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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 1 year ago

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My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The flutes and drums beat out the time As in his box of polished pine Like dead meat on a butcher's tray My youngest son same home today

My youngest son was a fine young man With a wife, a daughter and a son A man he would have lived and died Till by a bullet sanctified Now he's a saint or so they say They brought their saint home today

Above the narrow Belfast streets An Irish sky looks down and weeps On children's blood in gutters spilled For dreams of freedom unfulfilled As part of freedom's price to pay My youngest son came home today

[I was about to post this piece when I heard the news of Ben Zussman's death. So, posted that instead. Now, here's this. I hope this war ends soon, so I can get back to writing about other things. Working on my novel. But this is where I am. So this is what I write. Also, if you read it all and decide to share, please paste Abu Saif's essay into the first two comments on your post as I do below.]

I'm pasting in the first two comments an essay from the NYT by عاطف ابوسيف(Atef abu Saif). I’m violating the paywall because it's so important and you might not have a subscription. Sue me. If you manage to read the title and can continue, read all the way to the end. If I believe in the idea of sin, I believe it is a sin to look away. I began to write an introduction, but it turned into something longer. A lot longer. The longest post I’ve ever written. So, feel free to skip my meandering and oh so sentimental musings and read the essay. In any case, I urge you to read his essay. More than that. I dare you. Especially if you support this war.

This post will be difficult for some to read. It sure as hell was difficult to write. There’s complexity here if you recognize the horrors the IDF is perpetrating in Gaza. Even if you, unlike me, stand with those who think them necessary and justified. It’s not simple to write then. But if you make your way through it and then read the essay in the comment, maybe you’ll understand something better. Though perhaps not more sympathetically. Just maybe a bit better.

I’m between the hammer and the anvil with regard to the IDF. I’m in no way an apologist. I’ve been clear with my son that I would support him if he refused. There’s no chance of that. But I wanted him to know. I’ll write something else about that later. These are issues about which I will repeat myself.

But I also reject that people serving in the IDF are like Nazi stormtroopers, or the majority of those serving in it are the equivalent of Hamas, even though I have friends I deeply respect who have presented me with those opinions explicitly. I hope that they are able to read this. It’s again about my children, as Abu Saif’s is in large part. War, for me, is always about children. Always. And, as I wrote last week, maybe if we all recognized that, there wouldn’t be more war.

We should all listen to Eric Bogle’s song “My Youngest Son Came Home Today” more often. Especially the rendition here by the PS22 chorus.

My three children came to me for Shabbat dinner this past Friday. We're all still getting used to the divorce. One meal with me, one at home with their mother, a 20 minute walk from my place. Sometimes, it’s dinner with me and lunch with her. Sometimes vice versa. Once in a while, all five of us together. Their mother sees them more on Shabbat. It’s the nature of things. That’s their home. I see them for two hours. Precious hours. But I see them.

We generally have a very nice time. But even when not, I’d rather have a horrible time with them than a wonderful time with anyone else. They are never eager to walk those 20 minutes, as much, I think because of what that time and distance represents as the effort required to make the short trek. Sometimes one or more of them arrives grumpy. They are teenagers, after all, in the wake of a domestic disruption. But usually, even then, things loosen up. I make food they like. I make sure things are clean and orderly and calm. That things feel stable and safe.

Finally, in the past few weeks, I have prevailed on them to enter without knocking. “It's your father's home,” I tell them. “You don't need to knock to enter your father's home. You aren't guests. You have a place here. Always.” I don’t know if it makes a difference to them. But it does to me. I hate it when they knock. They’re my kids.

I only see my elder daughter on Shabbat. She was recently inducted into the education corps for her compulsory service. (The army aspires to be a source of knowledge for people who have been deprived.) She began her service just a few weeks before October 7th. A member of her course was from Kibbutz Beeri. He was home for Shabbat and caught up in the massacre. Even in the education corps, one may be connected to the dead.

But she’s nowhere near any danger. She says she’s a bit embarrassed when she’s in uniform on the street, or on a bus, and people bid her “watch over yourself”. Or “May the Name guard you.” I tell her she’s a member of a corporate body that puts itself in danger to keep them safe, even if that’s not her posting. They are wishing her well because they need to wish all of our soldiers well. Because, often, they can’t wish family members and friends and friends’ children well at that moment. They need to say it. For themselves. And she provides them with an occasion. A sort of gift she can give them. Also, I want everyone to bless my children. To wish them safety and protection. To want their wellbeing. Who wouldn’t?

Sometimes, the one who gives the blessing benefits more than the one who receives it. Every Shabbat when I see them, before we eat, like many Jewish parents, I move from one to the next, in order of their birth, place my hands upon their heads, and recite the tripartite priestly blessing from the Book of Numbers. Three blessings in one. An ancient bargain!

May The LORD bless you and guard you. May The LORD shine His face upon you and grant you favor. May The LORD raise His face to you and grant you peace.

My favorite moment of the week. Routine, a formula, but never formulaic. The regularity never diminishes its emotional charge. They are often distracted or bored or grumpy. Though when he was little, my son, who was born with a galaxy-sized heart – when he was two, one of his caregivers told us “he’s simply full of love” – would respond by putting one hand on my head and one on his mother’s. And we would grin and sometimes giggle a bit. And feel blessed. Even when I’m irritable or tired, blessing them always redirects me toward meaning, if only for a moment.

I remember the first time I did this. In a hospital recovery room. Their mother looked up at me, tired beyond tired, and said “should we give our daughter a b’rakhah?” A blessing. We’d been preparing for nine months. In some senses longer than that. Since we were engaged and hoping to give one another children. So, I’d been waiting for the right moment, and I was about to say something. Our daughter had been born on Friday morning. We’d lost track of time. The labor had been so long, and the delivery had not been easy. But Shabbat, commencing with sundown, pulled us back on schedule. We always measure time from Shabbat to Shabbat. From that moment on, I would measure it from blessing to blessing.

I had been about to say something about it being time. Our first time. But she preempted me. It was right for her to claim the prerogative to prompt us. Earned. Childbirth is never egalitarian. And despite the long anticipation of this moment I’d imagined, even dreamed, the substance of its performance, the special mix of gravity and joy, the glow of it felt surprising. We’d placed our fingertips on her small, warm, downy head. So delicate. So fragile. With barely any pressure. She was in a deep sleep. Being born is very hard work. Especially when it takes so long. In a matter of weeks, if not days, we’d be longing for her to finally sleep. So, we could collapse or work or read or watch TV. Mostly collapse. But at that moment, I wanted her to be awake. I wanted her to hear us. I wanted her to watch us and feel our hands upon her, blessing her with a wish of peace. Shalom. A more expansive term than peace that also connotes health and fullness and well-being. A blessing that channels something beyond language, something language can only summon but not contain. I wanted her to feel it. I remember crying a little. I think I did. I hope I did.

I wonder how Atef Abu Saif blesses his children.

I don’t connect so much to the idea of a “personal God.” Sometimes I wish I did. I wish I had an almighty and benevolent addressee who would hear me. “Nigh is The LORD to all who call upon Him,” as the psalmist says. But I’ve never really felt it. That presence. I’ve studied some theology. A body of knowledge I admire. I wrote my Bachelor thesis on Maimonides’ reading of Job in his Guide of the Perplexed. A dazzling text that I never found as cold as some find its rationalism. Rather, it’s literary and bold and charged with a kind of passion, with humanity, even as the author, that monumental Sage and philosopher strives to distinguish God absolutely from anything human. A deity so far beyond humanity that ascriptions of physicality to him in scripture must be read strictly and scrupulously as metaphors. Yet his text sings with humanity. I’ve studied mystical theologies as well. They have moved me in similar fashion. Though a different flavor.

But despite all the humanity in theology, I’ve never felt that immediacy of touch or attention or found the arguments compelling enough to engender belief in God’s objective existence (and now the RaMBaM, the acronym by which we refer to Maimonides, is shouting in my head that God is not an object, and the idea of His objective existence is idolatrous). Yet if God is so elusive for me personally, I still find the conceit powerful. Imputing a name and a face to the Cosmos, with apologies again to the RaMBaM, whether or not it’s an intentional power, is very alluring. So, in that hospital room, my fingers timid on that little head, the regularity of my hours-old daughter’s breathing so miraculous, we pronounced the ancient formula. Please God, let her be well. Let her be whole. Let her have peace. And then we had a son. And then another daughter. Each a blessing. And every week I bless them.

So, once again, this past Friday night I blessed them. Let them have peace. Shalom. Wellbeing. Let everything be well with them. I know it won’t always be. There will be struggles and illnesses and disappointments. Maybe heartbreak. Certainly heartbreak of some sort. I’ve had more than my fair share. Not only recently. Atef Abu Saif, whom I hope you will read below, has had more. Much more. Hard to imagine any Gazan who hasn’t. There are so many kinds of heartbreak. It’s endemic to humanity. To life. Only a babe who dies very shortly after birth never knows heartbreak. Not to know heartbreak seems inhuman. “Nigh is The LORD to the brokenhearted,” says he psalmist. But nonetheless. Please spare them that. Please. When I bless them, I want to feel power flowing through me, pouring out of my hands onto them. Enveloping them in radiance. I want to be a conduit for divine favor. Let God’s face recognize them, let them be seen by the Cosmos, and be received in kindness, and receive kindness. As I said, giving a blessing can be more for the one blessing than for the blessed.

This Friday night, they barely broke their chatter when I went around to bless them. As usual. I did it quickly. I usually do. But it never undercuts the profundity of it. And like many parents, I kissed the tops of their heads as I removed my hands. My son, who recently surpassed me in height by a few centimeters, now bends his head down so I can do this.

These days, that final word in the mystic formula, shalom, feels particularly powerful, particularly heavy. Even more than usual. Despite its range of abstract meanings, it always feels so specific and concrete as their heads round into my palms. And I stand in a posture of power. The ultimate patriarchal pose (though, of course, many women, like their mother, do it as well). But perversely, it makes my powerlessness palpable. I won’t be able to preserve them from suffering and deprivation and disappointment. I have, myself, presented them with such experiences already. It has been a difficult few years. And as my yearning for power underscores my powerlessness, the blessing becomes a plea. Please. Bless them with peace. Please. Please. Please. Always. But especially now. Shalom.

My daughter had told me earlier that day that because of “the situation”, they are going to start sending members of her unit home with rifles when they set out for their near weekly Shabbat furloughs. I think it's ridiculous. She’s in the education corps. It seems both thematically incongruous and useless in a practical sense for her to travel with a semi-automatic assault rifle. A machine gun. I tell her she’ll never use it. And she shouldn’t. The only place she might do so would be if “something happens” on the way. But fifty more visits to the shooting range wouldn’t equip her for that situation. Excellent field soldiers sometimes fail to pass anti-terror training, teaching people how to use a weapon in the middle of an attack in a civilian area. Though we send armed soldiers into civilian areas right now. We always have and we always do. But those aren’t ‘our’ civilians. Aren’t we supposed to hold every human life as equally sacred? We claim to. We don’t. Obviously. No army does. Laws and ethics of warfare don’t. But that doesn’t make it ok.

She mentions the attack that happened the previous day. Two Palestinians from East Jerusalem opened fire on a bus stop at the entrance to West Jerusalem. And two soldiers and one civilian shot them dead. Three civilians died. Four, actually. I’ll get to that in a moment. Several are in the hospital. I admitted that maybe then. If she had a clear shot. But that’s crap. The presence of mind to operate a weapon under pressure without extensive training? I imagine her quickly swinging her rifle around to the front of her body, quickly inserting a magazine, cocking it, bracing the butt against her shoulder, aiming, finding a clear sight line, and pulling the trigger. All while under fire herself. Yeah. That’s not happening. She should get herself behind a very solid object or lie flat on the ground with her hands over her head.

Then my son mentions that one of the people who was killed, the fourth, had jumped from his car and it was he who shot the terrorists. A 38-year-old lawyer named Yuval Kestleman who served in a reserve combat unit and carried a licensed handgun. I saw the security footage. As the two off-duty soldiers had turned and trained their weapons on him, he'd dropped his gun, sunk to his knees, ripped open his jacket so they could see he wasn’t wearing an explosive belt, all the while calling out to them in Hebrew, identifying himself as a Jew and an Israeli. And one of the soldiers, a member of the radical right-wing settler “hilltop youth” who was on his way back to Gaza, shot him dead.

There’s a controversy over whether the soldier who shot him can be excused. Part of a broader controversy about what constitutes a “neutralized” suspect or perpetrator and the ruled of engagement. Some, like the awful Chief Rabbi of Safed, explicitly support summary executions. Even if they are lying unconscious. Just shoot them. The ideological community this soldier affiliates with holds this position. And if you get it wrong, well, as our Prime Minister initially said about this incident, “that’s life”. Really.

I don’t know the soldier. Just his ethos. And he expressed glee at having killed someone, at least before he found out whom he killed. “Everyone wants an ‘x’.” A kill. A lie. Many if not most hope they never have to. But he did. It’s hard for me to believe he couldn’t see Yuval Kestleman drop his weapon, fall to his knees, and raise his hands over his head, hear him calling out in Hebrew.

I’ve already argued about it with one total stranger, a security guard at a building I was entering, holding forth with another security guard about the case. I couldn’t help myself. “You don’t fire at someone if they are on their knees with their hands above their head.” He responded with “and what if it had been a terrorist?” I repeated that you don’t shoot someone on their knees with their hands over their head. And the footage is quite clear. My daughter would never do that, even if she could get in position to do it. My son wouldn’t. None of their friends would. I can’t imagine any of he people I served with doing that. Though it’s been a long time. Maybe some would. Certainly not those I trained and commanded. But we send lots of people like this soldier and this security guard to Gaza. And sometimes people like Atef Abu Saif and his son and his mother face soldiers like these.

My son is 16, a year old than Atef Abu Saif's son, about whom you will read below, if you have the courage to witness. You should try. The act of witnessing is a sacred act. And sometimes, it’s all we can do. I know that telling people what they should do is both strategically and morally a sketchy thing. Lots of things these days are strategically and morally sketchy. I suppose it will be much easier for those who don’t live here, haven’t served, don’t have children serving in Gaza, or know children of friends serving in Gaza, or have neighbors serving in Gaza, or. . .well basically almost everyone who lives here. Barring ultra-Orthodox and Arab communities. He’s an elite athlete, a student at an academy for dedicated and ambitious and highly disciplined basketball players located 40 minutes from Gaza, much closer than his older sister’s army base.

My youngest is 13, the only one who lives with their mother full time. I see her once in the middle of the week as well. She comes for dinner. Or we go out. We always have fun. Last week, I made a pasta she loves, and we watched The Godfather. She shares much more with me now than she did when I lived with her. And I feel guilty that her mother shoulders most of the hard parenting bits, though we both try to share those as well. Some things are overdetermined by the physics of space and time. And sometimes a distance of 20 minutes might as well be 500 kilometers.

At some point, as was inevitable, the conversation shifted to “the situation”. My son says he believes this war is necessary. That it will make us safer. That the civilians dying in Gaza, with whom he says he sympathizes, are all Hamas' fault. ‘Look what they made us do!’ He says his opinions have changed since October 7th. I think that's Hamas' fault. His older sister says she trusts the army that they are doing everything they can and know what they are doing and she thinks we must all have faith in its commanders. She’s very firm about this. Too firm? Does she really think this? Or does she need to believe it? They have friends serving in Gaza. They know people who were murdered on October 7th. They know someone who is being held hostage.

My youngest offers that for every Hamas member we kill, we make three more. A common saying among war skeptics and opposers. Maybe she heard it somewhere. Maybe the formulation is obvious. Maybe she uses the number three because our minds so commonly divide things into threes. Lots of theories about that. Aristotle, in his Poetics, says all stories must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. We invoke the names of three patriarchs in our liturgy. It takes Abraham and Isaac three days to reach Moriah, where the former, a father, binds the latter, his son, on an altar and raises a knife over him. Three blessings make up the blessing I bestow upon them every Shabbat as a plea for their shalom, their wellbeing. Three bears. Three pigs. Three caskets in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. Some say you surface three times before you drown. Like Emily Dickinson.

Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever To that abhorred abode.

Kill one and make three, she says. I say I agree with her. I tell them that I don't believe that the situation you will read about, if you dare, in Abu Saif’s essay below makes us safer. It's at best a strategically and morally sketchy endeavor. A sketchy calculus. And suddenly I realize how calamitously insufficient the word sketchy is here.

I don't say much more to my elder daughter and son. It won't help to argue and correct them. And they already know my politics. It’s one of the reasons they are unloading on me. Sometimes they are uncomfortable with how far outside the mainstream I am. Sometimes they are confused by my orientation and commitments. It's not easy to have a parent so far outside consensus. A member of a dissenting minority. Who sometimes even dissents from the dissenters. They want to belong. They want to feel at home in their social world, their society, their culture, their history, their people. I used to want that. Sometimes I still do. I have friends with activist children. Mine are not. I don't know why they aren't. Maybe it’s a parenting failure. I haven't always been as stable and present a parent as I intended and always wanted to be. I had serious struggles. I’m better now. Much better. And there’s no deficit of love between us. But I obviously failed to present them with a compelling model for engagement the way I would have liked.

So I let them unload their fear and anger. Posing a question here and there. Offering a brief comment that I strain to phrase in a way that isn't argumentative. I'm not good at that, so I stay mostly quiet. They know what I think. And they are speaking with that knowledge. Fighting with them won't help. They are in the middle of a crisis. Their trauma is unfolding. Though not like Abu Saif’s son’s trauma. Nowhere near that.

I noted that my son was now standing on his feet. I was distressed at the turn it had taken. For selfish reasons. These hours are indescribably precious to me. I want them to be pleasant. But this, too, is part of parenting. A part I don’t want to miss. There were stories and laughter. Sometimes, even my stories and their laughter. With no accompanying eyerolls. I have some talent for telling stories. But when they began to unload, I reminded myself: say less, listen more, as their mother would often urge me with extreme exasperation. If I had been able to do that, would they be coming with me to rallies and demonstrations? Or, the deeper question, would they be splitting their Shabbat meals between me and their mother now?

We moved onto the blessings after the meal. As always, we prefaced them by singing Psalm 126. ‘He goes forth weeping, the planter bearing his store of seeds; come, he will surely come back in joyous song bearing sheaves.’ Tell that to the loved ones of the victims on October 7th. What about all the kids whose lives were cut short like sheaves, before they could plant their own seeds? Still, I sang with them. Then, this morning, I read Atef Abu Saif’s essay. Tell that to him. I dare you.

https://www.nytimes.com/.../gaza-family-palestinian...

And listen to "My Youngest Son Came Home Today"

‘I Want to Be Awake When I Die’

Dec. 2, 2023

[Atef Abu Saif was visiting family members in Gaza with his 15-year-old son, Yasser, before Oct. 7 and has kept a diary of the war since it began. Here is his entry for Nov. 21, the day he decided to leave the Jabaliya neighborhood in the north of the territory for southern Gaza, en route to the Rafah crossing into Egypt.]

We cannot stay here any longer. We have decided.

The shells over the last two nights have been so close to the apartment we are staying in that I didn’t just see the light and hear the thunder of their explosions. I saw them pass right by my window. The Israelis are getting closer every minute. Most of the outer regions of the camp are under full occupation now. Overnight, troops advanced a couple of streets closer from the north. Our street came under continuous shelling from the tanks.

I never closed my eyes. “I want to be awake when I die,” I told my brother Mohammed, who has been with us for most of the war. “I want to see it happening.” Before going to sleep, my son Yasser said he felt more afraid than ever. For the last 45 days, he has shown great strength in the face of everything, but we all have our limits. “Let’s see,” I told him. “In the morning we’ll decide.”

