Well, I’ll wait for you outside. See ya! Yeah… Okay.”

You fled down the stairs and waited patiently for Malcolm to come by so you could start talking. However, you were unaware of the conversation that was going on back there. But Ashley wasn’t. She hid nearby, where she could hear the aftermath of your petition without the boys finding her spying on them.

“Dude! She is really cute.” Ashley heard Miles say.

“And nice, I have Spanish with her and she is always very proper and quick about her speaking. She is really cool.” Peter added.

“I don’t know. See, physically, she isn’t my cup of tea. Yeah?” Malcolm interrupted.

“But, you do know there is more to her than how she looks, right?” Miles questioned, worry in his voice. This was starting to unnerve Ashley. Few boys had ever made her feel a chill go down her spine like this guy. He looked pretty nice on the outside but in private… He didn’t seem that nice.

“Bah, I’ll see. I do have to do the project, so let’s see if she is any good.” He said as he walked out the doors. “And, remember I’m waiting for that science report.”

Ashley had heard enough. She was not gonna let this idiot take you home by any means. She dashed as quickly as she could down the stairs, near where you were furiously typing something on your phone.

“Hey! (Y/N)!”

“Gimme a second Ash, I can’t let myself forget this.” You typed a little more and then turned off your phone. “I suddenly got an idea for a new argument for my essay. I think I almost have the intro down, but I need the first transition and-” Ashley quickly pulled you aside, interrupting you. “H-Hey!”

“Sorry, but I don’t have much time. I don’t think you should go home with Malcolm.” She tried to warn you.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t think he is who he makes out to be.” She continued. “I think he is only going to take advantage of you!”

There was something deep inside you that had been telling you the same thing. But you wanted to believe otherwise.

“Alright, I’ll be careful Ash. Thank you for telling me.” You smiled.

“But… I don’t think you should be around him, I heard him back there, he-”

You interrupted her back. “I know you mean well. But I don’t want to live life thinking the worst of everyone. If he steps out of line, I’ll kick him straight in the groin.”

Ashley let out a nervous breathy laugh. “Just… Be careful, I don’t want you getting hurt-”

“Hey!” A male voice sounded behind you. “Ready to go home, princess?” Malcolm asked taking your hand and placing a kiss to it as he did before. Again, you pulled away. For some reason, that gesture unnerved you.

“Yeah…” You smiled awkwardly. “I’ll call you when I get home, okay Ash?”

“Yeah… Ok. See you (Y/N)” She said masking her worry with a winning smile and a flick of her hair as she walked away.

“So, lead the way.” The boy signalled for you to start walking and, with a timid smile, you started walking towards a coffee shop near your home.

It wasn’t anything unusual. He cracked a few jokes like he usually did in class. Offered to open the door for you when you got to the coffee shop. And although you bought your own drink, he insisted on getting you a snack.

“You can have whatever you’d like.” He smiled. You tried to reject his offering, but he wouldn’t have any of it. In the end, you just asked for a muffin.

He was actually really good at doing research, quickly flying through loads of information and sending them to you as you typed the essentials into the PowerPoint presentation.

“I just need to make it look pretty, but I’ll do it some other time.” You said while saving the presentation and snapping your computer closed. He did the same and got up, pulling your chair gently from behind you so you would stand up.

“Are you ready to go home, then?”

“Yeah, it’s not that far away from here, so I can go by myself.” You smiled while strapping your backpack.

“I don’t mind, I’ll go with you.” He insisted.

In the back of your mind, Ashley’s warning kept sounding off. But you decided that a little bit longer wouldn’t hurt. He had been very kind to you after all. Why not let him take you home? That sounded really nice.

Together you walked out of the quaint little coffee shop and started heading towards your apartment compound.

“So, I heard you were in the WRITE scholarship!” He smiled.

“Yeah… Wait. Who told you that?” Only your parents and Ashely knew. She wouldn’t have told him about it, right?

“I saw you taking out a paper in class, it had: WRITE ideas! Written in a corner.”

“O-Oh…” You blushed.

“I’m working on it myself. Coming along quite nicely. It’s going to be a short story, but I think I might turn it into something bigger later down the line.”

“If mine does any good, I may publish it. But, I don’t think people would want to read about it.”

“Oh! Really? Why would you say that?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s just… It may get a little controversial…” You hid your face.

“Ah. I see, one of my friends is also writing about something controversial. I’m not supposed to say, but being anti-gun control sounds pretty controversial to me.” He whispered in your direction mockingly.

You giggled at his tone. “Ah. Well, she has her beliefs. I think as long as she doesn’t try to use her essay to justify violence, it should be okay.”

“Are you anti-gun control?”

“No. I think people’s safety is way more important than things.” You honestly said. “But she can have her opinion. Honestly, that’s why we have superheroes, to protect us. That way people don’t need that many guns.”

“Yeah. I think I stan Stark the most.”

“Oh, and why?”

“Billionaire? The smartest guy on the planet? All the babes? He has everything.”

You cast your gaze to the ground. Your shoes suddenly being more interesting.

“I mean. I think he is cool because he saves people. But he just has everything.” He finished

After what seemed an eternity you arrived at the entrance of your building.

“Thanks… For coming with me.” You muttered.

“Nah, no problem.” He smiled. “By the way, can I come in? I need to pee.”

You didn’t want to. You really didn’t want to. But you found yourself nodding and leading him inside your apartment.

“The bathroom is over there… Just- Quickly, my parents shouldn’t be long.”

He ran inside the bathroom, and you walked into the open kitchen. Getting a cutting board out, you started slicing some carrots and boiling some water to make some chicken and potatoes. Your dad’s favorite dish. You really wanted to surprise him, and in about two hours he would be home.

Okay, yeah. You had lied to Malcolm about your parents being home soon. But he was making you uncomfortable, every time you let your guard down you had felt him invade your personal space, maybe he was just trying to be charming, but you wanted him out of your house, quickly.

And then you felt two hands sneak through your waist.

The handle of your knife made contact with the side of his forehead. The hands released your waist, you turned to see Malcolm stumbling backwards. His hands holding his head as he tried to recover from your hit.

“You b*tch!”

You were left paralyzed.

“Take that back…” You mumbled. The words barely coming out of your mouth.

“What if I don’t? You hit me with the handle of a knife, you b*tch.”

You head went numb. Swirling thoughts repeating over and over your head. Your demons were hunting you again.

“Get out.” You said. But it was numbed. You couldn’t hear yourself. “Get out.” This time he flinched.

Although you felt numb you grabbed his backpack and threw it through your window. Not caring about where it fell.

“Get out.” You kept saying as you pushed him down the hall. His string of curse words only worsening while all you could say was: “Get out.”

You reached the street and you were still saying it. He hadn’t touched you anymore but he was screaming at your face. And suddenly all the noise came back, crushing you.

“GET OUT!!!” You heard yourself scream.

“I’m out already you piece of-” He was interrupted all of a sudden.

“Malcolm. Stop that!” Miles came out of nowhere and pulled him away from you.

“Get out!” Was your voice failing you? You swore your voice sounded hoarse.

Two pairs of hands held you in place. “I’m sorry (Y/N). I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.” You heard Ashley say near you.

“Hey, she is really cold. Is she okay?” Another male voice sounded behind you.

You shied away from his touch and retreated straight into Ashley. You did your face in her shirt. Finally allowing your voice to rest. But you felt so weak, your legs felt like jelly and your chest hurt. A lot.

“Hey, you’re okay.” She soothed you. “We’re here. We’re going to take care of you.”

Ashley ran her hand through your hair, a gesture that slowly calmed you and allowed you to regain a level of consciousness.

When you felt better, you pushed away from her and gave her a weak thanks. Then turned to see a very worried looking Peter Parker next to you.

“ ’m sorry Pete… I didn’t mean to push ya away…” You said weakly. Your throat barely emitted any sound.

“No, it’s okay. You were upset by whatever Malcolm did, you needed some space.”

You looked around, he was gone. “Wher’ did he go?” You slurred, suddenly feeling your energy drain out of you.

“Miles pushed him away. Don’t worry, he isn’t gonna bother you anymore.”

You highly doubted that.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. You didn’t remember entering your apartment again. Just the feeling of Ashley running her fingers through your hair, and the worried questions of Peter near you. Mumbles. That was all you could hear. No definitive words, no. Just mumbling going all around you.

When you came back to your senses it was about to be 5:30 pm. Ashley was heading out the door with Peter and Miles, saying goodbye to both of them.

“I’ll see you guys on Monday, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. If she needs anything you have my phone right?”

“Yeah, I got it. Thank you, boys.” She closed the door.

“Ash?”

She whipped around to see you lifting yourself up from the sofa. “Hey… How are you feeling?”

“Like I was hit by a truck.”

She chuckled. “I made you something. I can bring it if you’re hungry.”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Mom was calling me. I have to go, but if you need anything please let me know.” She started heading out the door. “Love ya girl.”

“I love you too.” You smiled at your friend.

But as soon as she closed the door it vanished from your face. You felt empty. That was something that happened when you got too worked up about something. Mom had told you that it would fade over time, and both of your parents constantly apologized whenever it happened. That’s why you never told them when this happened anymore.

Dad would arrive any minute, so you dragged yourself from the couch and sat in front of your computer to try and squeeze something out of your brain.

Your research for WRITE was good. But the more you looked at it, the more holes you found.

Why did Loki really attack Earth? He had been here before, why hadn’t he done it a year prior?

Was his slip up with Agent Romanoff a mistake? He hadn’t spilt any kind of information before. Not about himself. Not about his plan. Afterwards, he hadn’t even been asked why he’d done it. There was no trace of any comments from him about his actions.

You looked and looked and started breaking apart. This was never going to work. This was stupid. There was no way that anyone would believe your poorly researched essay. There were no official comments on the main perpetrator. And where would you get it?

They were right. All their words. You were useless. Stupid. You would never be enough, why couldn’t you just dissape-?

“CUPCAKE! I’M HOOOOOME!!!”

Ah… Dad…

“Cupcake?” He had opened the door. “How are you, sweetie?”

You turned around, in the darkness he couldn’t see your reddened eyes. “I’m good. Just finishing some homework.”

“That’s my girl. Hey, I gotta head for the night shift, but I’ll see you in the morning.” He headed towards you and kissed you on your forehead.

“I-I didn’t know you had a night shift today…”

“Yeah, I know I’m sorry. They need extra back up to supervise after Ultron’s attack.” His voice was apologetic. “I’m a sorry munchkin. I promise you I’ll here tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. I know your job is important.” You smiled, even though you felt broken inside.

“Mom also has a night shift, but she couldn’t drop by to say goodnight.” He rolled his eyes. “You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“Yeah. I know the drill.”

“Goodnight munchkin.”

“Goodnight dad.”

You were all alone. He left. She didn’t even bother to check on you.

You walked up to your closet and pulled out a corkboard. Where for the last few months you had worked extensively in collecting research to figure out your thesis.

Pictures of security cameras. Documents. Transcriptions of recordings. Some were tied by a red cord. It looked like a detective trying to solve a case. And for a while, that’s what you thought you were. But as you looked through it, you found more wholes. Wherever you looked, the word failure just hammered in your head.

The word he had called you today. That insulting and disgusting word.

In your anger, you grabbed the board and knocked it over. Papers flew across the room. Strewn all around.

Sobs then proceeded to rack your body. There was no way you could do this. Who would listen to a 12-year-old anyways?

THE NEXT DAY

Neither of your parents arrived home in the morning.

New York seemed to match your mood since it was raining. It was definitely a lazy Saturday, so you decided to text Ashley that you were feeling better and that you’d see her on Monday. Then afterwards, you walked out, with your coat on and some money to spend it all in whatever you were craving for breakfast that day.

You usually didn’t ask for much, so your parents were never angry at you when you spent just a little bit more for yourself.

Is not like you were going to order a bunch of expensive items. But you just went wherever your stomach led you.

You ended up in a bustling part of the city. Despite the rain, people walked by in a hassle. You approached a food car that had a small roof to protect yourself from the light rain that fell upon New York.

“Hey, there sweetie. What would you like today?” The owner of the truck asked you kindly.

You looked at the menu, the variety of options overwhelming you. “Well… What do you recommend?”

“Ah! I think the best food to have in weather like this, is the Chocolate waffle delight. With some hot cocoa? The perfect comfort food, missy.”

“Then I’ll try it.” You smiled at him. Did you really look that bad?

After paying you still stood under the roof as the rain lightened, turning into a drizzle. The waffle was honestly really good. It was crunchy outside, but soft inside. The chocolate dripping everywhere and the sugar topping it. The hot cocoa was good too, but you preferred your dad’s. It was creamier.

As you finished your breakfast you dedicated yourself to look around at the people who walked by. Couples walked arm in arm. Families held the children’s hands. People who walked on their own, seemed to go faster. All of them had somewhere to go.

But you, today, on a Saturday like this. Had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Wasn’t that just pathetic?

If the thing with Malcolm hadn’t happened you would probably be working around those holes for your scholarship. But you didn’t feel like writing anymore. There was no motivation coursing through you like it normally did.

So you just stared.

And stared.

And stare- Wait, what?

A single person in the street stood out to you. What was he wearing?

You threw away the paper wrapper and cup of cocoa and said a hasty thank you and goodbye to the truck owner.

He was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the crossing sign to change. And he stood out like a crown in a sea of parrots. Because yeah, New Yorkers are weird, but not that weird. Who wears a three-piece, all black, suit anyway?

You speed-walked through your pedestrian crossing, walking towards him.

It can’t be. They took him back to Asgard. They would arrest him if he ever set foot back on earth. It can’t be him.

You racked your mind for an explanation, but the place where he had just walked out of sent you into a new form of confusion. Why would he be in an elder’s home?

You finally caught up to the man. However, an inner panic overtook you so you just stood awkwardly by his side, waiting for the pedestrian light to change.

Look towards me. Come on. Notice me. You hoped since you were definitely not just going to start a conversation with an unidentified criminal. No. That would be irresponsible of you.

You bounced on the ball of your feet and when the light changed, you followed him as inconspicuously as you could.

After a minute or two of quietly following him, you just thought that maybe you were following the wrong guy. Maybe your sight failed you. There was no way this was him. I mean, he would have the FBI, the CIA, the army and the Avengers on top of him just by setting foot on earth. Yeah, you just-

“Why are you following me?”

Oh no. It’s definitely him.

“Uh-Uh, excuse me?” You tried playing dumb.

He didn’t turn around, nor he stopped. So you didn’t either.

“You have been following me for some time. Please go, I’m not friendly with kids.” He dismissively stated.

“Wow. I guess I’m just some kid. I thought I wasn’t that forgettable.” You smirked, wondering if that would steer his brain.

He only stopped when the next pedestrian light turned red.

Still not looking at you, but with a furrowed brow, he asked: “Do I know you?”

“Yep. I guess I am pretty forgettable.” You shrugged, not meeting his side looks. “I guess sneaking past the security of the highest security vehicle in the world is quite dumb.”

Is he catching on? Am I pulling this off? Or do I just look like an idiot?

It took him a second of silence and starting to cross the street to suddenly whip around in the middle of the crossing and give you a look.

“You’re my cell buffoon.” He smirked.

You gasped, feigning hurt. “Excuse Y O U. I’ll let you know that I am so much more than "entertaining”.“

You both stood there, in the middle of the street, staring at each other for a while.

"Well, this will be interesting then…” The smirk on his face told you one thing. This was just starting.

#loki #loki x reader #loki angst #loki fluff #halfrid #platonic!reader #teen!reader #loki odinson #Loki Laufeyson #Loki Friggason

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iampikachuhearmeroar · 5 years ago

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so prompted the other day from someone commenting on one of my personal posts lamenting on my poor time management skills and how I was a good-ish student without studying etc during early high school and then by year 10 I had fuck all idea how study..... I decided to look up adhd in girls. like obviously i am not self-diagnosing myself with it bc i know that it’s a super common and serious behaviour condition. but holy fuck, i just read something about it that hit me so fucking hard that.... fuck me. i just feel so attacked:

obviously I don’t relate to the softball practice bc I never did extracurriculars and I hated sport lmao. but the writing/writer bit. and “working overtime” to get a high grade on my english assignments..... as well as over-practicing my drama stuff at home and wanting my performances to be perfect.... i was known to basically everyone as a student who should’ve been in the top English class. but it was wrested away from me bc of my lack of understanding and appreciation for shakespeare in a year 8 in class assessment on Romeo & Juliet “being starcrossed lovers” that I basically failed bc I came out with a D instead of an A or a B. like fuck. this hit me hard.

they had another point about how the girl with adhd is usually the class helper- like I was in my english classes. bc I would edit everyone’s work, be their living thesaurus & dictionary, as well as giving everyone answers on the assigned texts, because i was the only person in my class who was bothered enough to read the texts in full and enjoy them. then I never received much thanks for it.

but my maths homework? never done. or my very occasional maths take-home assignments? done by my dad at the last minute when I remembered that excel was, in fact, an actual thing. hell I didn’t even do my CLASS WORK most of the time. i instead either half wagged my maths classes (I have several posts on this behaviour lmao) or purposely “fell asleep” in my maths classes as a joke for everyone to “wake me up (wake me up inside)” like Jeff from the wiggles. bc I thought it was funny. but now I’m 24 and never (really) learned how to read a graph or learned how to calculate the mean/median and average & range and mode or whatever the fuck, etc etc. like yeah. my maths is absolutely abysmal.