This was two nights ago. So, yesterday morning, I went to see my dad to ask if he’d consider moving with us. It was a hard “no.”

“But most people have left already,” I said. He’s staying put, he insisted, come what may. Then, as I was leaving he shouted back to me: “Get that boy to safety.”

That helped convince me. As I lay on my mattress last night, I realized it was not fair that my 15-year-old son should pay for my decision to come to Gaza and stay so long in the north. He might have survived 45 days, but would he survive the next 45? The chances of escaping death are growing narrower and narrower. I do not have the right to decide for him. In her last call to me from our home in Ramallah, on the West Bank, my wife, Hanna, said simply: “I want my boy. You took him to Gaza. You bring him back.”

Talk of a truce fills the news, and this might be a good time to head south to Rafah and be near the border with Egypt in case it opens. I have a job in the ministry in Ramallah to get back to, after all.

The sight of the shells flying past my window the night before also made it clear that it was time to leave: sometimes it is better to be wise than correct, if that makes sense. The wise thing is to give everyone a chance to live, even if the correct thing is to not let the Israelis get away with a second Nakba — yet another expulsion from our land.

When this morning finally comes, the driver we have hired for the first leg of our journey arrives. My father-in-law Mostafa and his wife Widdad, who uses a wheelchair, are traveling with us. My in-laws want to stay with their granddaughter Wissam, 23, at the European Gaza Hospital in Khan Younis, in the south. Wissam is recovering from triple amputation surgery, after surviving a bombing in the first week that killed her parents and most of her siblings. Wissam’s surviving sister, also named Widdad, can take care of her grandmother as well as Wissam.

I carry my mother-in-law into the car. As the car sets off, we all try to prepare ourselves mentally for the long journey ahead. We get out at the Kuwait traffic junction and negotiate the hire of two donkey carts to carry us all to a gathering area along Salah al-Din Street, the main north-south route already called “New Nakba Road” by some.

#Scotch/Irish folk song #singing #songs #Ori Hanan Weisberg #words and writing #Israel Hamas war #anti-war #human #humanism #humanity #Youtube

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kyufessions · 3 years ago

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KEVIN - HYACINTH

meaning: hyacinth’s represent the phrase, “i’m sorry, please forgive me”.

pairings: boyfriend! kevin moon x partner! g.n. reader

synopsis: after another long fight for the eighth night in a row, kevin is left wondering about your relationship.

word count: 1.6k

genre: fluff + angst

warnings: some swearing, bestie jacob makes an appearance

a/n: i don’t really write for kevin but i tried my best. my apologies if it’s not too good </3

here you both were having a yelling match at almost nine at night for the eight night in a row. with his comeback coming up and you busy with preparing for the upcoming college semester that would be your last, it was safe to say you were both pretty stressed out. even though you both handled arguments pretty well, always making sure to never go to bed angry so there were no lingering ill feelings towards one another, you also made sure to always speak your mind and point out whenever your boyfriend pushed a button he shouldn’t have. you never put up with bullshit from anyone, and kevin was no exception.

tonight you were arguing about you asking to reschedule date night for another day this week since you were backed up on an essay you had to finish before your classes started up in three weeks. you were the type where if you didn’t finish things beforehand, you would eventually forget about them which would lead you to failing an assignment, and you didn’t have the time nor money to make that mistake. kevin knew of your habits considering he had been your boyfriend for three years already, he even helped decide your study schedules since he knew how much college stressed you out. that’s why you had thought he’d be understanding of wanting to switch around date night for just one week, but when he started arguing instead that’s when you blew up.

kevin stood at the end of the couch as you occupied the other side, neither of you wanting to move an inch closer to one another. frankly, you didn’t even want to see his face. but here he was, and you knew you had to get everything out before you regretted not doing so.

“this is the eighth night in a row we’ve argued over stupid shit, babe.” he grumbled, running both of his hands through his hair aggressively and tugging on the ends as he looked down at the shagged carpet he stood over.

you let out a sarcastic chuckle, cocking your head to the side. “oh really? who knew?” you replied, rolling your eyes in annoyance. “i thought of all people you’d understand my situation with my studies!”

“i do-“

shaking your head in disagreement, you let out an aggravated sigh. “you don’t! if you did you’d understand instead of popping a fucking brain vessel!”

“i get it and i can help you finish after our date but-“

you turned on your heel mid-sentence as your boyfriend spoke, walking down the hall to your shared bedroom to pick up a bag and stuff whatever clothes fit in it.

“where the fuck are you going?” kevin screamed as he followed you, watching as you stuffed your things in a rather large tote bag. he just laughed defeatey, shaking his head. “you know what, you have the apartment to yourself for a bit. i’ll be at the dorms, i can’t take this anymore.”

and with that, out went your boyfriend for quite a few days. you didn’t hear anything from him, not even a lousy good morning text message he always managed to send after arguing. a few days turned into a week, leaving you a bit worried and curious as to what you both now were. were you broken up? couldn’t be because his stuff was still here at the apartment you both shared. and if you were he surely would’ve had jacob or juyeon come pick up his items for him. everything just left you confused and slightly worried.

after it had been a week and a half and still no contact from your boyfriend, you decided to text jacob and ask how he was doing. that’s when he told you how he had been sulking around the dorms, seeming lost in thought when he wasn’t overworking himself at practices and how even some of the fans noticed how off he seemed in his recent VLIVE. you, however, have been to preoccupied with your own emotions and work that you haven’t kept up with their content like you normally do- especially kevin’s. you asked jacob for advice, he told you to give him a few extra days of space because by then he’d surely come around. and if he didn’t, he wouldn’t mind bringing you two together to discuss everything with his stubborn best friend.

when another three days went by and still no contact, you didn’t hesitate to text jacob and ask of your boyfriends whereabouts. he told you they would be busy until nine at night, but after that him and kevin planned on working on the dance for the upcoming comeback in two weeks. you told him you’d stop by, asking which practice room he’d be in and telling him you’d be bringing food for both of them.

when it neared nine, you stopped by a local takeout restaurant and picked up their favorite meal and headed towards the IST building. before entering the building, you mentally prepared yourself for what was going to happen between you and kevin. was there going to be a breakup? more fighting? the only thing that knew what was going to happen next was the universe, and you cursed at it under your breath for not giving you a heads up. you greeted haknyeon and sangyeon as they were leaving the building, making small talk and telling them how excited you were for their comeback before parting ways.

you made your way down the hall as you exited the elevator, hearing an unfamiliar song blasting from one of the practice rooms. before knocking, you took in a deep breath and exhaled longingly. was this going to be another long night? you were scared, but had some hope to put an end to all the fighting between you and the one you loved. all you wanted was to be in his arms again, to smother his face with kisses.

when jacob heard a knock on the practice room door, kevin looked over at his friend in confusion. all the other members went home after today's schedules since they were absolutely exhausted afterwards. he watched his friend open the door with a smile, kevin’s face falling when he noticed you walk in with two plastic bags of food. kevin had secretly missed you a lot but wasn’t sure how to go about talking to you, and he was too scared to go to the apartment and see you in fear of what would happen such as another fight or even worse: a breakup. his biggest fear in life was losing you, his best friend and lover all in one.

as you entered the room, you noticed the tired look in your boyfriend's eyes immediately. his eye bags were evident and dark, and you can obviously tell he hadn’t been taking care of himself as it seemed he had lost some weight in such a short amount of time. you plopped down the bags on top of a chair as you ran towards kevin, taking his face in your hands as you examined his face. although his face held no emotion, his eyes held the universe. he stared at you with strong admiration, love oozing from the corners of his tired-looking eyes as he felt your thumbs caress his puffed cheeks.

“you look so tired. why haven’t you taken care of yourself? what’s your problem, moonie?” after examining his face, your eyes finally met his. you could’ve sworn you felt your heart skip a beat, yet it also cried out for his love.

kevin’s lips spread into a weak smile as you called him by the nickname you had given him years ago, a nickname only you were allowed to call him. silence filled the room as you both just stared at one another for a few seconds before he wrapped you up in his arms, tears starting to fall from his eyes. you felt his tears drop onto your shirt as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling apologies between short sobs.

you just rubbed his back in small circles as you felt your eyes start to sting with tears, smiling as you left small kisses on the side of his neck innocently. you heard a chuckle leave his lips, pulling back from him and cupping his face once more to wipe away his tears. at this point you were both just smiling at each other, happy to be in the presence of one another again. his arms were snaked around your waist, attempting to hold you as close as possible to him.

“i’m sorry about all the arguing, i’ve been so stressed lately and- i’m sorry.” he let out a sigh as he melted into your touch, placing a small kiss on your hand. “i thought it’d be better if we stayed apart for a bit, thinking it’d be better for us. i just, im so sorry.” he took your hand in his, bringing his lips to it and kissing each individual knuckle before placing a final one on the back of your hand. “there’s no excuse to how i acted, and i’m sorry. please forgive me, i miss you too much. this has been so torturous.”

you smiled up at him, a few singular tears leaving your eyes as his words hit you. as you nodded up at him, you moved your hand behind his neck and pulled his lips towards you. when they connected, all the butterflies in your stomach returned. you couldn’t help but smile in the kiss, feeling your boyfriend do the same and followed by a small laugh. a laugh escaped your lips as well as just pure happiness filling the room.

when you pulled apart, you poked his arm before speaking up. “you better take better care of yourself, i’ll fight you if you don’t.”

he cupped your face, bringing his lips to your forehead before bringing you in for another hug to bury his face in your hair. “i will. anything for you, my royalty.”

#the boyz #the boyz angst #the boyz series #the boyz scenarios #the boyz fluff #tbz fluff #tbz angst #tbz #kevin moon #tbz kevin #the boyz kevin #kyufessions tbzflowers #kyufessions the boyz

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thesolferino · 4 years ago

Text

senior high school bf!dream headcanons

⤷ note: literally woke up this morning and couldn’t get it out of my head so i wrote this whole thing at like 8 am while having coffee instead of writing my actual requests. hope you enjoy!

mister “quarterback on the school’s football team-wide shoulders-super tall-pretty smile-letterman jacket” dream

your high school jock bf dream (no pun intended)

your high school was never that cliquey in the first place, but clay was definitely popular and well known by the whole school

he mostly hung out with nick (who everybody grew to call sapnap) and george who were, as opposed to him, kind of shit at sports, but geniuses in literally everything else

he never dated one of the cheerleaders despite them obviously hitting on him (who could blame them?) - he simply wasn’t interested. ppl couldn’t believe it, especially him being a senior and never having dated anyone from the school

the person he DID, however, end up dating, was you - a girl he had to tutor in english ‘cause you were so bad at it that you were absolutely going to fail

he wasn’t all that excited about it, assuming you wouldn’t want to cooperate, until he saw how pretty you were when you approached him to figure out when you guys were gonna meet up

and once he figured out you were actually quite good at english, just didn’t have the attention span for writing long essays, he liked you even more

during your shared chemistry class, for a moment he turned around to look at you, and you smiled at him from your place at the other end of the classroom

sapnap and george caught that. they did not let it go for approximately the rest of eternity

they actually let it go after a few weeks when they saw the two of you leaving the school together, hands interlocked

my GOD he would be a sucker for you wearing his clothes - ESPECIALLY HIS LETTERMAN

he’d take it off in school just to give it to you so you can walk around in his jacket and show off that you’re his

lots of stares since, like, that’s CLAY’s jacket!!!

he also gets jealous/protective so easily

one of the dudes in your class tells you you’re pretty? arm around your waist immediately

someone who’s into clay DARES to make fun of you? he’ll embarrass them in front of the whole class. no mercy!

he thinks you’re like the coolest person alive. he’ll just sit and listen to you ramble about things you love forever

you’d come to football practice with him when you had time (and even when you didn’t, because he’d beg you to come watch him) and cheered him on every time he seemed vaguely happy with his results since you had 0 knowledge of the game

be prepared for a lot of smelly and sweaty hugs

nothing he loves more than picking you up and spinning you around after they win a game

and hugging you very very very very very tight

“baby, let me go, you smell!” “what? i can’t hear you.” “i said you smell! let me go!” “wait, i need to bring you closer, i can’t hear what you’re saying.” “NO!!!!!”

also late night talks about your future and what he wants to do when he’s finally out

not sure if he wants to use his intellectual skills and learn coding or put his love for writing to use or keep doing football

you teasing him saying he’s like troy from high school musical

him wheezing loudly and claiming you’re gabriella

cue half an hour of discussing high school musical

going back to that “clay after they win a game” point,,,,,

nsfw under the cut! if you are a minor or uncomfortable with such topics, please stop reading here!

⤷ note: the characters in this story are high school seniors, which means they are 18-19 years old!

he’d have SO much adrenaline and energy that just needs to go somewhere

istg the stamina that man has is crazy

if the guys stick around in the locker room he’ll just usher you to one of the bathrooms and fuck you there

he does not give a single fuck if a teacher walks in; it’s their damn problem!

and if everyone gets changed quickly and leaves for an afterparty you bet you’re getting railed on one of those benches

“come on, baby, get on your hands and knees for me.”

he’s definitely one for overstimulating so he’ll just fuck you through your orgasm, fingers still on your clit and everything to the point you have to push them away

feel like he would be really good at aftercare so after he fills you up he’ll pick you up and sit you down on the bench, get some tissues and whatnot

“you okay?” “does it hurt?” “d’you want me to carry you?” “i didn’t hurt you too much, did i?”

and when they lose the game

whoooOooooo boy

you’re getting railed into next fucking week with all the force he has in his body

he’s going full degradation mode + spanking bc fucking you is just not getting that energy out by itself

“look at how you clench around me, whore. my little whore, aren’t you?

“i told you not to hold back. keep doing that and i’ll fuck you in the damn cafeteria so you’ll be sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

his ego is just wayyyyy too big to not have you screaming every time

tease him and he will have you spread out, begging and pleading. literally no question about it

“aw, you thought that was funny, didn’t you? not so funny now, is it, princess?”

he’ll edge you for literal hours until you apologise. don’t underestimate him! he has his goals set and will do whatever it takes to get to them

that’s what makes him so successful, i suppose

i just feel like he would be a vvv sweet boyfriend 🥺

(would defo convince you to go to a college that’s close to his but that’s a story for a different time)

football player dream supremacy, me thinks!

#dream x reader #dreamwastaken x reader #dream imagines #dreamwastaken imagine #dream fluff #dream angst #dream smut #dream fanfic #mcyt x reader #mcyt imagine #mcyt fanfic #dreamwastaken smut

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nuatthebeach · 2 years ago

Note

Please share your take 2,4, 14 otp ask

2. What would they do if the other woke in a manic state after a nightmare?

So likely scenario is Harry getting woken up, though I suppose this is more so a headcanon from hinny fandom and it’s really possible that Ginny could be having more nightmares instead? After all, we only get Harry’s perspective of his numerous nightmares from canon and not Ginny’s.

So I’ll answer both. If Harry gets a nightmare, Ginny is, like, dead asleep (physical training is no joke and athletes need a lot of rest) and likely won’t respond unless he really shakes up the bed or outright calls for her. The first few times he slept next to her, he would never wake her up intentionally until one night Ginny tells him that he absolutely should because “if you’re having a nightmare, then we’re both having one. So wake me up next time, you prat.” Then he starts doing that. She’ll hug him, kiss his scar (ty @blvnk-art for forever cementing that headcanon into our brains), and sometimes they’ll even make love because she knows they both need it. Also, if he really, really needs to up his mood, she’ll start cracking jokes and teasing him or she’ll whip out the remote for the old Muggle television that Dudley passed on to them and they’ll watch Ferris Bueller or Back to the Future or some other goofy shit that they both crack up at 3 in the morning.

Harry falls asleep in her arms for each of these scenarios, though.

If Ginny gets a nightmare, Harry will do the same strategies of physical comfort listed above, but he’ll also suggest going out for an early morning flight on their broomsticks (they continue to do this even after they have kids and tbh even when they’re gray and old and can barely hold themselves up lmfao because they’re just that cool). Or, if the weather isn’t normal, then he’ll suggest creative drawing (which neither are good at but it’s hilarious when they mess up and fail “why did you make your fingers look like large sausages, Ginny?” “huh I must have been imagining your large sausage.” “…it’s too early for you to seduce me.” “It’s working though isn’t it?” “…No comment.”) Or, my personal favorite, Harry will suggest that they do some creative journaling. Half of the time, she writes about her nightmares and how they make her feel and what practicing mindfulness feels to her and how this should feel like talking to Riddle but it really doesn’t because she’s healing now. She’ll write it beautifully too, sometimes in essay, sometimes in prose, sometimes in poetry.

The other half of the time, she writes pure Hinny smut and Harry can’t help but look over at her paper when he sees she’s smirking and then he absolutely cracks up and flushes when he reads words like gasp, thrust, beg, nip, stroke, and patience. (“Well, I can’t exactly post this in the Daily Prophet, I need an outlet somewhere.” “Then they really wouldn’t stop talking about my large sausage.” “Touché, Potter.”)

4. Which one is more protective? Who needs to be ‘protected’?

Both are equally as protective over the other (e.g. Harry adamantly telling Ginny to stay in the RoR for her safety; Ginny saying “Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that” or “yeah, Zabini, you’re so talented…at posing”).

Neither actually need “protecting.”

14. How do their personalities compliment each other? How do they clash?

I’ll answer the clash first ‘cause it’s a bit more obvious: they’re both impulsive, angry, stubborn, passionate, scary individuals. You know the phrase “you shouldn’t fight fire with fire”? Well, call these two an Australian fire in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic because Harry and Ginny are as fiery as it gets.

In fact, they’re so similar that on the very, very surface level, I’ve even heard arguments that they are not good for each other because of how much they clash.

So…why are they?

Because they understand each other better than anyone. Because they de-escalate each other. She is his greatest source, his light in the darkest of times, his last thought. He is her safety comfort, her biggest supporter and defender, her most intimate lover.

See the following for evidence…

“She looked alarmed and angry […] ‘It’s nothing, he said reassuringly, lowering his voice.’” Look at the way they were both fiery and upset (for different reasons ofc) but then look at the way he de-escalated it. Doesn’t look overly clashy or toxic to me.

On Ginny’s end, everyone mentions the Lucky You scene, so I’ll be a bit more creative…

“‘Don’t be stupid, we can’t all go!’ Harry said angrily […] ‘More of them will come’ said Ginny confidently ‘…because in case you hadn’t noticed, you and Hermione are both covered in blood and we know Hagrid lures thestrals with raw meat, so that’s probably why these two turned up in the first place…’” Just look at how Ginny - a girl absolutely notorious for being the epitome of heat and passion - calmly rationalizes to Harry in this. And notice how a few chapters later, she successfully manages to tag along with Harry despite him being stubborn about her (and Luna and Neville) staying.

In fact, I was so impressed with this scene that it, uh, kinda inspired me to make this meme.

Thanks for the ask!

#hinny #harry x ginny #thanks for the ask!#otp asks #otp: better than firewhiskey

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blackwoolncrown · 5 years ago

Link

”This essay has been kicking around in my head for years now and I’ve never felt confident enough to write it. It’s a time in my life I’m ashamed of. It’s a time that I hurt people and, through inaction, allowed others to be hurt. It’s a time that I acted as a violent agent of capitalism and white supremacy. Under the guise of public safety, I personally ruined people’s lives but in so doing, made the public no safer… so did the family members and close friends of mine who also bore the badge alongside me.

But enough is enough.

The reforms aren’t working. Incrementalism isn’t happening. Unarmed Black, indigenous, and people of color are being killed by cops in the streets and the police are savagely attacking the people protesting these murders.