my geography homework and assignments? barely ever done. and again, at the vexation of the poor kids who were assigned to sit next to me and my year 9 geo teacher who liked me, my geo class work was never done to standard. and I would pull the same “wake up Jeff” routine in geography. even though I could’ve easily done well with that year 9 teacher and my year 10 geo teacher too bc at least we also got along.

my history homework and assignments? done, depending on the teacher, the topic and the type of history. like I was useless at modern history (bc I disliked it- especially australian history lmao minus Vietnam and maybe a bit of the Cold War era spy stuff... it was the politics lmao). but, on the other hand, I was pretty good at ancient history (until I had to try and write a historical essay- and that fucked me up big time in years 11/12 and also uni). i was also mega good at aboriginal studies (like aboriginal cultural history) when I swapped schools. but I dropped out of it, due to my fear of the major project which I knew I wouldn’t meet.... bc it was literally like 50% of the total subject mark at the end of year 12.

so then my focus aside from english & ancient history in year 12 became community and family studies/cafs/social studies and my technical theatre and events management course. which both ended up with marks near the 70s, I think, at the end of year 12. my teachers were good so I went okay.

my science homework? done sometimes, depending again on the topic and the teacher.... but also that one time one teacher wanted me to go to the regional science fair bc he thought my project was good.... but I didn’t do it bc i thought my work wasn’t that good and I didn’t want to do the extra effort of the boards and presenting it.... ESPECIALLY since I’d written that coke/coca-cola was “burp fuel” in my intro. like. burp fuel??? at the regional science fair? oh god. no. no thank you. that’s mortifying both back then AND now, looking back at it. but then again, maybe that’s the part my teacher wanted me to omit in the “clean up”/editing of my work for the science fair lmao. my biology stuff in years 11/12 though? awful. so much so that I solely passed year 12 bio with the miracle of mark scaling. and this was despite the efforts of one of my friends trying to tutor me in our shared free periods.

and obvs my PE stuff was never done.... even that one assessment that was writing/illustrating a kids book about how to be healthy. which if I’d done it, I would’ve probably gone well. but it was my utter distrust of the PE/sport faculty and loathing of sport, and also the fact that when I tried to write it; it didn’t seem authentic or genuine.... that drove me not to do that assignment.

aside from academics/grades.... the other thing that hit me was that adhd girls are typically seen as the “funny/loud/tomboy” etc girls but are also exceedingly shy. like that full on attacked me too. bc it’s exactly like my flip from catholic school to public school. going from being the loud & funny sailor mouth girl who sometimes asked crass questions in PE due to the shows she watched and to see if people would laugh and did whack shit in her drama classes..... but with mostly topsy-turvy marks. to being the quiet shy and suddenly high achieving former private school girl at public school who never did any loud shit out of the blue. like. yeah. like now when I look back at my facebook statuses about me in drama class or other dumb shit I did outside of drama class in catholic school I’m like “hmmm, can’t relate” and “what the FUCK that was ME??? I don’t know her.” bc of the nervous wreck that I actually am lmao.

there was one more point to that was like “adhd boys will typically sit “with one foot on their chair in class”. and I was like. “hmmm. why does that remind me so vividly of my year 7 geo teacher/year 9 commerce teacher frequently labelling me as a “health hazard” bc I’d sit cross legged on my chairs during class????”

I also had a flashback while reading that particular article, to how, in primary school, my teachers regularly encouraged the kids who were assigned to sit beside me on table groups or whatever in class; to put a ruler between us to mark out our separate sides of the desk; so that whoever sat next to me had their own desk space and I had mine.... all bc my side was frequently unorganised/messy. that’s because when I physically handwrote things, I’d tire quickly and so slouch in my seat a bit and put my head on my other arm to write (this is my condition hypotonia/developmental coordination disorder).... so I took up a load of desk space doing that. while the other person’s side of the desk was usually neat and ordered and they obvs didn’t have my posture etc when physically handwriting something. like I’d try to have my side neat & ordered like everyone else, but it always ended up in a state of disarray somehow. like HOO BOY IT’S ALL ADDING UP.

but also yeah. I’m not self-diagnosing bc that’s such common thing on this site. but. like. yeah I need to get to a psychologist or a psychiatrist and see. because so many things are adding up and maybe I do have some overlapping traits from adhd???? bc as ive said before, my condition hypotonia/developmental coordination disorder, has some links with adhd apparently, from what I’ve read recently on it. and it’s really starting to interfere with my life bc I can’t use a diary properly etc and don’t know how to hold myself accountable with deadlines other than doing everything to the last minute until I burn out, monumentally.

anyway.

don’t reblog this please. lmao. it’s just a musing.

#life #about me #shut up ilona

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secondpersons · 5 years ago

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You don’t owe your readers to tag who the top or the bottom is in your fics. You owe your readers nothing. Don’t like? Don’t read.

Readers who refuse to read a fic if they don’t know who’s the top or the bottom miss out on a lot of gorgeous writing, moving stories, and incredibly hot intimate scenes. Sad but true.

Real-life gay and bisexual couples don’t always have a set top and a set bottom. Many switch. Many don’t have penetrative sex at all.

So yes -- as a writer, you have every right to withhold that information.

Acting superior about it, however? No. You don’t have the right.

When I come across a fic whose writer states they don’t tag that info, I don’t bother the writer. I move on.

Why am I letting myself miss out on so much potential wonderful storytelling for something as silly as who shoves their dick in who?

I’ll tell you, and I won’t even ask you who you think you are to decide what is and isn’t silly. I won’t even tell you your anger and essays and gatekeeping efforts are all not only silly, but scientifically wrong. The gay community is online. Go ask.

But anyway. Back to all your accusations.

So having a designated top and bottom role isn’t realistic because many RL couples switch?

Like I said, I won’t go into the fact that there are, in fact, many men who get zero pleasure from bottoming, and other men who get zero pleasure from topping, so much so that it can actually kill their boner.

You can ask your gay friends about that or visit the millions of reddit threads where gay and bi tops ask bottoms how on earth they enjoy it and vice versa. You can read all about how astonished switchers and tops are at bottoms who won’t top, because there’s nothing hotter or sexier than a hole.

You can read about bottoms who can’t for the life of them understand how anyone would want them to give up having a beautiful hard cock inside them and how the mere attempt means they lose their erection.

You can read the very enlightening words of a bi or gay (I don’t remember) man trying to explain it by saying that for bottoms, simply seeing their partner’s hard cock is enough to make them melt and want it in them, whereas for tops it’s not their partner’s boner that revs their engines but their hole and the idea of thrusting and becoming one.

Google it if you want. Find what men have to say about it. I’m certainly no authority on this -- I’m not a man.

What I’m going to say is this: You’re writing about demons and vampires and ABO and telepathy and you think I’m concerned about realism?

Even more astonishing, you, the writer spinning so much wonderful fantasy and science fiction, want to judge me for eschewing realism?

I’m missing out on some incredible writing because I’m only concerned about who shoves their dick in who? Are you serious?

You know what other beautiful writing you and I and a gazillion other people are missing out on? Science fiction, when you’re in the mood for a love story. Epic fantasy, when you’re in the mood for a good old crime thriller. A tenderly woven tale of love and loss and healing, when you’re in the mood for a slapstick comedy because you want to laugh from your belly.

Fanfic is not required reading. It’s not staying vigilantly on top of every story with a promising summary because you mustn’t miss out on potential life-changing writing. I’m not a publisher or a reporter or an SEO site.

Fanfic is not literary education. Fanfic doesn’t belong anywhere near sentiments of obligation, responsibility, and not missing out on an excellent opportunity.

I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but fanfic is what you do when your class is over and your work is done and you let out a big old sigh, kick off your confining shoes, put your feet up, and dream. Escape. Recharge. Heal the way that works for you.

It’s unhealthy to slap a label on a character? We write, read, and love Wincest and you’re lecturing me about my unhealthy approach to fiction?

It’s fetishizing and demeaning to insist that one character is what equates to the woman because the other fucks his hole, and that it must be equal?

I won’t even broach the subject of why you think being the woman is demeaning to the character and what that says about the misogynistic programming you seem not to mind, if you’d rather attack me and readers like me for the way we prefer to consume our fantasy.

I won’t broach all that, because there have been many incredibly well-written posts about why exactly women like reading about man-on-man love, and I don’t just mean the smut. I mean the loyalty and fidelity and possessiveness and every emotion in the book.

I’ll just ask you this: I’m happily gobbling up incestuous fanfic about two brothers from writers who happily write it, and you think I care about fetishizing? I’m reading about gun play and pain play and piss play and you think I care about demeaning?

What happened to fanfic writers and readers? We defend fanfic every single day when its worth is attacked, but among ourselves fanfic suddenly turns into something that must be realistic and healthy and not -- according to you -- fetishizing or demeaning?

Do you know how many women there are out there who have never had an orgasm because of rape or childhood trauma that means they can’t bear to be touched but would still love to, even if it’s impossible?

Because of vaginismus, which wrecked their marriages and relationships and put them in a place where they can’t even masturbate, don’t even know what it is, don’t even know how to be any help for their own daughters in the future, if they come to them with questions about sex?

Because of a million other reasons?

Do you know how much it means to those women to read about the character they identify with or relate to or fantasize about as a bottom, simply because it’s the closest they can come to pressing their noses against the glass and looking in?

This mysterious thing they don’t understand that is shoehorned into all metaphors and analogies: Better than sex, sex on legs, your magical first time, and so on and so forth, endlessly, a fucking barrage of sex sex sex being the best thing in the world, and they know firsthand that they melt from kisses but they’re useless because they can’t be touched?

When the character we like to think of as a bottom is sweetly pursued (like we were), is bone-meltingly kissed (like we were), then gets fucked (like we never could get, because it’s physically impossible, enough that our partners left because we didn’t have a fucking working hole), it’s the closest thing to experiencing it ourselves.

I don’t get it. Gatekeeping efforts are against us. We’re called every horrible name in the book by the ignorant and the naive and the malicious who are masquerading as social justice fighters. Why are some of us turning against the rest and trying to be gatekeepers as well?

You don’t tell a fishing hobbyist that they’re missing out on so much beauty because they refuse to take up stargazing. Stargazing is unbelievably beautiful and enlightening. It’s just not what they want to spend their free time on.

I’ve often wondered why this gatekeeping never applies to things like, say, Established Relationship vs First Time fics.

I follow a bunch of writers religiously -- I’m subscribed to their ao3 accounts, I reread their gorgeous fics more times than I could count.

I follow them into fandoms I know nothing about and read fics about characters from books I’ve never read and movies and TV shows I’ve never read. Because I’m so insane about their writing I can’t afford to miss a word they write.

Except Established Relationship fics. Even though I love those writers so much, I only want First Time fics. It’s one of the most important things I want in a fic. That pining, that moment of realization, that struggle with the forbidden love.

Does that mean I’m missing out on awesome content? You bet. Not only am I missing out on awesome content, I’m fully aware that I’m missing out on awesome content.

But you see -- because this isn’t a required course, I’m fine with that. I turn to fics for joy, love, that rush of feelings that comes with exquisite writing about my beloved OTP the way that works for me.

I don’t bash anyone who wants to write different stuff. I don’t bash anyone who wants to read different stuff. And the weird thing is I see no one bashing anyone about this particular tag.

Other tags people are left to read or avoid without any gatekeeping or guilting efforts to “educate” those who avoid them on the important of broadening their horizons and reading them? Hurt/Comfort. Crack. Fluff. These are just a few examples.

So why is who tops and who bottoms such a big deal? Why does that and that alone require strong-worded posts bashing those who want the tags, or condescending posts ridiculing them?

Sure, if a reader is being rude, by all means put them in their place. If they’re being an entitled little shit, they have it coming.

But for the whole issue to merit post after post criticizing the mere existence of readers who like to read a particular top/bottom pairing, or mean replies to people who politely ask about the info?

Sigh. For what it’s worth: I’m including myself with those who ask politely out of solidarity. But I have never asked a writer about that. I simply steer clear of their writing. The gazillion superior essays about how readers must be open-minded and whatnot finally got to me, which is why I wrote this.

So sure -- don’t tag. Refuse to tag. Insist outright that you don’t tag top and bottom. You owe us nothing, and you have every right to do what you want with the beautiful writing you gift the world.

Just don’t act superior or attack those of us who ask politely about the tags once, or those of us who use those tags in our own works.

#wincest

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yallreddieforthis · 6 years ago

Text

My Summer From Hell: A Tale of Friendship

Fandom: It (2017)

Pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier (minor mentions of Richie’s crush on Eddie)

Rating: T (for language)

Words: 2.9k

Movie canon-compliant. Also posted on AO3. This is that summer experience essay Richie warned us about.

“Richie Tozier?”

Richie takes a reluctant break from the sick-ass game of MASH: The Wonder Years Edition he’s playing by himself in his algebra notebook to look up at his teacher, who is waving a blue note and glaring expectantly at him.

Blue note. That means Neil wants to see him. Damn, only five days into the school year! New—actually, not a new record. Richie feels like he and the principal should be on a first-name basis by now; Richie’s in his office a lot. He rarely gets punished because most of the things he does toe the line of punishable offenses magnificently—he usually just gets told to stop doing whatever it is he’s doing and then gets sent back to class. If he was down there getting detention every other day, he’d understand what the problem was. But alas, Neil shot down the suggestion of being called Neil right away. So they can only be on a first-name basis in Richie’s head. Too bad.

The Math and Science building is as far away from the Administration building as you can get without leaving Derry Junior High, and Richie takes his time during the walk to Neil’s office, stopping outside the computer lab until Eddie catches sight of him through the window. He makes a gesture that causes Eddie to give him a surreptitious middle finger, hidden from his teacher by the monitor, but his cheeks also bloom cherry red, so Richie counts it as a win because it’s the cutest goddamn thing he’s seen all day. It feels like every other day now Richie’s being hit in the face with how adorable Eddie really is. He’s torn between wanting to pinch his cheeks and kiss him on the mouth, and frankly he’s mostly still straddling the fence on that issue only because he doesn’t want to deal with the answer.

In contrast to having a pretty good idea deep down what direction things are headed in regarding his general feelings about Eddie, Richie has not the slightest clue why he’s being called to the principal’s office the Friday after school started. None of the things he’s done should have been discovered yet. It makes no sense.

Bill is in the computer lab too, and Richie can’t see him from where he’s sitting, so he heads over to the staircase at the end of the hall. Pausing to make sure no teachers are lurking around to give him shit for it, he sits down at the top of the railing and slides down. Actually, he slides about a fourth of the way down before falling off and sort of rolling the rest of the way, but no one saw that so it still counts as a success.

He walks past the yard to watch Stan and Ben running the mile in P.E. Stan is fucking booking it, and Richie dawdles long enough to figure out that he’s a lap ahead of everyone else. Running away from Bowers for a few years will do that to ya. Well, at least it will if you’re Stan. Richie still can’t run an 8 minute mile, so his P.E. grade has stagnated at a B-.

Richie stops in the middle of the hallway in the Language Arts Building, glancing into Mr. Tremblay’s French 1 class. Bev was planning on taking that this year, and she’d be in there if she hadn’t moved to Portland. Sometimes—and Richie hates thinking about this because there’s no use in dwelling on it—but sometimes he really wants to kick himself for not getting to know her sooner. She’s the best bro he’s ever had that’s a girl, and it just really sucks ass that they only got to hang out for like one summer.

Before he even realizes it, he’s walking into the front office. Bertha glances up at Richie through her horn-rimmed reading glasses.

“Mr. Tozier! What’d you do this time?” she asks brightly. Ah, Bertha. She and Richie have a rapport. Richie might go so far as to say she even likes him, at least a little. He’s made her laugh at least seven times, and once in sixth grade she told him he had a real gift after he showed her his best Rick Moranis impression. She doesn't bullshit him, and he doesn’t bullshit her. Well, not very much at least.

“I have no idea,” he tells her honestly, resting his elbows on her desk, which is decorated with a rubber band ball, a Hoberman sphere, several pictures of her nieces and nephews, and the biggest Hershey’s Kiss Richie has ever seen in his entire life. Seriously, it’s almost as big as his goddamn face. Apparently, she got it on a trip to New York, and she’s had it at least as long as Richie has known her. He has never wanted to eat a thing so badly in his entire life, regardless of how old it is. It’s a fucking Hershey’s Kiss. Do those things even go bad? Either way, it’s Richie’s number one goal to take a big fucking bite out of that thing before he culminates at the end of the year. He’s a thousand percent sure it will taste like sweet victory.

“Neil?” Bertha calls over her shoulder. “Did you send for Richie Tozier?”

Neil’s voice floats back through the open door behind Bertha. “Oh, yes. Thanks, send him on back.”

Neil’s desk always starts the year looking pristine, and by the last day of school it is filled with stacks of pure chaos. Richie admires him for trying again at the beginning of each year. It’s like how his mom buys him a binder for each class and book covers and sets up an organizational system for his homework and notes despite knowing that it won’t last a month. It’s nice of her to try, but Richie is pretty sure they both go into it with the understanding that it’s kind of a hail Mary situation.

So right now Neil’s just got like three pictures of his wife, a snowglobe with GREETINGS FROM ST. PAUL written on the base, and a manageable-looking stack of papers in file folders. Godspeed, sir.

“Mr. Tozier,” Neil says by way of greeting, “please have a seat.”

“How was your summer, Ne—Principal McCormack?” Richie asks, plopping down into the chair directly opposite Neil.