American policing is a thick blue tumor strangling the life from our communities and if you don’t believe it when the poor and the marginalized say it, if you don’t believe it when you see cops across the country shooting journalists with less-lethal bullets and caustic chemicals, maybe you’ll believe it when you hear it straight from the pig’s mouth.”

>>Copied here in case anyone gets paywalled when they click the above. The full article is...a lot.<<

WHY AM I WRITING THIS

As someone who went through the training, hiring, and socialization of a career in law enforcement, I wanted to give a first-hand account of why I believe police officers are the way they are. Not to excuse their behavior, but to explain it and to indict the structures that perpetuate it.

I believe that if everyone understood how we’re trained and brought up in the profession, it would inform the demands our communities should be making of a new way of community safety. If I tell you how we were made, I hope it will empower you to unmake us.

One of the other reasons I’ve struggled to write this essay is that I don’t want to center the conversation on myself and my big salty boo-hoo feelings about my bad choices. It’s a toxic white impulse to see atrocities and think “How can I make this about me?” So, I hope you’ll take me at my word that this account isn’t meant to highlight me, but rather the hundred thousand of me in every city in the country. It’s about the structure that made me (that I chose to pollute myself with) and it’s my meager contribution to the cause of radical justice.

YES, ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS

I was a police officer in a major metropolitan area in California with a predominantly poor, non-white population (with a large proportion of first-generation immigrants). One night during briefing, our watch commander told us that the city council had requested a new zero tolerance policy. Against murderers, drug dealers, or child predators?

No, against homeless people collecting cans from recycling bins.

See, the city had some kickback deal with the waste management company where waste management got paid by the government for our expected tonnage of recycling. When homeless people “stole” that recycling from the waste management company, they were putting that cheaper contract in peril. So, we were to arrest as many recyclers as we could find.

Even for me, this was a stupid policy and I promptly blew Sarge off. But a few hours later, Sarge called me over to assist him. He was detaining a 70 year old immigrant who spoke no English, who he’d seen picking a coke can out of a trash bin. He ordered me to arrest her for stealing trash. I said, “Sarge, c’mon, she’s an old lady.” He said, “I don’t give a shit. Hook her up, that’s an order.” And… I did. She cried the entire way to the station and all through the booking process. I couldn’t even comfort her because I didn’t speak Spanish. I felt disgusting but I was ordered to make this arrest and I wasn’t willing to lose my job for her.

If you’re tempted to feel sympathy for me, don’t. I used to happily hassle the homeless under other circumstances. I researched obscure penal codes so I could arrest people in homeless encampments for lesser known crimes like “remaining too close to railroad property” (369i of the California Penal Code). I used to call it “planting warrant seeds” since I knew they wouldn’t make their court dates and we could arrest them again and again for warrant violations.

We used to have informal contests for who could cite or arrest someone for the weirdest law. DUI on a bicycle, non-regulation number of brooms on your tow truck (27700(a)(1) of the California Vehicle Code)… shit like that. For me, police work was a logic puzzle for arresting people, regardless of their actual threat to the community. As ashamed as I am to admit it, it needs to be said: stripping people of their freedom felt like a game to me for many years.

I know what you’re going to ask: did I ever plant drugs? Did I ever plant a gun on someone? Did I ever make a false arrest or file a false report? Believe it or not, the answer is no. Cheating was no fun, I liked to get my stats the “legitimate” way. But I knew officers who kept a little baggie of whatever or maybe a pocket knife that was a little too big in their war bags (yeah, we called our dufflebags “war bags”…). Did I ever tell anybody about it? No I did not. Did I ever confess my suspicions when cocaine suddenly showed up in a gang member’s jacket? No I did not.

In fact, let me tell you about an extremely formative experience: in my police academy class, we had a clique of around six trainees who routinely bullied and harassed other students: intentionally scuffing another trainee’s shoes to get them in trouble during inspection, sexually harassing female trainees, cracking racist jokes, and so on. Every quarter, we were to write anonymous evaluations of our squadmates. I wrote scathing accounts of their behavior, thinking I was helping keep bad apples out of law enforcement and believing I would be protected. Instead, the academy staff read my complaints to them out loud and outed me to them and never punished them, causing me to get harassed for the rest of my academy class. That’s how I learned that even police leadership hates rats. That’s why no one is “changing things from the inside.” They can’t, the structure won’t allow it.

And that’s the point of what I’m telling you. Whether you were my sergeant, legally harassing an old woman, me, legally harassing our residents, my fellow trainees bullying the rest of us, or “the bad apples” illegally harassing “shitbags”, we were all in it together. I knew cops that pulled women over to flirt with them. I knew cops who would pepper spray sleeping bags so that homeless people would have to throw them away. I knew cops that intentionally provoked anger in suspects so they could claim they were assaulted. I was particularly good at winding people up verbally until they lashed out so I could fight them. Nobody spoke out. Nobody stood up. Nobody betrayed the code.

None of us protected the people (you) from bad cops.

This is why “All cops are bastards.” Even your uncle, even your cousin, even your mom, even your brother, even your best friend, even your spouse, even me. Because even if they wouldn’t Do The Thing themselves, they will almost never rat out another officer who Does The Thing, much less stop it from happening.

BASTARD 101

I could write an entire book of the awful things I’ve done, seen done, and heard others bragging about doing. But, to me, the bigger question is “How did it get this way?”. While I was a police officer in a city 30 miles from where I lived, many of my fellow officers were from the community and treated their neighbors just as badly as I did. While every cop’s individual biases come into play, it’s the profession itself that is toxic, and it starts from day 1 of training.

Every police academy is different but all of them share certain features: taught by old cops, run like a paramilitary bootcamp, strong emphasis on protecting yourself more than anyone else. The majority of my time in the academy was spent doing aggressive physical training and watching video after video after video of police officers being murdered on duty.

I want to highlight this: nearly everyone coming into law enforcement is bombarded with dash cam footage of police officers being ambushed and killed. Over and over and over. Colorless VHS mortality plays, cops screaming for help over their radios, their bodies going limp as a pair of tail lights speed away into a grainy black horizon. In my case, with commentary from an old racist cop who used to brag about assaulting Black Panthers.

To understand why all cops are bastards, you need to understand one of the things almost every training officer told me when it came to using force:

“I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6.”

Meaning, “I’ll take my chances in court rather than risk getting hurt”. We’re able to think that way because police unions are extremely overpowered and because of the generous concept of Qualified Immunity, a legal theory which says a cop generally can’t be held personally liable for mistakes they make doing their job in an official capacity.

When you look at the actions of the officers who killed George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, David McAtee, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, or Freddie Gray, remember that they, like me, were trained to recite “I’d rather be judged by 12” as a mantra. Even if Mistakes Were Made™, the city (meaning the taxpayers, meaning you) pays the settlement, not the officer.

Once police training has - through repetition, indoctrination, and violent spectacle - promised officers that everyone in the world is out to kill them, the next lesson is that your partners are the only people protecting you. Occasionally, this is even true: I’ve had encounters turn on me rapidly to the point I legitimately thought I was going to die, only to have other officers come and turn the tables.

One of the most important thought leaders in law enforcement is Col. Dave Grossman, a “killologist” who wrote an essay called “Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs”. Cops are the sheepdogs, bad guys are the wolves, and the citizens are the sheep (!). Col. Grossman makes sure to mention that to a stupid sheep, sheepdogs look more like wolves than sheep, and that’s why they dislike you.

This “they hate you for protecting them and only I love you, only I can protect you” tactic is familiar to students of abuse. It’s what abusers do to coerce their victims into isolation, pulling them away from friends and family and ensnaring them in the abuser’s toxic web. Law enforcement does this too, pitting the officer against civilians. “They don’t understand what you do, they don’t respect your sacrifice, they just want to get away with crimes. You’re only safe with us.”

I think the Wolves vs. Sheepdogs dynamic is one of the most important elements as to why officers behave the way they do. Every single second of my training, I was told that criminals were not a legitimate part of their community, that they were individual bad actors, and that their bad actions were solely the result of their inherent criminality. Any concept of systemic trauma, generational poverty, or white supremacist oppression was either never mentioned or simply dismissed. After all, most people don’t steal, so anyone who does isn’t “most people,” right? To us, anyone committing a crime deserved anything that happened to them because they broke the “social contract.” And yet, it was never even a question as to whether the power structure above them was honoring any sort of contract back.

Understand: Police officers are part of the state monopoly on violence and all police training reinforces this monopoly as a cornerstone of police work, a source of honor and pride. Many cops fantasize about getting to kill someone in the line of duty, egged on by others that have. One of my training officers told me about the time he shot and killed a mentally ill homeless man wielding a big stick. He bragged that he “slept like a baby” that night. Official training teaches you how to be violent effectively and when you’re legally allowed to deploy that violence, but “unofficial training” teaches you to desire violence, to expand the breadth of your violence without getting caught, and to erode your own compassion for desperate people so you can justify punitive violence against them.

HOW TO BE A BASTARD

I have participated in some of these activities personally, others are ones I either witnessed personally or heard officers brag about openly. Very, very occasionally, I knew an officer who was disciplined or fired for one of these things.

Police officers will lie about the law, about what’s illegal, or about what they can legally do to you in order to manipulate you into doing what they want.

Police officers will lie about feeling afraid for their life to justify a use of force after the fact.

Police officers will lie and tell you they’ll file a police report just to get you off their back.

Police officers will lie that your cooperation will “look good for you” in court, or that they will “put in a good word for you with the DA.” The police will never help you look good in court.

Police officers will lie about what they see and hear to access private property to conduct unlawful searches.

Police officers will lie and say your friend already ratted you out, so you might as well rat them back out. This is almost never true.

Police officers will lie and say you’re not in trouble in order to get you to exit a location or otherwise make an arrest more convenient for them.

Police officers will lie and say that they won’t arrest you if you’ll just “be honest with them” so they know what really happened.

Police officers will lie about their ability to seize the property of friends and family members to coerce a confession.

Police officers will write obviously bullshit tickets so that they get time-and-a-half overtime fighting them in court.

Police officers will search places and containers you didn’t consent to and later claim they were open or “smelled like marijuana”.

Police officers will threaten you with a more serious crime they can’t prove in order to convince you to confess to the lesser crime they really want you for.

Police officers will employ zero tolerance on races and ethnicities they dislike and show favor and lenience to members of their own group.

Police officers will use intentionally extra-painful maneuvers and holds during an arrest to provoke “resistance” so they can further assault the suspect.

Some police officers will plant drugs and weapons on you, sometimes to teach you a lesson, sometimes if they kill you somewhere away from public view.

Some police officers will assault you to intimidate you and threaten to arrest you if you tell anyone.

A non-trivial number of police officers will steal from your house or vehicle during a search.

A non-trivial number of police officers commit intimate partner violence and use their status to get away with it.

A non-trivial number of police officers use their position to entice, coerce, or force sexual favors from vulnerable people.

If you take nothing else away from this essay, I want you to tattoo this onto your brain forever: if a police officer is telling you something, it is probably a lie designed to gain your compliance.

Do not talk to cops and never, ever believe them. Do not “try to be helpful” with cops. Do not assume they are trying to catch someone else instead of you. Do not assume what they are doing is “important” or even legal. Under no circumstances assume any police officer is acting in good faith.

Also, and this is important, do not talk to cops.

I just remembered something, do not talk to cops.

Checking my notes real quick, something jumped out at me:

not

fucking

talk

cops.

Ever.

Say, “I don’t answer questions,” and ask if you’re free to leave; if so, leave. If not, tell them you want your lawyer and that, per the Supreme Court, they must terminate questioning. If they don’t, file a complaint and collect some badges for your mantle.

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

Armed, indoctrinated (and dare I say, traumatized) cops do not make you safer; community mutual aid networks who can unite other people with the resources they need to stay fed, clothed, and housed make you safer. I really want to hammer this home: every cop in your neighborhood is damaged by their training, emboldened by their immunity, and they have a gun and the ability to take your life with near-impunity. This does not make you safer, even if you’re white.

HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE A BASTARD?

So what do we do about it? Even though I’m an expert on bastardism, I am not a public policy expert nor an expert in organizing a post-police society. So, before I give some suggestions, let me tell you what probably won’t solve the problem of bastard cops:

Increased “bias” training. A quarterly or even monthly training session is not capable of covering over years of trauma-based camaraderie in police forces. I can tell you from experience, we don’t take it seriously, the proctors let us cheat on whatever “tests” there are, and we all made fun of it later over coffee.

Tougher laws. I hope you understand by now, cops do not follow the law and will not hold each other accountable to the law. Tougher laws are all the more reason to circle the wagons and protect your brothers and sisters.

More community policing programs. Yes, there is a marginal effect when a few cops get to know members of the community, but look at the protests of 2020: many of the cops pepper-spraying journalists were probably the nice school cop a month ago.

Police officers do not protect and serve people, they protect and serve the status quo, “polite society”, and private property. Using the incremental mechanisms of the status quo will never reform the police because the status quo relies on police violence to exist. Capitalism requires a permanent underclass to exploit for cheap labor and it requires the cops to bring that underclass to heel.

Instead of wasting time with minor tweaks, I recommend exploring the following ideas:

No more qualified immunity. Police officers should be personally liable for all decisions they make in the line of duty.

No more civil asset forfeiture. Did you know that every year, citizens like you lose more cash and property to unaccountable civil asset forfeiture than to all burglaries combined? The police can steal your stuff without charging you with a crime and it makes some police departments very rich.

Break the power of police unions. Police unions make it nearly impossible to fire bad cops and incentivize protecting them to protect the power of the union. A police union is not a labor union; police officers are powerful state agents, not exploited workers.

Require malpractice insurance. Doctors must pay for insurance in case they botch a surgery, police officers should do the same for botching a police raid or other use of force. If human decency won’t motivate police to respect human life, perhaps hitting their wallet might.

Defund, demilitarize, and disarm cops. Thousands of police departments own assault rifles, armored personnel carriers, and stuff you’d see in a warzone. Police officers have grants and huge budgets to spend on guns, ammo, body armor, and combat training. 99% of calls for service require no armed response, yet when all you have is a gun, every problem feels like target practice. Cities are not safer when unaccountable bullies have a monopoly on state violence and the equipment to execute that monopoly.

One final idea: consider abolishing the police.

I know what you’re thinking, “What? We need the police! They protect us!” As someone who did it for nearly a decade, I need you to understand that by and large, police protection is marginal, incidental. It’s an illusion created by decades of copaganda designed to fool you into thinking these brave men and women are holding back the barbarians at the gates.

I alluded to this above: the vast majority of calls for service I handled were theft reports, burglary reports, domestic arguments that hadn’t escalated into violence, loud parties, (houseless) people loitering, traffic collisions, very minor drug possession, and arguments between neighbors. Mostly the mundane ups and downs of life in the community, with little inherent danger. And, like I mentioned, the vast majority of crimes I responded to (even violent ones) had already happened; my unaccountable license to kill was irrelevant.

What I mainly provided was an “objective” third party with the authority to document property damage, ask people to chill out or disperse, or counsel people not to beat each other up. A trained counselor or conflict resolution specialist would be ten times more effective than someone with a gun strapped to his hip wondering if anyone would try to kill him when he showed up. There are many models for community safety that can be explored if we get away from the idea that the only way to be safe is to have a man with a M4 rifle prowling your neighborhood ready at a moment’s notice to write down your name and birthday after you’ve been robbed and beaten.

You might be asking, “What about the armed robbers, the gangsters, the drug dealers, the serial killers?” And yes, in the city I worked, I regularly broke up gang parties, found gang members carrying guns, and handled homicides. I’ve seen some tragic things, from a reformed gangster shot in the head with his brains oozing out to a fifteen year old boy taking his last breath in his screaming mother’s arms thanks to a gang member’s bullet. I know the wages of violence.

This is where we have to have the courage to ask: why do people rob? Why do they join gangs? Why do they get addicted to drugs or sell them? It’s not because they are inherently evil. I submit to you that these are the results of living in a capitalist system that grinds people down and denies them housing, medical care, human dignity, and a say in their government. These are the results of white supremacy pushing people to the margins, excluding them, disrespecting them, and treating their bodies as disposable.

Equally important to remember: disabled and mentally ill people are frequently killed by police officers not trained to recognize and react to disabilities or mental health crises. Some of the people we picture as “violent offenders” are often people struggling with untreated mental illness, often due to economic hardships. Very frequently, the officers sent to “protect the community” escalate this crisis and ultimately wound or kill the person. Your community was not made safer by police violence; a sick member of your community was killed because it was cheaper than treating them. Are you extremely confident you’ll never get sick one day too?

Wrestle with this for a minute: if all of someone’s material needs were met and all the members of their community were fed, clothed, housed, and dignified, why would they need to join a gang? Why would they need to risk their lives selling drugs or breaking into buildings? If mental healthcare was free and was not stigmatized, how many lives would that save?

Would there still be a few bad actors in the world? Sure, probably. What’s my solution for them, you’re no doubt asking. I’ll tell you what: generational poverty, food insecurity, houselessness, and for-profit medical care are all problems that can be solved in our lifetimes by rejecting the dehumanizing meat grinder of capitalism and white supremacy. Once that’s done, we can work on the edge cases together, with clearer hearts not clouded by a corrupt system.

Police abolition is closely related to the idea of prison abolition and the entire concept of banishing the carceral state, meaning, creating a society focused on reconciliation and restorative justice instead of punishment, pain, and suffering — a system that sees people in crisis as humans, not monsters. People who want to abolish the police typically also want to abolish prisons, and the same questions get asked: “What about the bad guys? Where do we put them?” I bring this up because abolitionists don’t want to simply replace cops with armed social workers or prisons with casual detention centers full of puffy leather couches and Playstations. We imagine a world not divided into good guys and bad guys, but rather a world where people’s needs are met and those in crisis receive care, not dehumanization.

Here’s legendary activist and thinker Angela Y. Davis putting it better than I ever could:

“An abolitionist approach that seeks to answer questions such as these would require us to imagine a constellation of alternative strategies and institutions, with the ultimate aim of removing the prison from the social and ideological landscapes of our society. In other words, we would not be looking for prisonlike substitutes for the prison, such as house arrest safeguarded by electronic surveillance bracelets. Rather, positing decarceration as our overarching strategy, we would try to envision a continuum of alternatives to imprisonment-demilitarization of schools, revitalization of education at all levels, a health system that provides free physical and mental care to all, and a justice system based on reparation and reconciliation rather than retribution and vengeance.”

(Are Prisons Obsolete, pg. 107)

I’m not telling you I have the blueprint for a beautiful new world. What I’m telling you is that the system we have right now is broken beyond repair and that it’s time to consider new ways of doing community together. Those new ways need to be negotiated by members of those communities, particularly Black, indigenous, disabled, houseless, and citizens of color historically shoved into the margins of society. Instead of letting Fox News fill your head with nightmares about Hispanic gangs, ask the Hispanic community what they need to thrive. Instead of letting racist politicians scaremonger about pro-Black demonstrators, ask the Black community what they need to meet the needs of the most vulnerable. If you truly desire safety, ask not what your most vulnerable can do for the community, ask what the community can do for the most vulnerable.

A WORLD WITH FEWER BASTARDS IS POSSIBLE

If you take only one thing away from this essay, I hope it’s this: do not talk to cops. But if you only take two things away, I hope the second one is that it’s possible to imagine a different world where unarmed black people, indigenous people, poor people, disabled people, and people of color are not routinely gunned down by unaccountable police officers. It doesn’t have to be this way. Yes, this requires a leap of faith into community models that might feel unfamiliar, but I ask you:

When you see a man dying in the street begging for breath, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a mother or a daughter shot to death sleeping in their beds, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a twelve year old boy executed in a public park for the crime of playing with a toy, jesus fucking christ, can you really just stand there and think “This is normal”?

And to any cops who made it this far down, is this really the world you want to live in? Aren’t you tired of the trauma? Aren’t you tired of the soul sickness inherent to the badge? Aren’t you tired of looking the other way when your partners break the law? Are you really willing to kill the next George Floyd, the next Breonna Taylor, the next Tamir Rice? How confident are you that your next use of force will be something you’re proud of? I’m writing this for you too: it’s wrong what our training did to us, it’s wrong that they hardened our hearts to our communities, and it’s wrong to pretend this is normal.

Look, I wouldn’t have been able to hear any of this for much of my life. You reading this now may not be able to hear this yet either. But do me this one favor: just think about it. Just turn it over in your mind for a couple minutes. “Yes, And” me for a minute. Look around you and think about the kind of world you want to live in. Is it one where an all-powerful stranger with a gun keeps you and your neighbors in line with the fear of death, or can you picture a world where, as a community, we embrace our most vulnerable, meet their needs, heal their wounds, honor their dignity, and make them family instead of desperate outsiders?

If you take only three things away from this essay, I hope the third is this: you and your community don’t need bastards to thrive.

RESOURCES TO YES-AND WITH

Achele Mbembe — Necropolitics

Angela Y. Davis — Are Prisons Obsolete?

CriticalResistance.org — Abolition Toolkit

Joe Macaré, Maya Schenwar, and Alana Yu-lan Price — Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect?

Ruth Wilson Gilmore — COVID-19, Decarceration, Abolition [video]

#acab

5K notes · View notes

ptergwen · 4 years ago

Text

call me cupid

w/c: 3.5k

warnings: very mild angst and a few swears

summary: despite your hatred for valentine’s day, peter attempts to make you a card

a/n: happy valentine’s day my loves!! i hope y’all get to spend some time with your people today and eat lots of chocolate <3 love you & enjoy mwah

it’s no secret that peter is terrible with words. he gets so flustered he can’t talk or forgets what he wants to say altogether. school presentations are torture. ordering food out is impossible. he’s accepted it at this point, that speaking just isn’t for him.

the one place it doesn’t come across is on paper. peter is ridiculously smart, and he knows all the right words to string together, which is why writing you a valentine should be no trouble at all. should be no trouble at all.

to tell the truth, he’s been sitting at his kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper in front of him for what feels like hours. nothing is coming to him. he’s not sure why this is so hard. you’re his girlfriend, he loves you, he’s said it so many times in every way he could think to. what’s different about it now?

everyone puts way too much pressure on giving the perfect gift when they should really just be enjoying each other’s company on a holiday about love. or, in your words, a meaningless holiday that was created by capitalists as another excuse to take people’s money.

alright, you aren’t too fond of valentine’s day.

it makes anyone who’s single feel like shit and anyone who’s in a relationship lose their shit.

only mj agreed when you shared your criticisms. ned and betty gave you looks like you were insane, and flash muttered something about you being undateable. peter had laughed and swung an arm around your shoulders, but he didn’t fully agree.

although valentine’s day has its flaws, peter likes to see it as twenty four hours of extra appreciation for the people in his life. you can buy chocolate for your friends and family. it doesn’t have to be a significant other, really. him and ned would do it before he had you and ned had betty.

peter wants to remind you how loved you are even if you’re not into the festivities like he is, that bringing him to writing your card. it’s a simple and clinically underrated way of expressing his gratitude. he’d write you love letters every day if he didn’t suck at them.

may comes out of her room to see peter in the same place he’s been since he got home from school. she looks at him through her glasses, smiling as she comes into the room. he’s tapping his pencil on the table, eraser down, searching his mind for anything to write.

“still nothing?” may asks him, making her way over to the cabinets. peter puts down the pencil and sighs. his shoulders slump. “nope. i haven’t gotten past the intro.” “intro, huh?” she teases her newphew and grabs a jar of sauce. “y/n isn’t your teacher, kiddo. you’re not writing her an essay.” she looks at peter over her shoulder. a sheepish smile creeps onto his face.

“you know what i mean.” he reads over the only words on his paper at the moment. dear y/n. he’s starting to feel like spongebob the one time he wrote a paper. “what are you making?” peter asks may so he can temporarily take the focus off his unwritten valentine. “pasta,” may shakes the box in her hand. “and meatballs.”

“should i dial 911 now or wait until we’re in flames?” peter jokes about her awful cooking skills. may shoos him off and puts the box of pasta on the counter. “worry about your own kitchen nightmare.” she nods at the sheet of paper tormenting him. frowning, he glances back at her. “i’m the worst, may. i really don’t know what to write.”

may struggles to open the jar of sauce as she replies. “i thought you said- jesus.” it pops off. “y/n doesn’t like valentine’s day.” she slides over a pot from the stove and dumps the sauce in. peter stares up at the ceiling. “she doesn’t.” that’s probably why he’s having such a hard time. “why are you writing her a card, then?” may questions, turning on a burner.

“because, i dunno, it’s nice? it’ll make her happy? she might not care, but i do.” he mumbles the last part. he’s a bit of a hopeless romantic, so he hasn’t quite adjusted to the idea you had of not getting each other presents. you’re treating it like a regular day. some takeout and cuddles is all you’re doing.

peter would rather buy you things until his pockets are empty. not that there’s much in them, anyway. the point is that you deserve proper spoiling instead of corny words in his shitty handwriting.

“peter, honey. it might be better to stick with what y/n wants,” may suggests while stirring the sauce in the pot. she’s well aware that a few paragraphs from peter won’t change your mind. your opinions belong to you, and there’s nothing he can do about it, though he does have good intentions.

ignoring what may just said, peter makes a request. “what if you help me write it?” she faces the stove again. he can picture her playful smile when she quirks back, “she’s not my girlfriend.” “no, but you’re a girl... a woman,” he corrects himself, earning a scoff from may. “you’d probably know what sounds good.”

“you know y/n better than me, peter. do it on your own,” she exhales and turns back around with the wooden spoon in her hand. “it’ll be more... heartfelt.” peter hates that may is right because he’s completely stuck. his heart is being stupid today. “okay. i’ll try.” he gives her a slow nod. “why don’t you take a break? come stir the sauce. i’ll start the pasta.”

peter gets up from the table and grabs the spoon from may. she pinches his cheek on her way to the sink, getting a tight lipped smile from him.

this is not good.

the next day at school, peter asks around the lunch table for advice while you’re on line getting food. he feels guilty about it because may told him not to. he’s never going to get your valentine done if he doesn’t, though. it isn’t the worst thing in the world to bring on some co-writers.

“ok, what do you have so far?” betty asks, fully invested in the situation. she’s hoping this will switch up your views on valentine’s day. peter pulls out the same piece of paper from last night and says verbatim what’s on it. “dear y/n.” he looks up at ned and betty, the corners of his mouth twitching down. ned motions with his hand for peter to go on.

“that’s it,” peter confesses and folds the paper back up in shame. “dude, you told us it was a work in progress,” ned winces, betty taking his hand that’s resting on her shoulder. “where’s the progress?” betty patronizes him. they’re making him feel worse than he already did. what great co-writers he’s collaborating with.

peter throws a hand up, an eye roll included. “yeah, it’s terrible. can you help me or not?” mj narrows her own eyes at peter from the other end of his bench. she’s not interested in participating when the conversation is about forcing you to celebrate a holiday you don’t like.

“ooh!” betty squeals and squeezes ned’s hand. “you should make a list.” ned grins, leaning his head on hers. “genius, babe.” “a list of what?” peter furrows his eyebrows as he looks between the two of them. “what you love about y/n,” she explains, ned adding on, “stuff you do together, or you appreciate.”

“put whatever you come up with into sentences and voilà,” betty says in her best french accent. “oui oui,” ned agrees, both of them giggling. that doesn’t sound half bad. peter could manage a list about you. “thank you so much, guys. you literally just saved valentine’s day,” he confidently tucks his paper into his pocket. “it’s what we do,” ned tells him coolly.

“you never asked what i think,” mj cuts in, staring down her friends, who reluctantly meet her gaze. she pushes her bag of goldfish aside and raises an eyebrow. “mj, we know how you feel about valentine’s day.” peter presses his lips together. “y/n feels the same way,” mj reminds him dryly.

it’s true, but he doesn’t want to hear that right now. he’s having a breakthrough.

like clockwork, you appear at the table. you slip into the spot next to peter and put down your lunch tray. “what’d i miss?” you comment on the obvious tension, eyeing betty for an explanation. mj gives it to you. “valentine’s day discourse,” she tells you knowingly. peter shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to.

he technically has.

“yuck,” you murmur, winding your arms around peter’s neck. “yuck, yuck, yuck.” he finds your words ironic because you then kiss his cheek, and peck his lips when he turns his head. peter puts a hand on your side and lets his eyes go up and down your face. a smile spreads across it, which he returns without thinking about. mj huffs in disapproval. she’s seen enough pda.

peter makes his list later that night. he decided he isn’t being inauthentic because he’s coming up with everything himself. he breezes right through it, jotting down what he loves most about you across the paper. it’s a mess. scribbled out misspellings and shreds of eraser, single words and whole phrases covering both sides. he’s proud of his actual progress.

he’ll write the official letter tomorrow since you’re coming over tonight. he at least has his material. the next, thankfully final, step is to reword it.

you’re ranting to peter about some drama with one of your teachers. he listens intently as always, chuckling when you crack jokes and grinning the entire time, feeling so lucky to have the most passionate, say whatever is on her mind girlfriend ever. seriously, it’s inspiring to watch.

“no, like, i never know what’s going on in that class,” you snort, peter snaking his arms around your middle from behind. “because you don’t pay attention,” he hums with his face nuzzled into the back of your neck. “because it doesn’t make any sense!” you defend yourself. his lips brush against your bare skin, drawing a giggle out of you.

“back to what i was saying,” your voice drips with sarcasm. the two of you naturally gravitate to his room, you walking in first. “she called on me, and i- what’s this?” you escape peter’s arms and head over to his desk. crap, he was working on your valentine and forgot to put it away. it caught your attention because it’s surrounded by crumpled papers and glitter.

peter was... experimenting... with designs for the front of the card. he’s learned that he isn’t too artistic either.

“wait, don’t read that,“ peter tries, but you’ve already got the list in your hands. he anxiously sucks his lower lip into his mouth and comes to stand next to you.

you first see the ‘dear y/n,’ then focus in on a few other words. my person forever, which makes you coo at the paper. insane (in the best way), which makes you gasp dramatically. i know you don’t like valentine’s day, but...

you drop the card back on the desk and let out a breath, shutting your eyes as irritation creeps in. it wouldn’t be fair for you to be mad at peter because it’s a sweet gesture, it really is. just, not for you personally. you’re on opposite sides of the valentine’s spectrum. you despise it, he sort of loves it. you’d hoped to meet somewhere in the middle.

“i thought we said no gifts,” you keep your voice level and spin around to look at peter. his face is painted with guilt. “it’s a card,” he murmurs, then meets your eyes with his brows knitted together. “i can’t even give you a card?” “i mean...” you shrug and shake your head. “look, peter. we had an agreement. i’m not doing valentine’s day.”

his disappointment comes out in the form of hanging his head. “yeah, you’re right. sorry.”

may tried to tell him this would happen, mj tried to tell him, and now you’re telling him. he should’ve expected it. he isn’t sure why he’s being so mopey about it because he was fully aware of your hatred for anything with the word valentine in it. it still hurts. peter just wishes you’d let him have the one day to love you and only you, give you some special attention.

“it’s nothing against you, babe,” you reassure him, noticing the shift in his mood. you put a hand on his shoulder. “i really just don’t like valentine’s day. it feels so... fake to me.” peter musters up a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. it drops when you loop your arms around his torso.

“if i celebrated, you’d be the first person i’d wanna spend it with.” you punctuate your words with a kiss to his cheek. he rests his chin on your head, you nuzzling your own cheek into his sweater. he’s feeling a bit better now. it’s not about him, that’s what he needs to remind himself. “thanks, baby,” peter speaks lowly into the air. you hum as if to say no problem.

scratch literally everything he’s done.

peter rolls over in his bed, rubbing at his eyes as his alarm goes off. it’s today. happy valentine’s day to... himself. he doesn’t think you’d want to hear it.

he’s not as broken up about everything as the other day. you have your reasons for not celebrating, and peter accepts them. hey, he still gets to spend the whole day with you. you’re technically having an unspoken valentine’s date.

he gets up from his bed with a yawn and starts to dig through his drawers for an outfit. you should be over soon.

before you head over to peter’s, you decide to make a quick stop at cvs for a few things. you ended up feeling pretty terrible about snapping on him essentially for loving you. it was over a harmless valentine, something to make you feel good and be an outlet for the hundreds of romantic bones in his body. basically, you were bitter about having a thoughtful boyfriend.

you want to make it up to him by giving him gifts instead. you’ll never be down with the whole exploitive and capitalistic side of valentine’s day, but there’s a deeper meaning to it than what you give it credit for. you see that now. peter was able to show his love for you through a homemade mess of a card, and you felt it. the price tags don’t matter. the meaning does.

dressed in his nicest sweater with his hair all styled, peter answers your knocking at his door. a grin instantly paints his face as he takes you in. you’re bundled up in a coat and holding a bag by your side. “hey,” he greets you and lets you past him. you shut the door behind him, returning the smile and winding an arm around his neck for a hug. his drapes around your back.

“hey. happy valentine’s day.” “happy valentine’s-“ peter realizes what he’s about to say and what you just said, then stops himself. “what?” he breaks the hug, squinting at your odd behavior. you’re the last person he’d expected to hear that from. “it’s valentine’s day. so, happy valentine’s day,” you tell him like it’s nothing.

he stays quiet while you shrug off your coat and throw it over one of the kitchen chairs. you bring your bag along with you, peter following you in. he’s suspicious. intrigued, and suspicious. it’s been less than a day since he last say you. you had a change of heart that fast? you aren’t the biggest valentine’s day anti he knows anymore?

“where’s may?” you wonder aloud, taking both of peter’s hands in your now free ones. he eyes the shopping bag you put down while you lace your fingers together. “with happy. they’re getting brunch.” he’s never particularly psyched to talk about their relationship. it’s always been in a joking way, though. now, he sounds genuinely upset to go over may’s whereabouts.

“they’re so cute,” you comment, tugging on peter’s hands so he looks at you. “you good?” “great,” peter half lies and nods, then presses a reassuring kiss to your cheek. he’s not bad. puzzled is the word. what you say next only adds to it.

“good. i have a few things for you,” you beam at him and grab your shopping bag off the chair. that’s what that’s for? peter isn’t fully sure what you’re up to. it doesn’t stop a smile from stretching across his lips, though.

“what happened to no presents?” he tests you as you reach into the bag. “well, i feel bad about how i acted the other day.” you pull out a heart shaped box of chocolates. “the card was really sweet, and i was too caught off guard to appreciate it. i’m sorry, pete.” peter’s eyes twinkle at you, gazing as you give him a smile with a hint of shyness behind it. you’re leaving your comfort zone and entering his.

“i was wrong and cynical and just, yeah. happy valentine’s day,” you add on and shove the box into his hand. he finally grins, so wide and then lets out a breathy laugh. “thanks, y/n. i know it was probably hard to shop being surrounded by this stuff.” he holds up the box. he’s right. you’ll unfortunately be seeing pink and red for weeks. “it was, but i did it for you.” you happily open up your arms for him.

peter puts down the chocolates and pulls you into his arms, his cheek squished against the side of your head as he hugs you to his chest. “oh my god, i love you so much,” he mumbles out, you squeezing him in response. “i love you, pete.” you press a quick kiss to his neck and hold him at arm’s length so you can see him. “i have something else for you.”

“baby,” peter coos, a pout on his lips. “you don’t have to do all of this. i would’ve been fine without the chocolates, even.” “stop, you deserve it,” you shut down the part of him that’s way too nice and selfless. “you’re my real present,” he says lower and with a toothy smile. shaking your head, you reach behind you and into the bag.

he can’t believe you’ve switched stances on valentine’s day. you’re the present pusher, and he’s refusing them. peter thinks it’s some sort of miracle that you’re not only acknowledging the holiday, you’re also partaking in it. his hopeless romantic side tells him it’s actually love, and it is. that’s the cheesy, hallmark movie truth. you suffered through shopping at a heart themed cvs because you love him. simple.

you return with a pink envelope that you place into peter’s hand. his face softens as he closes his fingers around it. “y/n, you made me a card?” “kind of,” you laugh at his overstatement. it’s obviously pre-made. you’d used a pen to fill it out in the store, scribbled a few words and tucked it into the envelope.

“it really doesn’t compare to yours, though,” you simultaneously warn and compliment him. peter dismisses you with a lighthearted click of his tongue. “oh, shush. that was only a rough draft.” “which proves my point even more. open it.” you grip onto the bottom of his sweater and grin.

he keeps his eyes on you while ripping open the envelope, then looks down and chuckles at the gag of the card. it has r2d2 and r4d4 from star wars on the front. inside is already written, “r4 is red and r2 is blue. if i was the force then i’d be with you.” you giggle to yourself, watching him read what you wrote next. i love you more every day, especially on valentine’s. xo, y/n.

peter holds the card to his side and slings an arm around your waist. “they make star wars valentines?” he murmurs, another smile breaking out on his face, one that you of course return. you use his sweater to pull him closer. “apparently. perfect for you.” peter tosses the card down next to the chocolates, both arms now holding you.

“thank you so much, baby. you’re an angel,” he sighs and pecks your lips after. “call me cupid,” you answer.

you give him a longer kiss back, tilting your head up to deepen it. your hands find their place on his biceps, earning a hum from peter as he moves his lips against yours. you can feel his love in every little movement, how he hugs your waist like you’re made of glass, rests his forehead against yours. when your lips mutually detach, peter speaks first, voice slightly husky.

“happy valentine’s day, cupid.”

you breathe out, peter closing his eyes in content.

“happy valentine’s day, r2.”

#tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland smut #peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker smut

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chrisbitchtree · 3 years ago

Text

The Thrill of the Hunt

This got a little away from me, but I had to write something inspired by @psychicwarfarebaby headcannon about Billy hunting and fishing with Steve's father!

***

Billy had never met Steve’s dad before, but from what he’d heard, John Harrington wasn’t a bad guy, it was just that he and Steve had never connected. He’d had a lot of expectations for how Steve would be, and Steve never really met those expectations.

He’d dreamed of taking his son hunting and fishing and to football games at Notre Dame, and that just wasn’t what Steve was into. He liked to bake and go on nature walks with his mother and showed a talent for swimming and basketball early on, instead of John’s beloved football and baseball. He’d supported Steve as much as he could, but never stopped being disappointed when Steve continued to shoot down his attempts to share his interests with him.

Steve had told Billy that he felt bad about it, but it was too late to really change things. It was better to lead their separate lives, connecting in the few places that they could.

One of the connections they shared was their mutual love of Steve’s mom’s spaghetti and meatballs, always served with cheesy garlic toast. Every once in a while, she would take a Saturday and make the spaghetti noodles from scratch, fully indulging her husband and son. This was one such Saturday, and Billy had the honour of being invited.

He and Steve had been dating for about a year and a half, and he’d come over that particular afternoon to help Steve with his college admissions essays, which were frankly a bit of a mess. He found the other boy in the kitchen with his mother, kneading pasta dough. Billy was a regular enough fixture around the Harrington house at this point to not feel awkward around Steve’s mother. She greeted him as he grabbed a glass of water and sat down at the large kitchen island to wait for them to finish up.