Neil’s eyebrows raise. “Not as interesting as yours, based on what I heard from Ms. Pfarrer this afternoon,” he says, reaching into his desk and pulling out two pieces of lined paper stapled together. “Care to explain?”

He places it directly in front of Richie. Richie peers at it. The top right corner reads: Richie Tozier, English 8A, Period 4, September 3, 1989. It wasn’t stapled when he handed it in, he’d just sort of folded the corners over together and hoped for the best, but Ms. Pfarrer must have gone ahead and stapled it for him.

“That would be yesterday’s English homework.”

“Correct,” says Neil. “I want you to read this entire essay out loud to me, and then I’m going to ask you some questions. Okay?”

Richie’s not sure if the questions are about the contents of the essay, or if Neil just can’t read his handwriting. Then again, that sounds like a Ms. Pfarrer problem; he’s not sure why she’d bring it to the principal if she just couldn’t read it. Normally she just hands it back to him and tells him to rewrite it when that happens, or at least that’s what she did last year. If his teachers have suddenly decided to send him to the principal every time he turns in an illegible assignment, it’s going to be a very long year.

But whatever.

My Summer From Hell: A Tale of Friendship

If you had asked me at the end of last year what the worst thing about my summer would probably be, I would have bet a hundred bucks it was going to be the trip I took down to Augusta to see my grandma two weeks ago, which sucked. All we did was watch Matlock all week and she made me get a really shi bad haircut, just like last year. It’s going to take me months to grow it out. But compared to what went down in July and the beginning of August, eating soup at Grandma Dottie’s house was NOTHING.

You know how kids just disappear off the face of the earth all the time here in Derry? If you didn’t, that’s a fun fact from me to you that I learned from my new friend Ben (he’s in your 5th period class). Well, while we were looking for my other friend Bill’s missing brother, we found out where they all went.

Underneath our feet, down in the sewers, there lives a killer clown. That’s right, you heard it here first. Like John Wayne Gacy, but 100000x worse because it’s for sure not human. Sometimes It’s a clown, sometimes not. Depends. On what? I have no idea. It was usually a clown when I saw it but one time it started turning into maybe a werewolf. It can turn into anything it wants and it eats kids.

Anyway, It almost killed all of us on the fourth of July. We Bill decided to go try and fight It at the creepy ass house on Neibolt street, and that was an absolute shit show disaster. Ask Ben to show you the sick scar on his stomach if you don’t believe me. Eddie fell through a giant hole in the floor and broke his arm. I got mad at Bill for bringing us all there and he punched me in the face, and then I didn’t talk to him for a month.

Then It dragged Beverly Marsh into its nasty sewer lair and we all went down the grossest well in Derry to get her back. Henry Bowers followed us because he just has to ruin everything, even things that are already the worst. There’s this giant cistern that has a huge pile of broken toys and crap and the clown lives in there. There were hundreds of dead kids floating in the air.

It’s a long story but I beat the shit crap out of It with a baseball bat and we fought it back. We swore to each other that we’d all come to fight It again if it returns. Anyway, the moral of this summer is that you can achieve anything if you work together and also that there is no way Henry Bowers could have caused an explosion during the 1800’s. I want to see him go to jail for taking a dump in my backpack for sure, and I guess for killing Belch, Vic and his dad too, but I know for a fact that he didn’t kill Georgie Denbrough or Betty Ripsom or Ed Corcoran. This town is just cursed.

Richie looks up brightly at Neil when he finishes reading. Neil takes a deep breath and rubs his temples with his fingers.

“I’m not sure you understood what the assignment was, Richie,” he says. “This is an inventive—and deeply disturbing—story, but this was supposed to be about what you actually did over the summer, not—”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “It is. I mean, I didn’t think Ms. Pfarrer was going to actually read them all. But—”

“This was a nonfiction assignment though.”

Neil’s being real slow on the uptake. Maybe his brain is still on summer break.

“Yeah,” says Richie, nodding. “As in, this is what actually happened to me. Here’s where we swore we’d come back and fight again when we’re old. If It comes back.” Richie holds out his left hand so Neil can see the freshly healed scar.

“Ouch,” Neil winces. “How did you get that?”

Richie rolls his eyes. “I cut it on glass. On purpose. Go get the others—they’ll tell you. Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris, Bill Den—”

“Please stop with the games,” says Neil. “Just—I’ve had a long week. We all have. Ms. Pfarrer wanted me to look into sending you to the school psychologist. I know you like to, you know, do what you do, but this is taking it too far.”

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Richie asks. He puts both elbows on the desk and leans forward. “Seriously. Why?”

“Attention-seeking behavior is common after the kind of trauma we’ve all experienced over the past year,” Neil says. Super patient, like he’s quoting a textbook and speaking to a preschooler. “I know what happened with Henry was a surprise to—”

“Wait, wait wait,” Richie interrupts. “You think I wrote this to get attention?”

Neil sighs and throws up his hands. “I can’t think of any other reason. If there is one, I’d love for you to give me some insight.”

Honestly? How fucking dare he. It strikes Richie in that moment how goddamn unfair this is. They had to do this with everyone—from explaining those nasty bites on Stan’s face to Eddie being grounded for the rest of the summer, to knowing exactly why there were so many more bodies in the sewer than missing kids from this past year and no one believing them…

“How about this for insight? ” Richie says. “I’ve been through too much trauma this year to come up with another bullshit story that all you adults will eat up. None of you care what actually happened; you just want me to tell you something that means you don’t have to do anything about it. Well, you’re gonna have to come up with your own lie to tell yourself. I’m not doing it for you.”

Neil is gaping. But Richie keeps going.

“I thought it was Bowers before this summer and honestly, I wish I’d been right. And it’s not like I’m sorry that he’s getting all this shit pinned on him even though he didn’t do it. My life is a million times easier without him around—he can get strung up by his ballsack for all I care.”

“Richie, there’s a mountain of evidence against—”

“I don’t give a shit about evidence,” says Richie. “I know what I saw. I know what happened. I know, and Bill knows, and Stan knows, and Bev… What do you care though? You’ll probably be dead anyway by the time It comes back.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?” Principal McCormack asks. His face has gone hard and stony like Richie’s never seen before; like Richie has crossed a real line this time. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows there’s going to be nasty consequences for this, but he can’t find it in himself to give a shit.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if it was,” Richie mutters. “Just… Fuck it. Send me to the school shrink or whatever. Give me detention; flunk my essay. None of this shit matters anyway.”

“You can bet you’re getting all three of those things,” says Principal McCormack with a mirthless chuckle. “And I’m not sure what’s gotten into you this year, but I feel like—”

“Do I sound like the grownups in Charlie Brown when I talk?” Richie demands. “Seriously, am I making like, actual words to you? Or are you just hearing wah wah wah when I—”

“I’m calling your parents,” Principal McCormack says over him. “Is something going on at home?”

Richie feels blood pounding through his veins. Like it could melt his skin. He looks Principal McCormack dead in the eye, reaches for his essay and tears it to shreds, standing slowly.

“In the end,” he says, his voice shaking and frustrated tears threatening to overpower him, “it’s not going to make any difference if you don’t believe me. We’ll come back, all of us. Me and Eddie. Ben, Beverly, Mike. Bill. Stan. What you think doesn’t change that.”

And as suddenly as it came, the anger evaporates. Just...poof. Gone. It clears, and there’s fucking gobsmacked Principal McCormack sitting there like a lump, staring at Richie. Maybe he heard the individual words, but one thing Richie know for sure: he still doesn’t get it. And he never will. And not just him; Ms. Pfarrer. Even Bertha, whether she thinks Richie is gifted or not. And his parents…

There’s a sick loneliness that kind of creeps in to fill up where his anger was, colder than a January wind. Every time his dad comforted him as a kid, when he’d check under the bed and in the closet for monsters, was a lie. When his mom told him he’d be safe sleeping in their bed. That nothing was coming to get him. That they’d never let him get hurt. Lies, all of it. And it’s not like the adults in his life are lying to him on accident. The truth is right there in front of their stupid fucking faces and they just refuse to look at it.

The chill settles into a stony sort of resolution. Richie has stared the truth in the face and didn’t flinch. Even getting suspended is fucking nothing compared to… Whatever. He’s getting detention anyway. Might as well make it memorable. He turns on his heel and walks out of the office.

“If you’re still alive in 2016,” Richie calls over his shoulder, “I’ll hit you up at your nursing home and let you know I was right all along.”