“Hello, Billy! So nice to see you!” She had an extra pep in her step, and Billy was happy to see it.

“Wow, pasta from scratch! What’s the special occasion?” Mrs. Harrington grinned.

“Steve’s father is coming home this afternoon after a long business trip. I’m surprising him with his favourite meal. You’ve never met my husband, have you Billy? You must stay for dinner!” Steve shot a panicked look Billy’s way, shaking his head vigorously. Billy didn’t know what to do. Steve’s mom looked so excited. Against his better judgement, he agreed to stay.

“Of course, I’d love to stay for dinner. Anything you’ve made is bound to be delicious!” Steve’s mom beamed.

“Lovely! Why don’t you boys go up to Steve’s room and work on your project, and I’ll call you down when it’s time for dinner?” Before he could even verbally agree, Steve was pulling him up to his room. As soon as the door was closed, Steve let loose.

“Why would you agree to stay? This is going to be a mess. Things are always so awkward with my dad. Why do you think you’ve never met him before? It’s better to just keep things separate. Whatever you do, don’t engage him in conversation, don’t give drawn out replies. Politely nod or give one-word answers when he talks to you. Do. Not. Engage. I’ve warned you about him. This is your fault. If it goes bad, no blow jobs for a week. I swear.” What had Billy gotten himself into?

They worked on Steve’s essays for the next few hours, until they heard his mother call up the stairs, telling them it was time to wash up and come down for dinner. They washed their hands in the bathroom, then each took a deep breath and headed downstairs.

Steve’s father was pleasant enough if a bit hard on Steve about his lack of drive. He asked Steve how his college admissions were going, and how he was doing in his classes, promising to try to go to at least one of Steve’s basketball games this season.

Things took a turn for the worse when he turned his attention on Billy. Billy didn’t exactly have the world’s greatest dad, so he was always looking to please anyone who acted like a father figure, and add to it the fact that this was his boyfriends father, even if said father didn’t know that particular detail, and Billy was screwed.

“So Billy, do you like hunting? Deer season is coming up.” In an effort to please Mr. Harrington, Billy nodded his head yes.

“I love hunting, sir. My father goes most years, and he’s taken me a few times. There’s nothing like it.” Steve glared pointedly at him, but Billy couldn’t stop himself.

“I’d love to go with you sometime. Maybe Steve and I could accompany you some weekend.” This earned him a kick under the table from Steve.

“I’d love that, Billy, I really would. I’m a big hunter myself. Deer, moose, turkey, pheasant. I even got a bear once. Not the tastiest meat, I’ll say, but it’s a great story to tell. Has Steve showed you my collection of antlers?” He then turned his attention back to Steve.

“See Steve, you could learn a thing or too about being a real man from Billy here. I’m home for the next month. You and Billy will have to come with me to the hunt camp some weekend soon.” Steve looked downright miserable. Billy had to do something.

“Well, Mr. Harrington, as much as I’d love to go hunting with you, I don’t have my gun licence. My dad’s let me shoot the gun a few times, and I have a good shot, but let’s just keep that on the downlow, for legal purposes.” Billy was proud of his quick save. Steve’s dad could not be deterred.

“That’s an easy enough fix. You can take a gun course in a single weekend, and you’ll be ready to go!” Shit, Billy had really thought he’d gotten them out of it.

Steve was not impressed that he had to spend the whole next weekend learning gun safety with Billy, and no, he would not let that count as their date for the weekend, so on top of the course fees, Billy still had to pay for dinner and a movie to get Steve to grumble even a little bit less.

He’d also had to bribe Hopper into letting him borrow his hunting rifle by promising to babysit El for free for the next six Thursdays, so Hopper could have date nights with Joyce. All of his free time was quickly sliding through his fingers.

Then came the actual day of the hunt. They’d been up since 3am, when Steve had pulled the warm blankets off Billy in the spare bedroom, flipping on the lights and shaking him awake. He wasn’t even bothering to be gentle about it, and frankly, Billy didn’t blame him. They’d sat bleary eyed in the truck beside Steve’s dad, sipping coffee, and trying to seem even half as enthusiastic as he was.

They’d finally arrived at the hunt camp, and by 6am, they were on their bellies, out in the woods, in the dark, silent, waiting for any sign of a deer. They were both damp and cold and shivering, despite the multiple layers and hunting boots they both had on. Billy tried to grab Steve’s hand for a second as his father looked the other way, but the other boy yanked it away, and Billy could tell it wasn’t just because he was worried his father would see.

The night before, he’d tried to win back Steve’s favour with promises of foot massages, pastries from Steve’s favourite bakery, and hours of sex where Steve didn’t have to do anything but lay there and let Billy take care of him, but he was not having it. Billy knew the other boy was currently fantasising about waking up in his warm bed, followed by coffee and Froot Loops while he watched old cartoons in the den, and Billy had no way of giving him that.

The mood was slightly saved by the genuine excitement on Steve’s face when his father shot a big buck. He was downright delighted when Billy was tapped to help clean out the animal.

“Come on, Billy!” said Steve’s father, approaching where they sat, eating sandwiches, and drinking juice. “Help me string it up into the tree! I’ll let you do the honours of making the first cut!” Steve silently cackled as the colour drained from Billy’s face.

Steve really thought that Billy had learned his lesson. It seemed that he had, at least until the following spring, when Steve’s father was discussing the idea of taking the boys on a fishing trip. For some godforsaken reason, Billy enthusiastically agreed.

That’s how they ended up crawling around on their hands and knees in Steve’s backyard during the next big rainfall, toting plastic containers and flashlights, digging for worms. Steve’s father said that that was the mark of a true fisherman, resourcefulness. They didn’t need to purchase their worms from the store.

Steve didn’t feel even a little bit bad when the next morning, he raced downstairs to the sound of Billy squealing, only to find sim staring down at a worm that must have escaped from the bucket in the fridge. Served him right for being such an idiot.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #billy x steve #harringrove fic #my first time writing Steve's dad #the last bit about the worm escaping from the fridge actually happened to me #I've never fully recovered #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fan fiction #chrisbitchtree writes #my fic

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cjsinkythoughts · 4 years ago

Text

A History Lesson

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 4741

Warnings: Vulgar language, I think that’s it (it’s mainly fluff like Bucky’s)

Summary: You never were fond of history...but if history gives you a man like that? Maybe you could deal with it.

A/N: Here it is! A little later than I had hoped, but my brother is visiting, it was his birthday this week, work’s been a bit hectic, and I ended up writing a little something for Bucky’s birthday on Wednesday, which I didn’t mean to. I got it done, though! First Date with our dear Cap’n Spangles! I have all the First Date ideas for the other Avengers lined up, but I think I’m gonna put this on hiatus for now. I’m gonna try focusing on my College!AU at the moment. If you guys want, I’ll share my First Date plans, though. If I find time, I’ll write the next one. If you haven’t noticed, I have a fondness for collages, so I might do what I’m doing for my College!AU Project and make collages for the other First Dates before writing them. Anyways, enough with my ramblings. Enjoy the date!

You keep checking the clock, waiting for this lecture to be done. You typically enjoy school, but history isn’t a strong suit for you. You try in history, you really do, but all the information - the dates, people, places - it’s too much. You constantly mix things up, no matter how hard you study. And you don’t really get the hype. Who cares what these dead guys did? It happened, it’s done, and it’s time to move on.

“That’s all for today! Don’t forget your papers are due on Monday! You’re dismissed!”

You let out a groan at the mention of the cursed research paper. You had stayed up for hours the previous nights working on it, but so far you have squat. The essay is on the Second World War (more specifically the differences of life between Americans and Europeans at the time), and you know you should’ve done it when it was given a week ago, but your shitty memory makes it difficult to write a paper without five million textbooks in front of you and you don’t have time to go to the library every night between work, friends, and other projects. So, you haven’t done it yet.

Exhausted, mentally and physically, you collect your things and head out of the lecture hall. You pull out your phone to text your friends, telling them you have to work on a paper tonight and you can’t meet up for dinner like you all usually do on Fridays. Deciding to take a breather before working, you start out to the bench overlooking the Potomac River, which you always sat at to relax and just…be. The scenic walk through DC and the sight of the steady river flowing besides the busy city always calms you.

You sit there for a few moments, letting the slight breeze chill the skin that’s warmed by the sun, listening to it ruffle the trees. The blush pink blossoms that appear when Spring sings her song and chases away Winter flutter to the newly grown, bright green grass below. You enjoy all the seasons, unable to help but love the unique beauty each brings, and Spring is no exception, despite the allergies and tests she brings.

And speaking of tests…

A soft sigh passes your lips as you get out your laptop. You might as well start writing, or at least researching, that paper. You never were good at relaxing when there’s work to be done.

You’re so engrossed in getting the stupid essay done and over with that you don’t notice the jogger who pauses in his run by the very bench you are slaving away on. “Savin’ this seat for anyone?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, no. Go ahead.” You answer distractedly, not even looking up from your screen as the owner of the deep voice sits besides you.

A few more minutes pass in comfortable silence, before you ruin it with a grumble and delete half the paragraph you just wrote. “That doesn’t make sense.” You change tabs to look over the information on the page you have pulled up again, only to furrow your eyebrows. You’re pretty sure the information is wrong. You may have a shitty memory, but you’re sure that the information given on this page is in contrast to the information given in the book you were reading a couple days ago.

“What’re you workin’ so hard on there, honey?”

You let out a huff, throwing your hands up in the air in defeat. “Some dumb research paper for school! It’s on World War Two, and I can’t remember what’s right and what’s wrong and it’s a stupid topic anyways that my stupid teacher assigned! Who fucking cares about a hundred years ago? And how the hell am I supposed to know this? I wasn’t alive! You know what I…”

The words die on your tongue as you finally glance over at the stranger keeping you company.

Blonde hair that seems gold with the way the sun is hitting the strands, which are damp and in slight disarray due to his exercise. Bright blue eyes reflecting the sky above, hidden beneath long lashes that you’re immediately envious of. Pretty pink lips, matching the cherry blossoms on the trees surrounding you, pulling up into an amused sort of smile. The makings of a beard lining his jaw and littering his cheeks.

Steve Rogers. Captain America. You just ranted about how stupid history is to Captain fucking America. You just ranted about how you have to write a dumb essay on World War Two to Captain fucking America.

Ignoring the way your body heats up, starting in your toes and climbing up your legs, chest, and neck to reach the tips of your ears, a nervous little chuckle is all you can give. You clear your throat, trying to think of how to apologize. “I guess you wouldn’t know what I mean, huh?”

What in the ever loving fuck was that? That was not an apology!

You clear your throat and try again. “I-I mean…sorry. It’s not - I didn’t mean-”

“No, no. It’s fine, sweetheart.” The grin he shoots you makes you glad you aren’t standing up, knowing full well your knees would’ve buckled if you were. You open your mouth to apologize again, but he shakes his head before you can speak. “Really. It’s okay. I get it. I used to be a student too. And you’re right; it was a long time ago and there’s a lot of things that happened. Even I have a hard time keeping track of everything that went down.”

You merely blink at him, nodding slowly. Say something. For the love of God, please just say something. Anything! “Yeah. I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning.” Really? You’re sitting besides the one and only Captain America and that’s what you decide to say?

You feel yourself slump your shoulders slightly, trying to shrink down into absolute nothingness. But even that wouldn’t work because he’s got that friend of his that could shrink and he’d find you. It seems that you were destined to be embarrassed in front of one of the most beautiful human beings on the planet. Screw the universe.

Instead of teasing you or embarrassing you further, he chuckles and nods in agreement, his eyes lighting up. “You’re not the only one. My pal Clint has got the absolute worst memory. We tease him all the time for it. How he became an agent with the memory of a goldfish, I’ll never know.” You laugh at that, your muscles relaxing and your anxiety easing up.

“Yeah, well, I’ve gotta get through college before I’m in the clear.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Uh…so, a World War Two paper, huh? Need some help? I’m kind of an expert on the topic.”

Breath hitching as he scoots closer, you swallow thickly and shrug. “I don’t want to bother you. You look like you’re in the middle of a run.” You gesture to the tight ass t-shirt hugging his torso that you’re sure is sizes too small for him and the joggers hanging off his hips.

Following your gesture, he looks down, before shaking his head. “Nah. I’ve already ran a few more miles than I was going to today.”

“Are-are you sure?”

There’s that grin again. You’re not sure you’ll be able to survive him tutoring you if he keeps giving you that adorable toothy smile. “Honest. I’ve got the rest of the day. We can go to the library if you want. Or we can stay here. Whatever works best for you. I don’t mind either way.”

You blink again, like an idiot, as you process his words. Whatever works best for you. What a gentleman. “Uhh…I was about to head to the library anyways, but I really don’t want to bother you-”

“Trust me, honey. It’d be my pleasure.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

You let out a soft laugh and nod at his insistence, starting to pack up your things. “Okay. I’m Y/N, by the way.” You stand up as he does and offer your hand.

“Steve. But I guess you figured that out.” Taking your hand, you expect him to shake it, but he squeezes it softly and brings it to his lips instead.

Clearing your throat, you tease him a bit to hide your bashfulness at his actions. “You’re a real gentleman, aren’t you?”

He shrugs with a slight smirk, gently dropping your hand and letting it go after another squeeze. “My momma raised nothing less.”

“I’m sure she’d be proud.”

His playful eyes go slightly more somber at that, his smirk morphing into a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Giving no reply, you smile softly and nod your head to the path. He nods back before quickly falling into step besides you, asking you more about your paper as you walk to the library.

* * * * * * * *

Giggling behind your hand to stay quiet, or at least attempt to since you both had already been berated by the librarians for being too loud, your attention is once again diverted to Steve and his stories.

It started out fine; he helped you find reliable books and told you which things were true. But not even half an hour passed before Steve told you a story about the Howling Commandos after something in a book reminded him of it. Your concentration since then has been split between your paper and Steve’s retelling of his past.

“Sorry. I keep distracting you. What’s next?”

You snicker again and shake your head. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m almost done anyways. I’ve actually written down a few things you said, if you don’t mind me using them. My professor can’t exactly argue with Captain America, now can he?”

His lips pull up and his shoulders shake in silent laughter. “I guess not. Of course I don’t mind. You can quote me anytime. See?” He nudges you with his shoulder playfully. “History isn’t so bad.”

“Not when you’re telling it.” You respond earnestly, grinning up at him.

“Eh, Bucky’s always been a better storyteller than me.” He gives a little shrug and rubs the back of his neck.

You shake your head at his modesty. “Well I think you do just fine. You’re the first person to get me interested in history. Hey, can you read this over for me? I just need to finalize this paragraph and do the conclusion.”

When you receive silence as an answer, you look over at the blonde with an eyebrow raised. The ocean eyes scanning over you make you a bit self conscious, so you shift slightly in your seat, making him come back from whatever thoughts overtook his mind. “Sorry. Of course I can, honey. That’s what I’m here for. Let me see.”

He gives you a few pointers on what to add and what to get rid of, before you finally finish, saving your work and closing your laptop with a huff.

“What a mind workout. I’m sure my brain’s got abs now.”

Heads swivel towards you two as Steve guffaws, a lady a few tables down shushing him. He apologizes, still snickering. “Abs, huh?”

“I mean, not as good as yours but…” You freeze, inwardly facepalming. And you were doing so well.

He gives you a cheeky grin. “I’ve got good abs?”

“Oh don’t give me that!” You hiss out quietly. “You know you have good abs. I’m just stating facts is all.”

Another soft chuckle leaves those pretty lips and he twists in his seat to crack his back before standing to collect the books you both got out. “When’s the paper due again?”

You stand to help him, but you get a case of the butterfingers just as you go to pick the books up, making the pile tumble to the floor. “Ah shit.” Steve smiles gently at you as you huff and give him an exasperated look. “My bad.”

He snickers, bending down to help you despite having his own books to carry, like the gentleman he is. “So? Due date?”

“Monday.” You answer with a sigh, straightening up. You carefully set the books on the table to pile them better. “We should get the grade back by Friday.”

He hums, taking a few more books in those strong arms of his. “Ah, well, you’ll get a good grade. I believe in you.”

You smirk at him as you shift your bag so you could carry books under your arms. “I’m sure I will with your help, Captain.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes at your teasing manner. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Of course. I had a good time.” He sends that stunning smile your way and this time you are standing. Luckily you have a table to lean on casually instead of falling on your face. “Plus, now you’ve got a free weekend.”

“Ugh. I wish.” You shake your head. “This is my final semester before I graduate. There’s loads to do. But this makes it easier.” Heading through the aisles of the library, you catch sight of the time on a clock on the wall and your eyes widen. You’d been there for a little over three hours! “Damn! I’m sorry I took up your Friday, though. I’m sure there’s things you want to do before you have to go back to New York, huh?”

Shrugging his broad shoulders, he runs a hand through his golden locks and drops the books he had in his arms on the desk for returns. “Not really. I’m here for the next couple weeks, actually. Meetings and stuff. Plus, it doesn’t even take me an hour to get here, so I can really come whenever I want.”

“That’s nice.” You follow his lead and set your books down, readjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I wish I could go to New York whenever I want. I’m way too poor for that.”

He chuckles again. You’ll never get tired of the sound of his laughter. “I’m sure you’ll get there one day.”

You shrug half heartedly, not really believing him. You’re barely making it in DC. There’s no way you could make it in the Big Apple. “Sure. Someday. I’m serious, though. I’m sorry you wasted your time with some stressed out college student instead of enjoying time with your friends.”

“I’m serious too, honey. It’s no problem; I enjoyed it. And it’s not a waste of my time. Not as long as you get a good grade.”

You laugh as the two of you head out of the building, stopping on the steps and facing each other. “How will you know if I get a good grade?”

He purses his lips in thought. “Meet me at the bench next Friday.” He finally said, his eyes sparkling. “Then we’ll see. Until then, Y/N.”

You grin, taking the large hand he offers you, firmly shaking it before he can kiss your knuckles, making him snicker. “Until then, Steve.”

* * * * * * * *

Feet pounding against the concrete, you practically jump when you spot the man already sitting at the bench. “Steve!” You shout happily, waving your paper in the air. The blonde shoots up, a brow raised in curiosity. “I got a 97!”

You come to a halt in front of him, but it’s too quick, so your clumsy feet trip over each other. Before you can fall, he catches you with ease, smiling down at you in amusement. Small pants leave your lips as sweat trickles down your spine. Where’s that breeze when you need it?

“Uhm…oops?” What the hell was that?! That was embarrassing, that’s what it was!

He chuckles, straightening you up. “You were saying?”

With pride lifting up the corners of your mouth, you shove the paper at his chest, once again grateful that he ignored your blunderings. “97%!”

“I told you you’d be fine. And I knew it wasn’t a waste of my time.” Steve looks up from the paper to give you a toothy grin.

“Thank you again.” You take the paper he hands back to you and shove it in your bag. “I probably would’ve failed the class without this grade. Is there really nothing I can do to pay you back for your time?”

He taps his chin in faux-thought, before tilting his head innocently. “You can loan me some of your time on Sunday.”

You purse your lips, confusion written over your features. “My time? On Sunday? Oh!” You light up, figuring he just needs help with something. “Yeah, duh. Okay. What do you need help with? I can promise I’ll try my hardest, but I might not-”

“No, no. Honey, that’s not-” he laughs, shaking his head and grabbing your hand to make you stop rambling. “I’m askin’ you out.”

“Out?” You pause, registering what that meant. “Like…on a date?” Is he serious? There’s no way he wants to go on a date with you. You pretty much called his life story boring, to his face, and then made him spend three hours on a Friday evening at the library working on a college paper with you.