#It (2017)#richie tozier #Stephen King's IT

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latteunwoo · 6 years ago

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enemies-to-friends!au | cha eunwoo

a/n: I know what you may be thinking. why isn’t it an enemies-to-lovers!au? well, i just wanted to do something a bit out of the ordinary. i may do a part 2 (????) to this and turn it into a best friends-to-lovers!au though. note that eunwoo is not an idol in this au and that this is an au so please don’t take anything too seriously. this is just for giggles and smiles. if some parts don’t make sense, then please bare with me as i wrote this at a really late hour (because that’s when i get most of my ideas). i will also be doing the other astro boys as well.

astro m.list

can he not be so cute

it took you about two years into college to finally get enough money to move out of the college’s dorms and into an apartment of your own

problem was, the rent was too much for you

what you needed was a roommate

you didn’t really care if it was a boy or a girl, you just really needed someone to share the rent with

after posting a few flyers out on campus, you finally got a call from a few people who were interested

the first few people you contacted back were okay

but the problem was none of them were ready to move in soon

that left you with one last person

when you called the number back, you almost dropped your phone after hearing the person’s voice

“hello? i saw you’re looking for a roommate. i can move in soon but i have a few questions i wanted to ask as well. do you think we could meet up to talk about the details soon?”

THE PERSON ON THE LINE WAS NONE OTHER THAN THEE LEE DONGMIN

the boy who you went to school with from primary to high school

also known as the boy who you spent all those years competing with during spelling bees, science fairs, academic decathlons, etc.

needless to say, you two weren’t always the best of friends. every chance he got, he did everything in his power to try to irritate you.

“hello? are you still there?” the boy asked as you snapped out of it

you told the boy you could meet him at the school’s library after your last class

as soon as you reached the library, you could already see him studying at a table in the back

“eunwoo” you said as the boy looked up from his book

when he finally realized it was you, his eyes widened

“y/n?”

“yeah. it’s me. and i’m also the one who put up the roommate ad.”

“ah, i knew your voice sounded familiar.” he said as his tone became cockier

“look, let’s just try to be civil for once.” you said as the two of you talked about a few terms and conditions you both can agree on

once you two settled on an agreement, he signed a contract you had typed and printed out that same night

it was settled, you two would be roommates

the first few days of having him as a roommate was okay to say the least

you barely even saw him because you were always in the library trying to study for your midterms

when you finally got the chance to actually be home for more than two hours, you couldn’t believe what you saw

you and dongmin had agreed to share the fridge in half

however, obviously he didn’t care as some of the foods he had for himself were on your half of the fridge

on your dinning table you saw a pile of papers he had left there

you looked through them to see that he had been taking notes on you

“always moody” “has weird beauty products from abroad” “does she have to label everything that’s hers?” “always leaves her towels in the bathroom” “has a weird obsession for candles?” “why does she has so many candles?” etc.

every bullet point that was listed made your blood boil even more

you had thought that you can both be civil about everything but it was obvious that he was trying to annoy you on purpose

when midterms were over, that’s when things actually got worse

you both had a deal that you would cook and wash your own dishes

HOWEVER

dongmin didn’t care as whenever you had cooked yourself breakfast or dinner, he would always grab a few bites from your plate

when he did actually cook food for himself, he didn’t clean up

and he was always known as a big eater

which meant whenever he would cook food for himself, he always had a bunch of unwashed plates, pans, etc left in the sink

eventually this resulted in you trying to get back at him by doing things to annoy him as well

the war between the two of you kept going on for a few months

you wanted to kick him out earlier but he was the only one who didn’t have a problem about the rent price

honestly at this point it was hard to tell if the two of you would ever get along

until one day

the two of you happened to be invited to your mutual friend mingyu’s party

you weren’t planning on going at first

one; because eunwoo said he’d go and you didn’t want to end up getting in an argument with him

two; you were never really the party type

however, mingyu wouldn’t leave you alone until you agreed to come to his party

to stop him from bugging you and almost getting you in trouble during one of your classes together of course you had to tell him you would go

“i heard you’re going to mingyu’s party” eunwoo said as you looked up from your laptop to see him standing in front of you

“yeah, gyu wouldn’t leave me alone about it. i know what you’re going to say and i agree we should go to the party at different times so no one gets the wrong idea.” you said as you continued to type out your essay

“alright, good,” he said as he turned and headed back to his room while muttering “i didn’t want to go with you anyways”

on the day of the party, eunwoo left early because he told mingyu he would help set up for the party

that made it easier for the two of you to not arrive at the same time

“are you seriously wearing that to the party?” your friend minghao asked as he was helping you get ready for the party

“it’s not like i’m trying to impress anyone” you said as you looked through your closet again

“that’s true but at least dress a little more appropriately” he said as he slightly pushed you aside and looked for something more appropriate

once you were all dressed and ready, the two of you headed to mingyu’s house

the party wasn’t so bad at first

you just mostly stayed by minghao’s side because you weren’t close to anyone else there

at one point he had abandoned you to “get drinks” but you knew that he’d probably get your drinks then get caught up trying to flirt with his crush

after a few minutes, you decided to just get a drink for yourself

as you were about to take a sip of your drink, a boy you recognized from yours & mingyu’s painting class approached you

“y/n, right?” the boy asked as he leaned in closer to you and you could already sense that he was very much intoxicated

you honestly didn’t know what to do

as you were going to answer him back, someone spoke up from behind you

“she’s with me. get lost,” the voice said as you instantly turned around to see eunwoo standing there

“eunwoo...” you said, surprised to see him there

honestly you were really surprised that he would even want to help you out

“c’mon, y/n” he said as he grabbed your arm before you could even say anything and dragged you out to the backyard where there were less people

“thanks” you said as he let go of your arm and started sipping his own drink

“you don’t have to thank me” he said as the two of you just stood out there in silence

the next day you woke up to the smell of pancakes filling the whole house

you walked into the kitchen to see eunwoo cooking

“i made some pancakes for you. i know you like them” he said as you quietly thanked him

“you didn’t poison these, did you?” you asked as he just laughed

“why would i?”

“i- nevermind.” you said as you quietly started eating the plate of pancakes in front of you.

you were going to ask why he was suddenly being like this, but it seemed he was already one step ahead of you as always

“i thought we could put our little rivalry aside and try to be friends for once”

“wow, who knew mr.lee dongmin could be so nice” you teased as he turned around to glare at you

“don’t push it,” he said as the two of you just laughed

that was the start of your renewed friendship with him

you two started helping each other out both at school and at home

the two of you even deiced to rip up the list of rules you had

it was really nice knowing that you can both finally be friends

little did you know, he felt something else too uwu

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arttlations · 6 years ago

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two

From then on, Lu Feng and I naturally became closer. After sufficient time spent with the other and realizing that the other wasn't as hateful as he seemed and could be in fact, rather cute at times, our relationship rapidly became stronger. I guess the two of us were initially opposites that attracted (personality-wise) but gradually, we kind of rubbed off each other, as seen from Lu Feng's decreasing demerits and my increased cursing.

Not long after our friendship had stabilized, Lu Feng started his criticisms towards my appearance.

"You look really ugly with these glasses, kind of like a mushroom."

God , just when I start being nice, you start crossing the line.

"It's none of your business."

"It's really ugly though."

"If you're going to continue, then write the essay yourself." At that time, I was working on an essay for the useless trash who repays kindness with evil beside me in exchange for three of the canteen's famous pot-stewed chicken drumstick. The essay's title was "My View On Cheating". The school's something something cup essay competition didn't receive enough submissions and hence set a target amount to be collected from each class regardless of the quality.

Both Lu Feng and I hit the jackpot, all thanks to his wide smile after hearing my name being called which resulted in his name being the next one called, which then resulted in me being the smiling one instead. Lu Feng was rather strong in his maths and sciences, but when it came to his two languages, his mistakes could make one cry, making it hard to believe that he was a Chinese, and an American Chinese at that. Rumour had it his midterms' essay was written merely with his stream of consciousness, and by stream of consciousness it meant that he wrote whatever he saw, for example, if he saw a bird fly past or observed that the girl in front of him had on a skirt that was revealing her thighs, he could perhaps try to write a poem of sorts, but to write an essay based on that......

When he received an average result, I guessed the teacher must have been captured by the absolutely mysterious introduction and conclusion. Lu Feng's good handwriting that looked just like a work of calligraphy must have left a strong impression as well.

But if a miracle happens again, it wouldn't be called a miracle anymore. That was why Lu Feng's usual essays were basically pathetic scraps of paper, no matter how you looked at it, it was only at the standard of a primary school child. Giving him a pass was already a lot to ask. Lu Feng himself was clear about this, hence, he had taken the initiative to buy the chicken drumsticks and placed them in my lunchbox in front of me in order to give me some mental strength, at the same time, buttering me up further by fanning me from the side. (It was the end of November where people needed a woolen sweater to get by.)

For my own essay, I had painstakingly written my comments, analysis, and reflections about the unhealthy practices in the exam hall, and at the end, I had included a deep and sincere message, "For socialism, we as students should have a strong foundation in our education journey and should never cheat!" My essay was the perfect example of "a good youth's traditional ideas on socialism".

As for Lu Feng's, with a swish of the pen, I fired away with my baseless theories, reprimanding the education system and demanding for changes to be made. "If it exists, it must be reasonable. When cheating has changed from a rare occurrence to a frequent problem, changed from a figment of one's imaginations to a habit, then we have to take a closer look at why this is reasonable......"

"It is a gentleman's clever use of other tools rather than his prominent wisdom that helps him stand out.", "A good wind relies on borrowed strength to send me up to the heavens.", when an individual's ability is limited, appropriate usage of other tools as a means to reach his target cannot be said to be an unfair shortcut. From an educational point of view, I believe..."

"Furthermore, just like how the public's worries over their security do not necessarily reflect the decreased quality in character among people but rather the instability amongst the government, the increased frequency of cheating cases do not reflect the student's lack of knowledge and ideas. The real problem lies with our education system which is full of gaps. A change in the education system is, therefore, a much more pressing and effective measure as compared to catching students who are cheating in the exam hall..."

The rest was pretty much similar to those written above, all simply lines of nonsense which feared no god. The rant had left me rather contented when I was done. Watching me write as if I was possessed and coming up with large chunks of text within a mere half an hour, Lu Feng was too dazed to even guess that I was digging his grave.

After finishing, I munched away at the drumsticks, laughing to myself now and then. That big idiot Lu Feng didn't even give it a second glance before writing his own name and shoving the paper in his bag for submission tomorrow.

"Xiao Chen, don't wear this pair of glasses anymore, they look terrible." A standard example of biting the hand that feeds you.

"......" I wiped my mouth, then started, "My eyes don't look good, wearing this would shield you from some of that ugliness." A boy's looks didn't really matter, but having been criticized multiple times, I didn't feel all that comfortable either.

"Why don't you take it off? It wouldn't be worse than this current look anyway."

"......" I turned around and ignored him.

"Come on, Xiao Chen, we have no idea how you look without your glasses either. Remove them so we can have a look."

"I rather not... I'll look terrible and give you guys a scare." It wasn't my fault that I was

born ugly, but there was no need to show off this fact.

Suddenly, caught off guard, my vision became a blur as my glasses were removed by Lu Feng. Since the first year of senior high, my left eye had a power of 375 while my right was 425 (this later seemed to remain the same for about 7-8 years), and with my relatively bad astigmatism, the sudden loss of my glasses made everything before me appear as a mere blur, so all I could do was blankly stare ahead with my mouth slightly opened in shock.

My surroundings became quiet, and only after a while then did I hear the dorm head Xiao Shan laugh dryly before saying, "Xiao Chen...... You actually look quite cute."

Lu Feng returned my glasses by placing them on my face again. "Forget it, you should just keep wearing them."

"I already said I would look bad." I faintly smiled. Strangely, I felt a little upset over Lu Feng's remark.

I can't deny it, Lu Feng is the level's most charming male student. Due to the mixed genes, his features are a lot more distinct than most people. If you looked that good, you would definitely be more picky towards others' appearances - I'm simply comforting myself.

I'm actually still quietly hoping that Lu Feng wouldn't find me ugly.

Lu Feng gave me a small smile. After everyone had gone out of the dorm room to prepare for the night's self-study in the classrooms, he scooted closer to me and reminded me, "Don't let others see you without your glasses in the future."

"I got it." My tone wasn't all that kind. "I'm not wicked enough to go out and scare others when I have nothing to do."

Lu Feng's smile grew wider. "You understand my meaning?"

Irritated, I pushed him away. "Go away, I've to go for self-study now. If you find me ugly, stay further away from me. Don't stand here lest I scare you."

Suddenly, he grabbed me and pulled me towards him, his head lowering to speak lowly in my ear, "I'm saying, that look from before made me feel like kissing you."

"You- Have you gone crazy?" I was stunned for a moment, my face turning a ripe red before I bellowed angrily.

Lu Feng chuckled.

I turned around to avoid looking at that arrogant smirk on his face and kept myself busy by packing my journal and practice questions for the self-study session.

"Eh? Where are my socks?" Lu Feng lowered his head as he searched the room.

"I washed them."

This man looked absolutely fresh and clean from the outside, but on the inside, he was a mess. He never washes his socks, and after wearing a pair, he would put them under his pillow. Once all the socks have gathered under his pillow, he would pick a pair that was not as dirty or smelly as the rest and wear them. About more than half a school term had passed, but not once have I seen him wash his socks. I would bet that if I took any one of them, it would be hard enough for it to stand upright on the floor by itself. Even though I slept on the top bunk, I could barely stand the smell, and yet he didn't find it in the least bit disgusting. In the afternoon, after class, when he was out buying the chicken drumsticks, I took the chance and washed all of those pungent socks. It was only after I hung them up to dry then did I realise there was more than a dozen of them. Gosh.

"You washed them?" Lu Feng lifted his head, casting me a strange look.

"Wh-why?" I was starting to think that there were millions of pounds worth of notes in them seeing his terrifying expression.

"Xiao Chen, you helped me wash my socks?"

"Yes..." I was confused.

"I love you!" Lu Feng spread his arms and immediately gave me a hug. Having not avoided it, I was forcefully wrapped in his arms and given a peck on my face.

"You pervert!" The shock was too much for my heart to take.

"I am a pervert." Lu Feng smiled sneakily. "Here, I'll kiss you once more."

"Dream on." I smacked a thick chemistry textbook on his face, only to be smoothly grabbed by the arm and pressed down on the bed.

"Hey, stop it!" I begged, "I'm ticklish..." Before I could finish, I felt a small attack on my waist, causing me to erupt in laughter.

"Ticklish?" Lu Feng was smiling. "How about this spot? Here? Or here?"

The places he touched felt as if I had come into contact with lightning, making me curl up into a ball, laughing till I found it hard to breathe.

"Xiao Chen, you're really sensitive."

"If I'm ticklish, I'm ticklish. Why is there a need for such a sensual word?" I got up, eyeing his complicated expression as he bit down on his lower lip, his amber eyes sparkling.

"Why are you acting so weirdly? Did you hit your head or something?"

"Nothing." He smiled, wearing his Nike sports shoes barefooted before picking his bag up. "Let's go for self-study."

one//masterlist

#a round trip to love translation #arttl #a round trip to love #boys love #gay boys #bl novel #book translation

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djinmer4 · 6 years ago

Text

Heart to Heart (Misnamed Soulmates AU)

Amanda doesn’t know what’s up with Kurt right now but she wishes she’d never started dating him in the first place. Despite the fact he broke up with her weeks ago, he seems to have taken an inordinate interest in her life. First, it was helping her fill out all her college applications, then offering to chauffeur her to and from school then finally it was that disastrous blind date he arranged for her and Bobby when he decided to spy on them all evening. Bobby had actually seemed pretty nice and possibly her type . . . except they’d pretty much both been rendered complete nervous wrecks by Kurt’s heavy-handed monitoring of their date. Amanda considered giving Bobby another chance . . . after she figured out a way to get Kurt off her back. This behavior was downright creepy. He’d been less concerned about her when they were dating; in hindsight, half his mind had always been on Kitty Pryde the whole time. Maybe she had turned him down and he was trying to get back into Amanda’s graces? Well, fat chance of that happening.

Amanda had stayed late tonight, half to finish writing her application essay, half to have an excuse not to let Kurt drive her home. She needed some time to think for herself and that wouldn’t happen in the car with his constant chatter. Although that might not have been the best idea.

“Well, look who’s walkin’ alone at night. The mutie-lover.”

God damn Duncan and his loser friends. The jock had kept quiet about what had happened, but everyone in Bayville knew the former Homecoming King had somehow managed to lose his scholarship and been expelled from college. He tried to play it off as him taking a gap year before transferring but rumor had it that whatever had happened had pretty much killed his prospects of joining any reputable institution. Of course, there were plenty of others who’d gladly take an American All-Star even with a ruined reputation. Whatever took Duncan, Amanda was going to avoid like the plague.

“If you must Duncan, you should know that Wagner and I broke up months ago.”

“Yeah, but everyone says he broke up with you, not the other way around.” He circled her like a starving wolf. “Not sure I wanna taint myself with the rat’s sloppy seconds, but you are easy on the eyes. Let me-”

Amanda didn’t wait for him to finish talking. She swung her bag to the side, cold-cocking one of them straight away. Unfortunately, there were five of them and only one of her, so even getting one of them out didn’t improve her odds significantly. Soon enough, they had her pinned down and were ripping her clothes off while Duncan unzipped his jeans. Then suddenly he stopped, and the leer fell off his face.

“You feel that? One good squeeze, and it’s all over for you Duncan.” Amanda couldn’t tilt her head the right way to see but that sounded like Kitty Pryde. “Now, unless the rest of you want to see him die, I suggest you all back off and leave.” The ones holding her down didn’t seem inclined to follow but Kitty must have done something because Duncan ordered them to grab the downed guy and bring him to the hospital in a high-pitched squeal. “They’re gone already! Let the fuck go of my heart!”