He snickers with a nod. “Yes, on a date. So whaddya say, sweetheart?”

“Yes!” You blurt out without thinking, before you shy back, feeling yourself heat up as you tend to do around this God of a man. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’d love to. Sunday. I can do that.”

He beams adorably, like a child being allowed to buy his favorite candy bar. Or a puppy with his favorite toy. Yeah…he reminds you of a puppy. Which only makes him that much cuter.

“Awesome! Meet me here at noon. Does that work?”

You nod vigorously. “That works perfectly.”

“Perfect.” He repeats, before taking your hand and bringing your knuckles to his lips once more.

* * * * * * * *

You’re sitting on the bench, tapping your toes nervously and checking your phone every minute. He said noon and it’s only eleven thirty. It’s a bit inconvenient, to say the least, when the place you go to relax is the place you’re meeting the person making you anxious. You could barely sleep the previous night, too many doubts lingering in your head. You seem to always be making a fool of yourself in front of him, but he was the one who asked you out, so that had to count for something.

You try not to think too hard about it, instead thinking back to last Friday in the library and how his features lifted when he told stories of his childhood and the Howling Commandos and the grin he got when he told you about the things they used to do that would get them in trouble.

“But I’m Captain America, and who’s gonna say no to this face?”

A little giggle leaves your lips as you remember his words, before you’re startled back to reality as a familiar smooth voice sounds besides you.

“Whatcha giggling at, honey?”

You whip over to see Steve grinning in amusement, leaning on the back of the bench. Your eyes drag down his figure. Another too tight t-shirt showing every ridge and curve on his torso, a jacket over his broad shoulders along with a casual pair of jeans. You had seen a meme about Steve having the proportions of a Dorito and, looking at him now, you can see how true it was. It almost makes you laugh again, but you remember what exactly is happening, and you suddenly can’t find anything funny.

“Sweetheart? You alright?”

“Huh? Oh. Yes. Yeah. I’m fine. I was just…thinking.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking and leaning his forearms against the back of the bench next to where you’re sat. “And those adorable little giggles?”

There’s that familiar flush that you’ve learned to ignore, praying to God he didn’t notice your heart skipping a beat. “Uh, I just remembered something. That’s all.”

He gives a little hum, before hopping over the back and landing besides you. “Seems like we both had the same idea. Gettin’ here early.”

“If you must know, I was just…” You shrug. “To be honest, I’m a little anxious.”

“I’m not that scary, am I?” He teases, nudging you gently.

You roll your eyes and give him a look. “I don’t think there’s a bone in your body capable of being scary. I’m just…I’m nervous I’m gonna embarrass myself…again.”

Steve shakes his head, looking at you earnestly. “You’re not gonna embarrass yourself.”

Picking at the hem of your shirt, you scoff, shaking your head. “I already have. The amount of times I’ve tripped or said something stupid or rambled, which I’m doing right now, or-”

“Honey, honey. Slow down.” The blonde chuckles. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I find all of those things endearing. Now, the amount of times I’ve seen my teammates slip and fall on their faces while chasing an enemy? That’s embarrassing. Just the other day, Buck tripped on the roof of a car. Sam has it recorded.”

You let out a laugh at that and nod. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all insecure on you-”

“It’s fine, Y/N.” Steve insists. “Now,” he stands and offers his hand. “Let’s go get some lunch, yeah?”

You look at his hand before looking up at him and taking it without hesitation. “Okay.”

* * * * * * * *

After rounds of questions during lunch, Steve took you around the Smithsonian to all the different museums. Just like history, you had never been overly fond of museums. You typically walked around for a little bit, never really reading the information, only enjoying the pictures.

It’s different with Steve. Just like how it was different writing the research paper with him. He makes everything interesting, telling you his own facts and stories. Especially once you get to his exhibit in the Air and Space Museum.

Once you arrive, he puts on a hat and ducks his head, trying not to bring attention to you both while on a date. You tease him a bit, swinging your linked hands as you walk in with a cheeky grin. He nudges you with his elbow, his own smile painted on his lips.

You can’t help but listen and hold onto his every word, as if you’d die if you forget a single sentence. The light in his eyes as he talks about his past, showing you the pictures and plaques excitedly. Like a child during show and tell, he’s practically skipping from exhibit to exhibit, dragging you along behind him.

Giggling at his elation, you eagerly, and with no resistance, let him take you through his story. “They keep updating it.” He explains as you leave the area with World War Two and the Howling Commandos, entering through a corridor with modern pictures of him and the Avengers. “Every couple years or so they call me and tell me they’re adding another thing.”

“Doesn’t that get annoying?” You wonder, reading a wall about the Battle of Manhattan with interest. “Your whole life being put on display for everyone to see?”

Steve shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve never really minded. They don’t put in personal things, so it’s not too bad. You could learn more from the internet about me.”

You nod, knowing how true that really was. “You’ve got a point. Still. It must be a bit weird being a national icon.”

“I’ll admit, people stopping me on the street is getting a little old. I used to wish to be someone who changed the world. Now I have and sometimes I wish I could be normal. But I wouldn’t change what I’ve done. Who I am. Not if people can learn from it. Not if I can keep people safe.”

Turning away from the wall to glance at Steve, who has his hands in his pockets studying the wall, you smile and tilt your head. “You’re a good man, Steve Rogers.”

He turns to you, his lips pulling up. “That’s all I hope for.” His voice is quiet, earnest, before it becomes lighter as he gestures back to the wall. “You know the first thing we did after winning was go out for shawarma? It was Tony’s idea.”

“No way.” You laugh. “All six of you?”

“Yeah! We go there for every Battle of Manhattan Anniversary, now. I’ll take you some time. It’s a nice place.”

“Is that a promise?”

He smirks at your teasing tone. “Absolutely.”

* * * * * * * *

After your museum hopping, he takes you to Arlington Cemetery to show you a few friends and fellow soldiers he met all those years ago. It’s such a personal intimate thing that he shares, and you think you shouldn’t be there to witness it, but he’s quick to reassure you that’s not the case. That he wouldn’t have anyone else by his side, listening to his stories.

By the time you get back to the city, it’s getting dark, so you two head out for dinner before Steve takes you up the Washington Monument to look at the city lights. He makes sure you have the top all to yourselves; there’s perks of being an Avenger - especially one of the leaders.

“Alright, alright.” Leaning on the rail, you turn to him with a smile. “So maybe history isn’t as bad as I originally thought.”

“Yeah? I convinced you, did I?”

You roll your eyes at his smirk, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Maybe a bit. But only when you’re telling it. You think there’s any way you could come to history with me?” You joke with a laugh, feeling yourself flush at the chuckle and grin he gives you.

“I wish I could, honey.” He spoke softly, running a thumb over your knuckles. “Unfortunately, I’ve got work to do. I’m heading back to New York tomorrow. I’ll be back on Friday, though. If you would want to-”

You beam and nod energetically. “I’d love to go out again, Stevie.”

Giving your hand a squeeze, he beams back. “Fantastic.” He looks back out to the window and gives a little sigh. “It’s gettin’ late and you’ve got class tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I should probably get going. Do you, I mean, would you mind walking me home?” You blink up at him through your lashes hopefully.

“Of course!” His eyes - which you found throughout the day weren’t entirely blue, but had some green hues to them - lit up as you two start towards the elevator. He tucks you under his strong arm, pulling you close. “You wanna get ice cream or something on the way?”

“You read my mind, Captain.”

* * * * * * * *

By the time you reach your door, you’ve both finished your ice cream and he’s telling yet another story while you laugh, once again swinging your linked hands.

When it comes time to say goodbye, you can’t help but wish your hand could stay in his for a while longer. Knowing that you’d be saying farewell, you hold on a bit tighter. “Pick me up on Friday?”

He nods, squeezing your hand before letting it go and brushing his fingertips along your cheek. “I’ll call you later too, alright, sweetheart?”

“Okay.” You agree eagerly. “You gonna kiss me goodnight now, soldier?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckles softly, before gently grabbing your chin. Using his other hand, he pulls you closer by the waist, pressing his lips to yours. It’s soft and sweet and perfect, just like him, but it ends too quickly for your liking. He pulls back, nudging his nose against yours, and murmuring against your lips. “Sleep well.”

You smile, leaning your forehead against his. “Good night, Stevie.”

Stepping away, he lifts your knuckles to his lips. “G’night.”

You stop him before he could turn all the way. “Steve?” He pauses to look over his shoulder at you with an eyebrow raised. You have a question, and you can’t help but ask it, it having been on your mind for days. “Why’d you stop your run just to sit by me?”

“And leave a beautiful dame like yourself before I could get your name? I may be a super soldier, honey, but I’m still a man. Abyssinia Friday, Y/N.”

#cjsinkythoughts #cjswriting #marvel #steve rogers #captain america #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #first dates w/ avengers #💛🧭

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turning-dreams-into-chaos · 5 years ago

Text

Veritaserum

*Not my Gif*

Word Count: 2.3K

~Master~

~Harry Potter Master~

*Requests are closed*

Fred and George were sat on the couch in the common room, working on their newest plans for a prank as you showed up with a frown on your face. Fred’s head immediately picked up when you entered, nudging George as you stomped over to them and sat yourself between the twins.

The boys didn’t say anything as they shared confused looks. Fred cleared his throat. “Is something the matter, Y/N?”

You glared at him before groaning and laying across their laps, putting your head in Fred’s lap and your feet on George. “If I say no, will the problem solve itself?” You asked and Fred snorted, George shaking his head as he pushed your feet off him. Fred helped you sit up again as you sighed.

“What happened?” George asked again as you groaned, not wanting to talk about why you were upset.

The reason was simple. You liked Fred. You really liked Fred. That wouldn’t have been a problem if he wasn’t your best friend, or if he hadn’t taken Angelina to the Yule Ball just a few weeks ago. That’s why you were upset right now, you had heard the girl herself talking about her date that night. It wasn’t her fault; she was in a group and apparently, they wanted to relive the “magic” they felt that night as if they weren’t currently attending a school where they had literal magic at their fingertips. You knew Fred only went with Angelina as friends, but it still made you jealous to listen to her talk about dancing with him and the way he kissed her cheek.

“I’m going to grow old alone, aren’t I?” you asked them, letting your head fall into your hands. Fred’s brows pulled together as he put a hand on your back, instantly comforting you. George looked at him, giving him an I-don’t-know-what-to-do look before Fred rolled his eyes.

“Aw, don’t worry Y/N, we won’t let you grow old alone.” Fred promised you.

You turned your head so you could see his face as he smiled. “Promise?”

“Yeah! I’ll marry you!” He shouted and beamed. Your breathing stopped as you realized what he just said. “Reckon I’d be a damn good husband, too.” You could finally let out a breath as you figured Fred was just being himself, trying to ease this situation with a joke.

You rolled your eyes, shoving Fred’s arm off you as he snickered and you hid your smile. “Oh, yeah sure you will, dung brain.”

Fred feigned offense, placing his hand on his chest. “Excuse you, don’t talk about your future husband like that.”

You stuck your tongue out at him before turning your body to face George. “Georgie, you’d marry me, right?”

George didn’t say anything as he wore an amused look, glancing right over your shoulder to Fred’s mouth hung wide open. “Y/N!” Fred shouted as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you away from his brother. “Stay away from my wife, George.” He faked threatened and you felt your cheeks heat up. Fred was definitely not helping your situation.

You tapped Fred’s arms, feeling him release you as you stood up, really needing to get out of this situation before your feelings went haywire. “Well, thank you for making me feel better.” You said and looked between the brothers. Fred gave you a genuine smile but George was smirking at you, making you a little nervous. “I’m gonna go see if Hermione will help me with my essay writing.” You pointed over your shoulder to the exit and said goodbye before leaving the boys, Fred’s eyes following you until you disappeared. When he looked back at George, he saw the grin his twin wore.

“Someone has a crush.” George taunted him, but Fred rolled his eyes.

“I don’t have a crush on Y/N.” He defended.

“Never said you did. No, I was talking about Y/N having a crush on me.” Fred’s eyes widened and he choked on the air he was trying to get down. George couldn’t help but laugh at his brother’s predicament. “You sure you don’t have a crush on her, Freddie?”

Fred didn’t say anything as George went back to work. He could help to try and figure what George was talking about.

Someone has a crush…

Most likely you, but on who?

Him?

Nah, only in his dreams.

---

George was tired of you and Fred. Fred was his brother; George always knew who Fred had crushes on and his brother’s crush on you was no different.

He had a plan to get Fred to admit it.

He heard Snape had recently brewed a batch of Veritaserum, or a truth potion, despite it being forbidden. If he could find a way to slip it into Fred’s drink then he could get Fred to admit it. He managed to sneak into Snape’s cabinet while Snape was out and Fred was with you heading to dinner. Taking out an empty potion vial he had, he poured just a little of the clear liquid into it, just enough for what he needed and for Snape not to notice it was missing.

---

You sat across from Fred in the Great hall talking over dinner. It was nice to get the chance to be with Fred without George there. You loved George, but it was Fred you had feelings for. You were right in the middle of making fun of Fred for spilling his pumpkin juice all over his robes.

Looking down the table, his eyes landed on the pitcher next to Lee. “Lee! Pass the pumpkin juice?” He asked his friend. Lee nodded, picking up the pitcher only for it to be empty. Fred frowned, looking for the next one but it was nowhere to be seen.

You picked up your cup, putting it between you and Fred. “Here Freddie, we can share.”

He offered you a smile before taking a sip. “Thanks. Think I like this better when it’s not on my clothes.” You rolled your eyes at your friends’ humor before George arrived, sitting next to Fred as he put the cup down back on the table.

“Where were you?” You asked George who looked a little out of breath.

“Went for run, my dear Y/N.” He was smiling, that little smile he did when he was up to something but you had no clue what. You ignored the feeling, your conversation moving on to include George. You were talking for only a few moments before your attention was called to the end of your table, some of your friends having fun as you and Fred got distracted, interested in the arm wrestling happening between Lee and Angelina.

When your attentions were turned from George, he made his move. He opened the vial and held it over the cup he saw Fred drink from, letting 3 clear drops fall into the juice before George hid it in his robes right in time for you and Fred to turn around.

Fred eyed his brother, having caught the last seconds of his scrambling. “What are you up to?” Fred asked as George shrugged and started to eat his food again. He waited for Fred to take a drink, watching his twin eat his chicken without any knowledge of what was sitting in his drink.

George’s eyes glanced down to his brother’s robe to see his stain. “What’s that?” George asked, nodding down to Fred’s torso.

Fred pulled his robe forward, scowling at the stain that’s only soaking into his clothes. “I spilt pumpkin juice on myself before you showed up. There’s none more so that’s why Y/N and I are sharing.”

George nodded, barely listening before his eyes widened. “Sharing?” He gasped out. He looked up to you and his stomach fell seeing at that moment you were currently taking a sip of the spelled juice. “Oh no.”

You put the cup down and swallowed the rather large sip you had just taken. George’s eyes were on yours as you begun to worry. “What? George what did you do?”

George didn’t answer you, instead he leaned over to his brother and whispered in his ear. “I put Veritaserum in the juice.” George admitted right away.

Fred scrunched up his face. “Veritaserum?” He repeated, taking a bite of his food and trying to remember where he learned it. When he figured it out, he dropped his fork on the table. “Veritaserum?! You put a truth potion into her drink?” he whispered harshly to George so you couldn’t hear.

George shrugged. “It was meant for you.” Fred’s mouth dropped open as George focused on you. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. What did you do?” you asked again, seeing Fred look at you with a worry he hadn’t seen since you broke your leg playing quidditch.

“Well, this wasn’t how I wanted this to happen, but it works.” George mumbled under his breath. He needed to know if this potion was working. “Y/N? Do you remember last week when I asked if you wanted to practice some quidditch with Freddie and me and you said you promised Angelina you’d spend the day with her?” You nodded your head, unsure what he was getting at. “What was the real reason you wouldn’t practice?”

“I wanted to steal your potions homework.” Your hand slapped over your mouth, shocked you had just said that. It wasn’t a big deal you stole their homework, but you wouldn’t tell them. You pulled your hand from your mouth. “What in the name of Merlin did you do to me?” you growled at him, slamming your hand down on the table.

George laughed, clapping his hands together as Fred shook his head in disbelief. Deciding not to waste another second, George got to work.

“Y/N, do you have a crush on anyone?” He asked. Your eyes pleaded with him as you slapped a hand over your mouth. You looked to Fred, who while displeased with the situation, couldn’t stop himself from wanting to know. “Come on, Y/N. You can’t fight it.”

“Yes, I do.” You couldn’t fight it. It was like your words were tumbling from your mouth without any regard to your brain.

George smiled. “Who?”

You shook your head, biting your lips together in hopes you didn’t have to say anything. “Fred.” You blurted out, letting your eyes close before you could see Fred’s eyes widen. He absolutely hated doing this, but he couldn’t stop it. It was like he was frozen in his seat.

“How long?”

“Since 3rd year. When we spent the whole night talking in the common room.” You tried to block out your emotions, knowing George wouldn’t give up.

“Were you ever planning on telling him?”

“No.” Fred’s heart broke looking at you clutching your head, your eyes closed as his brother wouldn’t give up. He remembered that night very well, that was the night he starting liking you in a more than friend way too. He didn’t expect it to hurt so much to know you wouldn’t have had any plans to tell him.

Fred snapped out of his trance, grabbing a hold of his brother. “George, stop-“

“Why weren’t you going to tell him? Wouldn’t you’ve like to know if he felt the same way?”

Your eyes finally opened and the boys could see the tears that were beginning to fall. “I know he doesn’t feel the same way because he took Angelina to the dance instead of asking me even as a friend date! I wasn’t going to tell him because I knew he couldn’t love me the same because I’m in love with him!” You clapped your hand over your mouth again, feeling a sob wrack through your body as you stood up from the table and rushed out of the room.

You finally stopped running as you reached your bed, falling on top as you let out another cry. You knew you shouldn’t have been crying, but you were embarrassed. You just spilled your secret crush out right to the boy. Why did you have to feel this way? Why did you have to say those things? Why did George make you drink that stupid potion?

Your door opened swiftly, your head turning slightly before you saw Fred standing in the doorway. “Go away! I don’t want to talk to you!”

Fred knew you were telling the truth, the potion still taking effect but luckily for him, it was working for him as well. “I drank the potion before I left.” He admitted, falling by your side on the bed as you sat up. He wiped away your tears as you sniffled.

“Why would you do that?”

“So, you would know the truth.” He grabbed your hand, ready to hold nothing back. “George put the potion in what he thought was my drink. He wanted me to tell you the truth, not the other way around. That night in the common room was it for me as well. I didn’t want the sun to rise the next morning because I wanted to spend forever talking to you. I wanted to ask you to the yule ball, I did, but I didn’t want you to have rejected me and have things be awkward between us because I couldn’t have that. I’m actually thankful my twat of a brother gave you the potion because I wouldn’t have had the courage to tell you otherwise.” He took a deep breath as he finished, looking into your tear-filled eyes. “I want to grow old with you Y/N, and one day I want to marry you and be your husband.”

“I reckon you’d be a damn good one.” Your voice was quiet as you repeated his words from earlier and Fred and you chuckled. He said everything you hoped he would say, well, except for one thing. “And about that last thing I said?” you whispered, feeling Fred squeeze your hand before leaning into you.

His lips hovered nicely over your own, both your eyes were closed. “I’m in love with you, too.” He whispered before sealing his secret with a kiss.

A/N: Okay! Thoughts! and yes I think it’s illegal for the kids to get Veritaserum? but i couldn’t get this out of my head so oh well.