Kitty stepped out from behind the blond. “Bitch!” He turned and tried to hit her but he just passed through her . . . and hit the tree instead. There was the distinct cracking of bones breaking and Duncan howled. Kitty didn’t seem at all sympathetic and she boxed him in the ears, knocking him out. Then she came over to Amanda and held her hand out. Gratefully, the black teenager took her hand and let her rival pull her up.

They walked in silence for a while before Amanda cleared her throat. “I didn’t think the Professor allowed you to use your powers like that.”

“Yeah, well, the Professor’s not the one who’s walking into a warzone every day on his way to school. As long as I don’t actually maim or kill anyone, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And if he does find out, it means he invaded my mind without my permission, making him a hypocrite.”

She side-eyed the younger girl. “And you’re not worried about Duncan running off and turning his friends against you?”

“Duncan’s already gone and poisoned all of Bayville against us. If the choice is between getting raped and killed today versus it happening sometime in the future, then I make the choice that will let me live a little longer. I mean sure, if there were other people who’d get hurt if I didn’t back down right then, I’d reconsider. But if I hadn’t done anything, all that would happen is you’d get hurt instead and I don’t think that’s the better option.”

“Thanks, then.” There was a lull in the conversation then it was Kitty’s turn to break the silence. “Hey, um, I don’t know if this would be your jam or not. But if you like, I could give you some self-defense lessons. I mean, I’m no Logan but wouldn’t you feel better if you had some way to defend yourself against jerks like that?”

Amanda was skeptical. “Self-defense just for Duncan?” she asked dryly.

“Not just Duncan. People like him. Guys in general. The police, maybe.” And abruptly Amanda was reminded of the article one of her classmates had brought in that day for homework. About the young black mother who had just been fatally shot in what should have been a routine speeding stop.

“You know,” her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Self-defense isn’t going to do much good against a bullet.”

“Unless you can phase through them or can move them with kinesis, mutant power isn’t much good against a bullet. If Scott or Ms. Monroe get shot, they’d be in just as much trouble as a normal person.” Kitty took a deep breath and braced herself. “As Kurt pointed out, I can pass and walk away from all this any time I want to. No one just looking at me can tell I’m a Jew or a mutant or even an X-Woman. So the least I can do for people like you who don’t have that choice, I can teach you enough to get away or stall them so you can call for help.”

Amanda hated to admit it but it was surprisingly refreshing to hear someone like Kitty actually acknowledge her privilege. Most white people seemed to think if they acted color-blind, it was enough. “I accept. First lesson this Saturday morning?”

The brunette groaned. “Saturday afternoon, please! I don’t want to get up early on the weekend if I don’t have to.”

Kitty was a good teacher if nothing else. She hadn’t even made a fuss when Amanda had showed up in high heels and a miniskirt for the first lesson. “Barefoot today and you’ll probably want your gym clothes next time. But it’s good to practice in your every day wear too.”

Amanda had pulled out the ballet flats and sweats she’d packed. She wasn’t an idiot after all. But she did ask, “So, you’d be okay with me fighting like that?”

Kitty had answered dryly. “It’s not like a bunch of gangbangers or white terrorists are going to wait for you to change clothes. Work out clothes are good for learning basics and building up your stamina. But you haven’t really learned anything until you can use it out in the real world and not just a dojo.”

“Do you think I should buy some mace?”

“Every woman should buy mace if possible.” Amanda arched an eyebrow at that. “Or else what? It’s the woman’s fault if she ends up dead in a ditch?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, it isn’t her fault. But if we lived in a perfect world, neither of us would have to learn self-defense in the first place. If you’re going to choose not to use a certain defense that’s fine but make sure it’s your decision and not something that other people force on you.”

“Does that apply to guns as well?”

“Oh, uh . . . “

Kitty and Amanda shared no classes in school. Until Amanda had started dating Kurt, they hadn’t even known the other girl existed. But honestly? It was a relief to talk to someone she could relate with. Both of them were from upper-middle-class families, were only children with no other relatives nearby (in age or location) and both came from marginalized communities (Kitty was Jewish and a mutant while, Amanda was black). They didn’t share many interests (Kitty liked computer science and fashion while Amanda was more interested in history and literature) but it was such a relief to just vent to someone on occasion without having to explain why each little microaggression stung. Sure, the other Insitutue kids got the big picture when someone tried to attack her physically or blatant slurs were muttered in their presence but most of them missed the whole cultural insensitivity or erasure that also occurred. Kitty got it and could empathize with her.

The two of them had just finished up a session in the Danger Room and were cooling down, lying on the floor. Kitty had done some of her techno-mojo and there was a beautiful starscape above their heads. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”

Kitty rolled over to look at Amanda. “You can always ask. Can’t always promise that I’ll do or follow what you want.”

“It’s about . . . “ the older girl hesitated for a second. “It’s about Kurt.” Kitty didn’t seem the least bit disturbed and gestured that she should go on. “Do you think you could get him to back off a little?”

“What do you mean?”

“Kurt. He was less involved with my life when we were dating than he is now. It’s like I can’t do anything without him hovering over my shoulder.”

“I wondered why I was seeing less of him lately.”

“He didn’t talk about it to you?”

“I, um . . . “

Amanda ignored Kitty’s discomfort. “You know, I should have realized from the very beginning, that it was always going to be you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“No, seriously. Even our first date at the Sadie Hawkins dance, he spent the entire time staring at you until the dinosaurs showed up.”

“He did? I didn’t even notice.”

“Yeah, you were talking to Lance. To be fair, he did try to hide it but every time his mask slipped, he looked pretty devastated.”

“That jerk! We’d agreed a month before then that he should try and get over me.” Kitty frowned, her heart-shaped face and plush lips turning it into a little girl pout. “Going on a date and spending the entire date staring at someone else doesn’t count as getting over anyone.”

“Hey, be nice,” admonished the black girl. “He’d only had a month to try to come to terms and the Sadie Hawkins was probably like rubbing salt into the wound. I don’t like the fact I was the rebound but I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”

“I don’t think Kurt really means to hurt anyone. It’s just not him. But he can be freakin’ insensitive at times.”

“I’m sure we all can be.” A pause while the two of them digested that statement, reflecting on their own peccadilloes. Amanda restarted the conversation. “But no, really, could he stop? Sometimes it’s helpful but the time he spied on my date with Bobby? That was downright creepy.”

“Ugh, yeah, I’ll tell him that. I think he’s trying to get you to forgive him but if he was spying on your date that goes a little too far.”

“I think I’d like to try again with Bobby, but only without the furry, blue chaperone. Seriously, what was he thinking? Why is he going so far anyway?”

Kitty shifted uncomfortably. “That . . . might be my fault.”

“How so?”

“Well . . . I told him I didn’t want to date him until you’d forgiven him.” Amanda sat up to look down at her teacher.

“Why’d you do something like that?”

“Because what he did was pretty terrible. Because he should do something to make up for what he had done to you. And finally, because it just wouldn’t feel right to start a relationship with him when you were still hurting from the break-up. Wouldn’t feel clean.”

“You’re not . . . you didn’t decide to help me to make up for what Kurt did, did you?”

Kitty narrowed crystal blue eyes at her. “Of course not, that would be silly. Kurt’s responsible for his own stupid actions. I helped because a bunch of retarded jocks decided to attack you.” She then reluctantly admitted. “On the other hand, if I hadn’t known you through Kurt I might not have offered to teach you self-defense. I would have escorted you home and that would have been the end of it.”

Amanda sat in silence for a few minutes while Kitty watched her. “I forgive him,” she said abruptly.

“What?”

“I said, I forgive him. I forgive Kurt for what he did to me.”

“You do? But why? He hasn’t really done anything to deserve forgiveness.”

“It’s not about what he’s done, it’s about the way I feel. And I don’t want to think that our friendship is contingent on me being mad at him. That would suck.”

“But-”

“You don’t think starting a relationship while I’m still upset is good. Well, I don’t think the X-Men only becoming friends with me because one of their friends screwed up and the rest of them need to make amends for him is any better. I want to think that our relationship is clean, that it’s based on liking each other and shared interests. Not you just putting up a friendly facade to make me feel better.”

“I guess. But are you sure about it?”

“Yes.” The black girl nodded her head, first hesitantly then did it again with more certainty. “I mean, I’m not going to forget what he’s done anytime soon. But he can stop trying to make up for it or whatever he thinks he’s been doing the past few months. You have my blessing or permission or whatever it is you need to start dating.”

“Thank you, Amanda.”

#misnamed soulmate au #Amanda Sefton #Kitty Pryde #nicest i'll ever be to amanda #rape implications #bechdel test

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