Permanent: @literal-fand0m-trash @just4muggles @nathaliabakes @colored-confetti @wiseeggspickleslime @btsiguess-kpop @galacticstxrdust @independentgirl @hollymac79 @delicately-important-trash @emcchi @rauwz @herondalescecilys @chewymoustachio @smilexcaptainx @faith-quake @clarkesplaylist @johnmurphyisbisexual

Harry Potter: @accio-rogers @songforhema @hahaboop @paigeyisme @missmulti @daddyloonglegss @ellie-emb @angelinathebook @marauderswhisperer @emmaloo21 @obsessedwithrandomthings @jackryanplz @dreamer821 @alexmarie29 @grierpilots

Twins: @seppys-return-to-madness @siriuslysirius1107 @wolfiepirate @coffee-wihtout-caffeine @rexorangecouny

Fred: @spideyboipete @themusingsofmany

#Fred Weasley x Reader #Fred Weasley imagine #Fred Weasley #Fred Weasley one shot #George Weasley #Weasley Twins x Reader #Weasleys x Reader #harry potter x reader #harry potter imagine #harry potter #veritaserum

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

Text

love is all you need // G.W. (celebration fic)

Request: Okay one more cause I love you're writing. Can you do a George x Reader friends to lovers trope with fluff prompts 5 and 14?? I appreciate you and everything you do! Congratulations, you deserve it!! ❤❤ - @mischi3f-manag3d

Fluff 5: “Take my bed for the night. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Fluff 14: “How about a kiss?

A/N: Thank you so much! Here is your request! I haven't written for George in so long! This is a load of fluff and a load of comfort. I’m sorry it’s not longer but I hope enjoy anyway!

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of an argument, mentions of arranged marriages, but it really is a load of fluff.

Word count: 1.8k

You aren’t sure how often you’ve knocked on his door; raised your fist and brayed it against the fading red paint that George always promises he’ll paint over but never does.

It’s no different now as you stand before his door, knocking three times before taking a step back. You glance on either side of you; biting your lip, second-guessing your decision to come here instead of blowing off steam another way.

“(Y/N)?” George greets; opening the door to your harried state, “What’s wrong?”

You blink away the fresh wave of tears; you thought you had cried yourself dry but the familiar burn in the back of your throat proves otherwise. “Can I come in?” You whisper; pointing into the flat he shares with his twin.

George nods; standing aside to let you enter. He won’t outrightly tell you that he��s worried; he’s sure you already know.

“I’m sorry for just showing up,” You mutter; looking down at your hands, shuffling from side to side.

George waves away your apology after shutting the door, “Don’t be. You’re always welcome here.”

You nod your head; throwing yourself onto his couch dramatically only to sit up immediately when you realise the absence of his twin. “Where’s Fred?” You ask.

“At Angelina’s,” George calls, heading to the small kitchen, “Do you want some tea?”

“Love some.” You shout back over the sound of now heating kettle.

George leaves the kitchen; letting the kettle boil. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. With a soft expression on his face, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

You raise an eyebrow, “What makes you think something is wrong?”

George scoffs, “Come on now, love. I’ve known you since Third Year, I know when something is bothering you.”

You sigh heavily, “It’s my parents.”

“What happened?”

You go to open your mouth, but you’re interrupted by the kettle beginning to whistle. George holds up a single finger; telling you to hold that thought as he makes the tea. He’s back in no time, however – handing you your mug before settling on the couch next to you.

With a nod of his head, George tells you to continue.

“I know they mean well, and I know they want the best for me but…” You trail off; feeling that all too familiar lump start to form in your throat.

“But?” George prompts after a moment of silence.

“But I just wish they would stop pushing.”

“On what?”

You throw your arms out wide; almost spilling your tea, “On everything! They’ve never been happy with the fact that I chose to become a professor instead of working in the ministry. They never accepted the fact that I was sorted into Gryffindor and not Slytherin like the both of them. To top it all off, they hate the fact they can’t control me.”

George chuckles lightly; placing a hand on your knee, “Love, tell me something I don’t already know.”

You glare at him, “That’s not the worst part.”

“What is?”

Tears build in your eyes; lining them with silver, “They want me to marry,” You rush out in hushed tones.

“Marry?” George asks; voice astounded.

You nod your head; tears slipping, “They’ve got it all fixed apparently. Found a ‘lovely’ suitor; someone I’m sure to love in time,” You frown, “In time? No. I should already be in love with them if I’m to marry them.”

George sighs; taking both your mugs and placing them gently on the coffee table, “You don’t have to marry them.”

“That’s what I told my parents. That’s why I’m here.”

“How bad was it?”

You laugh mirthlessly, “Bad. I’ve never seen them so angry; kept telling me that the betrothal was already arranged and that for me to back out now would be a stain on the family name. After that, I walked out. I didn’t want to see or listen to them.”

“So you came straight to me?”

You nod; slumping against the redhead as the fight leaves your body, leaving you drained and tired. “I didn’t want to see anyone else; I only wanted to see you.”

George’s heart practically sings at your words; sending a shock of electricity through his body. He’s harboured feelings for you for as long as he can remember; he wouldn’t admit this to another soul, but he has spent so long daydreaming what it would be like to the be the one to hold you on a night and then to be the one whispering good morning before kissing you awake.

He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, asking, “What do you plan to do?”

You shrug your shoulders, “The only thing I’m certain of is not going through with the marriage, but I don’t know what will happen with my parents.”

“They need time to cool off,” George comforts, “You all do.”

You nod wordlessly. George shuffles closer to you; wrapping an arm around your shoulders, “Do you want to stay the night? Talk to them in the morning?”

You peak up at George from under your lashes. Nodding, you answer, “Please.”

George nods, smiling at you reassuringly, “Take my bed for the night. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You shake your head; holding onto the redhead that little bit tighter, “Stay with me?”

His eyes narrow; unsure, “Are you sure? I don’t mind, it’s quite a comfy couch.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt at humour, standing from said couch and checking the clock, “I’m sure. Let’s go to bed, George.”

George takes your outstretched hand; pulling himself up from the couch. You’re both exceptionally quiet as he leads you to his room; it’s not like you haven’t been in there before, but this meant something more to the both of you.

Dropping your hand, George rifles through his drawers, grabbing some old clothes of his for you to wear through the night.

“Are these okay?” He asks quietly; holding out an old t-shirt and some joggers.

You take them from him; rising up on your tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. Pulling away, you whisper, “Thank you, George.”

Shutting the door to the bathroom, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. The upset and the anger caused by your parents has dissipated leaving behind only excitement and anticipation alight in your eyes. You didn’t think that George would agree to sharing a bed with you despite having done so in the past, but you didn’t want to be alone, and all you wanted more than anything was to be held by him.

The reflection in the mirror smiles at the hope in your face. The reason for being so adamant with your parents about the arranged marriage was that you had already given your heart to another, and he was just outside the door getting ready for bed. Your heart was never stolen by the Weasley; in fact, you gave it quite willingly, handing it over to him unknowingly through your time with him at Hogwarts.

He’s owned your heart and has been the main character in all of your daydreams since you were a teenager worried about essays and Quidditch try outs.

You put George’s t-shirt on; inhaling the familiar scent of gunpowder and honeysuckle.

Leaving the bathroom, you find that George has already slipped into bed. He’s pressed himself against the wall; giving you the option of wanting to leave the bed should you change your mind through the night.

You share a small laugh as you slide into bed next to him; settling under the covers, feeling more at ease now than you had all night.

“It’s going to be okay,” George whispers.

“I know, I believe you,” You reply, and you did. You believe him wholeheartedly; he may throw pranks and make jokes, but George is well aware when he needs to be serious and is always there with open arms and a patient ear.

You feel his shrug under the covers, “Besides, if not, we’ll run away together.”

Smiling, you answer, “An entirely too tempting idea, Weasley.”

He beams at you and with a flick of a switch, George turns out the light and the room is sent into darkness.

There’s something about the dark that makes men brave; that make it easier to confront truths and feelings. There’s something about the dark that is made for lovers; grazes of fingers and the brushes of lips.

It starts with an outstretch of hands; fingers bumping clumsily in the limited light of the room. Smile grow on both faces as they become tangled; his fingers wrapping around yours tightly.

It follows with him bringing your hand to his lips; placing a gentle kiss on the back of it before letting it drop back down to the space between you both.

In the dark, George finally whispers what’s been on the tip of his tongue since you announced it, “Don’t marry him. Fight it, please.”

You turn onto your side. You can just about make out the outline of his figure in the dark, but you don’t need to see his face to know that those words cost him. Even though can’t see you, you shake your head, “I’ll fight it tooth and nail.”

George releases a long sigh; his hand squeezes yours as he says, “I want a chance.”

“A chance at what?” You ask; throat constricting with the hope rushing up from your stomach.

“A chance to be with you,” He whispers; the words taking shape and filling the room. He runs a hand down his face, “Merlin, (Y/N), I’m mad for you.”

“You are?”

He nods; moving closer to you. You meet him halfway; almost startling when you feel his body align itself with yours.

“I’m mad for you too as it happens,” You comment lightly; your voice filled with emotion.

The thick tension leaves the room upon the uttering of your words leaving behind an atmosphere filled with relief and happiness. George laughs as he turns onto his side, utterly delighted at your words; tangled hands forgotten as he reaches for you. One of his hands slips underneath you as the other wraps around your waist; he holds you to him, pressing kiss after kiss to your hair.

You fist a hand in his t-shirt; the other one slipping underneath, running your nails across the toned expanse of his stomach. He shivers at the feel of your touch, twining your legs together so there isn’t a part of you that isn’t touching.

Tilting your head back, you run your nose up the length of his neck. Humming at the intoxicating scent of his skin – the honeysuckle becoming stronger the closer you are to him.

“George?”

He hums; arms instinctively tightening around you, “Yes?”

A wicked grin breaks out across your face; all thoughts about parents and marriage disappear as you look into the face of the man you love and ask, “How about a kiss?”

George doesn’t need to be asked twice.

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George Weasley taglist: @susceptible-but-siriusexual

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fangirlwriting-stories · 4 years ago

Text

Star-Crossed

Summary: Virgil has known since he was little that some day he's supposed to meet his soulmate and fall in love with them. You're supposed to date, then fall in love, and eventually ride off into the sunset to the sound of wedding bells and a happy life in front of you. You're supposed to look forward to meeting your soulmate. You're supposed to plan your life around them, because you're supposed to want to.

He's not sure what exactly you're supposed to do when someone else gets there first.

There’s a way these things work, Virgil knows. Of course, everyone’s story is different, because people aren’t made with perfect cookie cutters. But there’s a general way that these things work. It involves meeting your soulmate, getting to know them, dating and falling in love, ending with a wedding at an appropriate age. You’re supposed to be tailor made for each other, your love story written in the stars, to the point where communication is easy and problems aren’t hard to overcome. Now, that’s of course not how it always works in real life, because people are complicated and problems can be just that. But it’s supposed to be relatively easy to ride the wave to your happy ending, wedding bells and cheers and riding off into the sunset.

For most of his life, Virgil had craved that ease. Relationships that didn’t come pre-packaged for success were hard, and he wasn’t very good at them. It took him until eleventh grade to make any friends. But even when he did, they were proof that soulmates made everything easier.

Roman, Patton, and Logan had the kind of soulmate story people dream about. The three of them had been best friends since childhood and started dating in their early teens. They’d had their general share of problems throughout the years, but overall they were good. Their story made them popular too, and Virgil couldn’t imagine why they’d taken him under their wing, but here he was.

With popularity-by-association came pressure, though, and Virgil couldn’t name the number of times he’d panicked about what would happen if he didn’t live up to the soulmate story of his friends. It was what they expected of him, in the way that they never said outright, but Virgil could tell they were thinking it. He knew for a fact it’s what his parents expected of him, as unlike his friends, they had said it outright. He wondered why exactly they felt the need to make that clear. Did they know something?

Because in the end, that was the point, wasn’t it. Nowhere in the general “way these things work” did your soulmate story allow you to be here, in your crumbling backyard treehouse, wrapped in the arms of someone you love but shouldn’t as they kissed your damn brains out.

Virgil couldn’t give an exact name for what he and Janus were. They weren’t quite dating, but they definitely weren’t just friends, if the way Janus’ hand was tangled up in his hair and pulling him closer had anything to say about it. He did know that Janus made him feel alive, in a way he’d never quite gotten from anywhere else. He wouldn’t trade Patton, Logan, and Roman for anything, but there were times the expectations they came with made him terrified. His parents made him feel more trapped than anything else, though he didn’t think that’s what they intended. But here, with Janus, he felt like the world could burn, and as long as he had Janus there with him, he would be perfectly content to just watch.

Virgil shifted enough to see the outside of the treehouse, and pulled his head up slightly. “Janus,” he murmured.

“What, I’m busy,” Janus murmured back, shifting his lips on Virgil’s neck. Virgil gasped and pulled in a breath.

“Janus,” he said again, though his voice sounded significantly higher than a second ago. “The sun’s rising.”

“Oh, my, alert the media,” Janus said, moving up from his neck to capture Virgil’s lips again.

Virgil pulled back. “You can’t keep kissing me to shut me up,” he said.

“But it works so well,” Janus crowed, leaning back in.

“Janus,” Virgil groaned, but wrapped his arms around him anyway, letting them both move back slowly onto the floor.

“You have to go, you know,” he murmured in a moment he pulled back to breathe.

“Mmm, I can’t convince you to stay just another half hour?” He kissed the corner of Virgil’s mouth and Virgil held back a whine.

“You are very persuasive,” he muttered.

“Ah, one of the many reasons you love me,” Janus said, moving to the other corner of his mouth.

“I’ll love you less if we get caught out here,” Virgil said. “You know how early my dad gets up.”

“Really? Getting caught during one makeout session, that’s all it takes?” He pulled Virgil up closer to him, wrapping his arms around his back.

“Janus,” Virgil said, pushing him backwards. “It’s not about that and you know it.”

Janus sighed, dropping his head onto Virgil’s chest. “You ruined it with seriousness, Virgil,” he whined.

“It’s going to be ruined with a lot more seriousness if you don’t go,” Virgil said, trying to ignore the way that Janus’ lips still looked so very tempting.

Janus had to have noticed his staring, because he smirked and leaned back in. “Yes, and it seems like you want me to leave so much,” he whispered, right before connecting their lips yet again.

Virgil heard the soft click of a lightswitch, easy to hear with nothing else going on— well, with only one other thing going on.

Virgil pushed Janus back more firmly. “Janus,” he said. He looked over towards the house, where the kitchen light had just come on.

Janus sighed, and laid back down on top of Virgil. “Curse your early bird of a father.”

“Yeah, he’s the worst,” Virgil said, only half joking. “I’ll see you on Monday, alright?”

“How ever will I last,” Janus said with a smirk, leaning in one last time and kissing Virgil much more gently, the way he did goodbyes.

Virgil returned the kiss as Janus sat them both up, and pulled back a second later. “Text me when you get home,” he said.

“I will,” Janus agreed, moving to climb down the treehouse ladder. Virgil watched him go for a second before leaving himself, climbing across the tree branch that led through his open window. He made it just in time to look out his window and spot Janus leaving through the gate towards his front yard. He paused and looked up at Virgil first, giving him a sloppy salute as if saying “There, I did what you wanted.” Then he turned and vanished into the early morning.

Virgil smiled to himself and sank down against his windowsill. God, he loved that idiot.

He waited until he got a text half an hour later that Janus made it home before climbing into bed. It would still be a while before he fell asleep, though, the buzzing feeling Janus left him with made him feel too alive for that.

Not for the first time, Virgil wished that the “way these things work” was something different.

…

“I’m just saying,” Roman said, his arm looped through Logan’s as the three of them walked to class. “That if you’re going to give students an assignment over break you deserve nothing less than death.”

“Agreed,” Virgil said.

Logan shook his head at them both in disbelief. “We are students,” he said. “Our entire job is to learn. If the teachers have assignments to grade over break, shouldn’t students have something to work on too?”

“No,” Roman said. “It’s the teachers job to grade assignments.”

“Did you miss the part where I said learning is our job?”

“I don’t see myself getting paid for this shit,” Virgil muttered. “And I don’t want to write a whole damn essay over break. I don’t care if ‘learning is my job’ or whatever you think. The whole point of a break is a vacation.”

“It’s just one essay,” Logan said, raising an eyebrow. “You can get it done and still have a vacation.”

“Logan, your ‘I can write essays in an hour’ thing is kicking in again,” Roman said. “It takes most people longer to write an essay than it takes you.”

Virgil didn’t catch Logan’s response, having instead caught Janus’ eyes on the side of the hallway. Janus looked at him as he passed and smirked, giving Virgil just enough time to think about how absolutely gone he was for this boy before he passed behind them.

“Virgil?”

Virgil jerked around to face Roman. “What?”

“Don’t you agree?”

Virgil blinked. “Oh, yeah, absolutely.”

“See!” Roman exclaimed, spinning to Logan like that won the whole argument. Virgil was happy to help.

They both continued the argument that Virgil had lost all interest in until they reached the lunchroom, where Patton was already sitting at their usual table.

Virgil pulled his phone out as he sat down, because if he’d passed Janus… yep.

Janus: So how are the universe’s favorite love birds doing

Virgil rolled his eyes.

Virgil: You don’t always have to act like you hate them you know

Janus: Excuse you? They are the worst. I despise them and everything they stand for

Virgil: They also happen to be the only people who actually tried being my friends

Janus: Ugh

Janus: You and your hatred of loneliness

Virgil: If you want to talk to them they wouldn’t hate it you know

Janus: And surround myself with soulmate perfection stories all the time? Please

Virgil sighed. They both knew he could see right through Janus. While Virgil now had three close friends and gained the friendliness of everyone else by association, he remembered the things that you said when you didn’t have anyone and were trying to convince yourself you were okay with that. “As if I want to surround myself with soulmate perfection all the time” was up near the top of the list. Virgil had said it more than a couple times himself before he realized the soulmate perfection people were actually pretty nice.

“Hey, Virgil, whatcha looking at?”

…About most things.

“Nothing,” Virgil said, putting his phone back in his bag. “Just making notes of assignment stuff. Roman’s right, an essay assignment over break is BS.”

“Right?” Roman said, and started launching into his complaints. Virgil sat back in relief and listened to him start to rant, rubbing his thumb over his phone case in his pocket.

He had other reasons to hate the essay assignment. He and Janus had been planning what to do over spring break for months. Janus had gotten his mother’s permission to take the car and go with a friend on a couple of day trips, so long as they didn’t like, leave the state or something. Virgil had been looking forward to going somewhere fun with Janus, exploring the places Janus had picked out, finding places to be alone… maybe pretending to be soulmates.

Virgil looked down at the name on his wrist and sighed, wishing once again that it said something other than Ethan Baker.

Virgil went through the rest of the day trying to figure out a way to finish that essay before break. He had a week, but he had other assignments due before break. He could probably ask Logan for help, come to think of it. He texted Logan after school as he was heading out to Roman’s car. Logan stayed after most days to tutor.

Virgil: Hey, could I maybe stay after Thursday to work on my essay with you

Logan: Sure, I don’t have any tutoring on Thursday. Try and have an outline and an argument decided on by then, okay?

Virgil: Will do

Virgil slipped his phone back into his pocket and glanced up as he approached Roman and Patton, who were standing outside Roman’s car waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he said as he ended up in front of them. “Trying to figure out how to get an actual break.”

“Do you have a plan?” Roman asked, getting into the driver’s seat as Patton took the passenger and Virgil got into the back.

“Yeah, I’m meeting up with Logan on Thursday to write the essay.”

“Oh, can I join?”

“You should ask, but I’m sure he won’t mind,” Patton said. “I need a treat. Anyone else want ice cream?”

“Sign me up,” Roman said as he started to back up. “Jenny’s?”

“Absolutely,” Virgil agreed. Jenny’s was their favorite ice cream place. He wanted to find a way to take Janus some day.

Patton texted Logan to meet them there when he was done with tutoring, and then they all headed there.

Virgil grabbed his notebook once they got there and started writing down ideas for his essay in between bites of ice cream. By the time Logan got there, he had a couple ideas to narrow down, and he pulled out his phone to text Janus.

Virgil: You don’t have any assignments over break, do you?

Janus: Fuck no. What monsters do you have as teachers?

Virgil: Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it handled. Just making sure you’re ready for our trips too

…

Turns out, Janus had quite a few good spots to go to, with different goals in mind. They went to ice rinks, outlet malls with Hot Topic, and a state park all within the same week. The park ended up being Virgil’s favorite. It was filled with giant rocks that people were encouraged to climb on. They found a high up rock tucked in between trees overlooking a river, and stayed there for hours appreciating the view, and appreciating… other things. If anyone saw them, the names on their wrists were covered, and people were much more likely to assume they were soulmates than otherwise.

It was as they were getting into the car to leave the park that Virgil turned to Janus. “Janus?”

“Hmm?”

“We can’t pretend we’re not dating anymore, can we?”

Janus huffed a laugh. “I don’t think we can,” he said. “Not really.”

“Should we talk about that?”

“What part of it?”

“You know what part, Jan.”

Janus sighed. “No, Virgil,” he said. “I’m not going to force you to tell everyone now just because we’ve admitted we’re dating. Believe it or not, I like things as they are.” He leaned over and kissed Virgil as if to make his point. Virgil’s hands drifted to hold the sides of his face as he kissed him back.

“Hey,” Virgil murmured as Janus pulled away to breathe.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Janus replied easily, like he barely had to think about it, and Virgil pulled him closer as sparks lit inside his chest. It was going to be awhile before they left the park.

…

“What about that hotel, we could stop there.”

“We are not stopping at a hotel, dumbass,” Virgil said, shoving Janus’ head from the side. “These are supposed to be day trips.”

“Oh, Virgil, how could you deny me the chance to spend a night with you?” Janus asked, throwing a hand up to his forehead as if this was some huge betrayal.

“Don’t you have to be 18 to be able to buy a hotel room anyway?” Virgil pointed out, crossing his arms and smirking.

“Hmm. Fair enough. I know a motel a couple miles away, we could try that.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the same deal.”

“I have a fake ID in the glove box.”

“You what?” Virgil laughed, pulling open the glove box to see that Janus was right. “Why are we going to a motel and not a hotel if you have a fake ID?”

“So what I’m hearing is we can go to a hotel!”

“Janus!” Virgil groaned, trying to stop smiling.

“What, it’s not like we have school again tomorrow. We’re not needed anywhere.”

“Yes, well as technically true as that is, tomorrow is still the day we all meet up at Roman’s house to set up the pool and swim.”

All of the mirth faded instantly from Janus’ face. “Oh.”

“Hey, what?” Virgil asked, furrowing his eyebrows in concern.

“Nothing. You’re allowed to have other friends,” Janus said, sounding sincere in that.

Virgil sighed. “Except I never get to see you as is,” he muttered. “Right?”

“Well… yes,” Janus admitted.

Virgil reached over and grabbed Janus’ hand on top of the steering wheel. “Come with me, then. I’ll ask them if you can come. I’m sure they’ll say yes.”

“Oh? And what will you say? ‘Hey, are you three with your perfect fairy tale story ending cool with me bringing my boyfriend that isn’t my soulmate over to your house?”

“Well of course I wouldn’t say that,” Virgil said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll probably say you’re a friend I’ve met.”

Janus sighed and shook his head.

“Janus,” Virgil said, checking to make sure no other cars were around before pulling his hand onto the middle console. “Come with me. You can wear a swimsuit and look hot and make me wish I could come over and kiss your face off.”

Janus gave him a look, and Virgil could see his answer before he said it.

“Maybe another time, Virgil,” he said, pulling his hand away and putting it back on the wheel.

They made the rest of the trip home in silence, and after a while Virgil leaned on the window and fell asleep.

…

“LOGAN, LOOK OUT!” was all the warning that Logan got before Roman landed right on top of him and sent them both underwater. Virgil started swimming over to them instantly, but both heads popped out of the water before he got there, though Logan was rubbing his and looked in pain.

“Do you never look before you leap into pools?” Logan asked, glaring at Roman.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Roman said, grabbing Logan’s head and starting to look it over. “Here, I can kiss it better.”

“That is not how medical care works,” Logan said, as Roman kissed the area of his head he’d landed on.

“Oh for goodness sake, specs, I’m being sweet.” Roman said, continuing to look his head over. “You look okay. You want to get out for a minute?”

“I am alright. I think a headache is forming after that, but I don’t feel I need medical attention.”

“Medical attention? What happened?” Patton called, emerging from the house with a platter of various snacks.

“Roman was being the idiot he usually is and leapt right on top of Logan instead of just into the water,” Virgil said, swimming back over to lean against the side of the pool.

“Oh my goodness, are you two okay?” Patton said, setting the platter down and rushing over to the side of the pool.

“We’re alright, Patton,” Logan reassured, catching Patton’s hands before they could start fluttering over him in worry. “Neither of us are seriously injured.”

“Good,” Patton muttered, kissing Logan quickly, and then moving on to do the same for Roman. Virgil looked away, trying not to feel bitter. He looked over at his phone, sitting over by his clothes, and debated going over to call Janus and make him get his ass over here.

He missed his boyfriend. How had he gotten so used to seeing him every day so quickly?

The sound of people climbing out of the pool roused his attention, and Virgil saw Patton waving him over for the snacks he’d brought. He pushed himself out of the pool and headed over to eat them, trying to push Janus out of his mind.

“You know, I heard there was going to be a new student coming to school after break is over,” Logan said.

“Ugh, of course you care about stuff like that,” Roman said, rolling his eyes and giving Logan an endeared smile.

“No, there was something about him. His name sounded familiar, but I’m not sure why.”

“What’s his name?” Patton asked, popping a grape in his mouth.

“Um… Ethan, I think. Ethan Baker.”

Virgil’s blood ran cold. “What?”

Logan glanced over at him. “What?”

“Oh my gosh, Logan!” Roman exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say anything? That’s Virgil’s soulmate, you dummy!”

Logan’s confused look cleared. “Oh, that’s why it sounded familiar,” he said. “Well, congratulations, Virgil. Unless it’s a different Ethan Baker, it sounds like you might get to meet your soulmate soon.”

Virgil stood up suddenly and stumbled a few steps back.

“Virgil?” Patton asked, standing up and looking concerned again. “Are you alright?”

“Um,” Virgil said, still moving backwards. “I—”

Roman jumped up. “Virgil, stop, you’re going to—”

The ground disappeared from under Virgil’s feet and his heart leapt into his throat a second before he hit the water, thankfully in a deep enough part of the pool that he didn’t hit his head on anything.

Maybe he could just stay down here and never have to face the reality that Logan just presented him with.

Unfortunately, a hand reached down into the water and pulled him upwards until he was above the surface and looking at Roman’s concerned face.

“Are you alright?” Roman asked, helping him out of the pool and sitting down next to him.

Virgil yanked his hand away and wrapped his arms around himself. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Hey, kiddo,” Patton said, sitting on his other side. “I get it.”

Virgil looked over at him.

“It’s okay,” Patton said, smiling. “Of course meeting your soulmate is scary. I was scared when I met Roman and Logan.”

“You were a kid,” Virgil pointed out.

“And? You’re not allowed to be scared because you’re a little older than I was? Virgil, it’s alright. No one is going to blame you for being scared. You don’t even have to meet him right away if you don’t want to.”

Something in Virgil’s chest lightened at the thought. “I don’t?”

“Well, I wouldn’t conceal it from him,” Logan said, sitting down on the other side of Patton. “You should tell him who you are. But if you’re not ready for a relationship or even a friendship you can tell him that.”

“I can?” Virgil asked, as his heartbeat continued to slow.

“Oh, kiddo, of course,” Patton said, grabbing Virgil’s hand and squeezing it.

“This is your soulmate, Virge,” Roman said, and Virgil glanced over at him. “You’re matched up for a reason. He’s going to understand if you’re not ready. And even if things are bumpy, it’ll be alright eventually. I mean just look at my parents.”

Virgil wasn’t sure what Roman’s parents had to do with anything. Roman had two dads who seemed as in love as any other soulmates Virgil had ever seen.

“Just relax, Virgil,” Roman said with a smile, cutting off his thoughts. “There’s no reason to freak out before you even meet the guy. You don’t know what he’ll be like. Just keep that in mind.”

Virgil leaned forward and rested his head on his knees. “Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll do that.��

“These things tend to work themselves out, kiddo,” Patton said. “That’s what soulmates are all about.”

Virgil’s test tightened again. That’s kind of what I’m afraid of.

…

“Okay, I got your frantic text,” Janus said, pulling himself up into the treehouse. “What’s going on? Why are we meeting tonight when school starts again tomorrow?”

Virgil was grateful in the moment that he must have looked outwardly anxious in his position of being tucked against the back wall with his arms around his knees, because otherwise Janus definitely would have made some kind of joke about him being just that irresistible.

“There’s a new student coming to school after the break,” Virgil said. “Named Ethan Baker.”

Janus shut his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. He clearly knew what that meant. He moved across the treehouse and sat in front of Virgil. “Okay. What do you want to do then?”

“What do you mean what do I want to do?” Virgil asked, staring at him. “Janus, I want him not to come.”

“Yeah. I figured. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s coming. So what do you want to do?”

Virgil didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to think about it, or have to make this decision. He didn’t want his parents to reject him. He didn’t want Patton and Logan and Roman to hate him. He didn’t want to go back to being alone and friendless, and especially not while dating someone who wasn’t his soulmate. He’d be ostracized, and even when he was lonely, he hadn’t dealt with any level of vitriol. But the issue was that, at the same time…

He wanted Janus. He wanted this, stolen nights in a broken down treehouse and day trips over spring break and Janus’ wit and sarcasm and hatred for all things soulmates. He just didn’t know if that want was strong enough to override all of the things that he didn’t want.

“I want…” he said after a moment. “I want to meet him. Who knows, maybe he’s an asshole who can fuck right off.”

“Maybe,” Janus said, in a tone that said ‘hopefully,’ but also in a way that meant he didn’t really believe that.

“Look,” Virgil said. “What I want is to not decide anything before I meet him. Let’s just do things like normal. I’ll see you here on Friday.”

Janus looked at him for a moment, and nodded. He turned as if about to leave, and suddenly Virgil wanted to scream at him to stop. That would have been incredibly stupid, though, so instead he reached out and grabbed Janus’ arm.

Janus turned back to face him.

“What was that you said about wanting to spend a night with me?” Virgil asked, trying on a wobbly smile.

“I meant under different circumstances,” Janus said, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yes, but…” Virgil tried to figure out a way to say Don’t leave me like this without using those exact words.

Janus seemed to read it in his face. “Okay,” he said, and he turned back around, thank god. “But I’m not sleeping in a treehouse.”

Virgil nodded. “Follow me,” he said, and climbed back across the branch into his bedroom, showing Janus where to put his hands and feet.

Janus dropped quietly down into the bedroom after him, and suddenly soulmates were gone from his mind, and the only thing Virgil could think about was that Janus was in his room.

When was the last time he’d cleaned up again?

Janus was smiling as he looked around. “Wow, Virgil, you’re a regular neat freak, aren’t you?”

“Shut uuuup,” Virgil groaned, shoving his shoulder and stepping over various items as he started towards his bed. Janus followed, and toed off his shoes at the edge.

“Here,” Virgil said, taking a short detour to his dresser and handing Janus one of his hoodies and a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. He crawled into bed as Janus changed, and then joined him a minute later, wrapping his arms around his waist. Virgil leaned back against him.

“I set an alarm so I’ll get up and leave,” Janus said.

“Okay,” Virgil murmured. He was quiet for a minute. “Hey Janus?”

“Hmm?”

“I still love you.”

“I love you too,” Janus whispered, kissing the top of Virgil’s head, which made Virgil feel warm in an entirely different way from how he felt after a makeout session. He fell asleep still warm all over.

…

Virgil recognized Ethan by finding his name on his wrist, which really just felt like one more way for the universe to laugh at him. But Logan was right. He couldn’t just hide from Ethan the fact that he was his soulmate. So instead, he walked up and tapped him on the shoulder, feeling like he was sealing his fate.

Which he supposed, in a way, he was.

Ethan turned with a slightly curious smile. “Hello,” he said.

“Ethan Baker?”

Ethan nodded, looking more curious.

“Uh,” Virgil waved his wrist. “I’m Virgil Storm.”

Ethan’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, my goodness!”

“Yeah,” Virgil muttered, trying to make his smile look happier than he felt.

“Well, hi!” Ethan said, starting to smile much wider. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Virgil! I never would have thought—” The warning bell rang overhead.

“Oh, damn that thing,” Ethan muttered, looking up at it. “I wish we had more time to talk.”

“What class do you have?” Virgil asked.

“Uh… Holden. English.”

Virgil tried to smile wider. “Well, I’ve got good news then. That’s my class too. Want to walk with me?”

“Oh, awesome!” Ethan said. “Yes, please! It’s so good to meet you!”

“You too,” Virgil said, falling into step beside Ethan as they started down the hallway.

Come on, Virgil. Give the guy a chance. Maybe this will all work out fine and he is an asshole. Maybe he’s about to say something super dick-ish right now. Here it comes.

Ethan beamed over at him. “I should have known you’d be even more gorgeous than I pictured,” he said.

Goddammit.

…

Ethan wasn’t an asshole, by any stretch of the imagination. Virgil really tried, he tried so hard to hate him. It should be easy, he was an expert at hating people for no reason! He tried twisting all of Ethan’s words and actions into the most despicable light he could manage. But Ethan was just too damn sweet.

He was gentle and caring. His smile could light up a room. He got along perfectly with all of Virgil’s friends. Virgil was pretty sure he tried harder than anything else he’d ever done in his life, but he just couldn’t hate him. Why couldn’t he hate him? Was this the universe fucking with him? Was there some kind of genetic thing that kicked in that made people incapable of hating their soulmates?

Or was Ethan just that fucking nice?

Either way, Virgil couldn’t hate the guy. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. Maybe that was why he was hiding here. Virgil looked up from the stage, glad at least that the auditorium was big as well as empty.

He just couldn’t go back to class, where everyone would be staring at him and Ethan like all of their future problems were solved now. He buried his head in his knees. He wanted to get out of here.

He didn’t register any kind of bell ringing, but one must have, because doors opened and people started coming in, and Virgil remembered that there were drama classes in the auditorium. He jumped up and headed backstage, trying to control his now much worse breathing. He’d be fine, he just had to last until everyone starting doing things and then he could—

“Virgil?”

Of course. Of course he would be here.

“Hey,” Ethan said, coming backstage. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Virgil shook his head. “No,” he choked out. “No, I don’t want—” He yanked his hood over his head and pulled hard on the strings until his face was obscured.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me. Just come here, alright? People are going to be coming back here soon.”

Virgil grabbed onto his hand when it was offered because he didn’t know what else to do, and they ended up in what looked like a prop area underneath the stage.

“Hey, breathe with me, okay? I’m gonna count to four, try and breathe in. It’s okay if you can’t make it all the way there.”

He started doing that, and waited so damn patiently until Virgil finally managed to calm down, and the whole time he didn’t make a single sudden move, and Virgil wished that he wanted him to leave.

When Virgil was breathing normally again, Ethan just smiled gently and leaned back. He didn’t ask a damn thing about what happened. He just said “You okay?” in a way that meant it would be totally fine if the answer was no.

Virgil took a shaky breath and nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered, because Ethan was good at that, and he hadn’t met another person who knew how to do anything like this before he told them.

“Of course,” Ethan said with a nod.

“How did you know what to do?” Virgil asked.

“My little sister gets panic attacks sometimes. I wanted to learn how to help her, so I did some research.”

Virgil nodded. “Guess that’s lucky,” he muttered. He looked up at Ethan. “Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want from this?”

Ethan looked confused. “From what?”

“Me. What are you looking for?”

“Well, a soulmate,” Ethan said, like that should be obvious. “I don’t want to start dating you if you’re not ready, of course, but eventually. I— I like you, Virgil,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck as he started to blush. “I’d love a relationship with you once you’re ready.”

What if I’m never ready, Virgil didn’t say. He shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall behind him.

“Virgil,” Ethan said, and Virgil opened his eyes again. “If you are not ready to date me, we don’t have to date yet. Is that what you’re panicking about?”

“I… don’t know,” Virgil lied.

“I’m not going to rush you,” Ethan said, taking a small step forward. “Or push you. I want to move at a pace we’re both comfortable with, and if that means I have to wait, I’m okay with that. For now, I would be more than happy to be your friend, Virgil Storm.”

Virgil looked back at his soulmate, with the universe stamp of approval. It was the ‘for now’ part of that statement he was going to have issues with. But then again, maybe for now… that would be fine.

…

Virgil’s entire body melted with relief when Janus appeared in the doorway of the treehouse.

“Janus,” he said, climbing up and moving across to meet him. He started to pull Janus down into a kiss, only to be stopped by Janus pushing back a second later.

“Janus?” He stopped moving when he noticed the look on Janus’ face. “Janus, what’s wrong?”

“Virgil, we need to talk,” Janus said.

“Oh, hardly,” Virgil said, starting to smile. “I have good news. Ethan says we don’t have to date if I’m not ready. And I’m not. So…” He leaned up to pull Janus down to him again.

Janus sighed and pushed him back. “Virgil.”

Virgil stopped smiling. “What?”

“Did you miss the not ready part of that sentence?” Janus said, sitting down across from him. “He definitely wouldn’t be comfortable with you dating other people in the meantime.”

Virgil scowled. “I don’t owe him anything.”

“Yes, you do. He’s your soulmate.”

“And since when does that kind of thing matter to you? Part of the whole damn reason you fell for me is because I’m not your soulmate. You hate soulmates.”

“But you don’t,” Janus said, looking firmly at him. “Virgil, I saw you with him. You don’t hate him.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m in love with him! I love you.”

Janus sighed. “Virgil.”

“What?”

“You can’t possibly see yourself falling for him? There’s no chance you could end up in love with him even more than you are with me?”

Virgil leaned back. “What— Janus. It’s not about that.”

“What’s it about then, Virgil? Come on, he seems made for you. That’s what they say soulmates are supposed to be, don’t they?”

Virgil narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care.”

“Oh, so you don’t care about whether or not your family wants you to be with him? Or your friends? Or everyone else?”

Virgil winced. “That’s different.”

“I’m not going to push you into the limelight like that, Virgil. You seem uncomfortable now, when you’re doing what everyone expects of you. If someone found out you were dating me, I…” Janus shook his head, looked more helpless than Virgil had ever seen him before. “I can’t do that to you,” he finished, shifting backwards slightly.

“Don’t you think that should be my decision?” Virgil said, crossing his arms.

“Well, I’m making it. I’m sorry.” Janus stood up and started for the ladder.

“Wh- wait, Janus!” Virgil moved and started climbing down after him, catching his arm before he could run from the backyard.

Janus sighed, then turned and faced him. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll be okay. Don’t try and stop yourself from falling for him, Virgil. I won’t even be a little mad, I promise.”

“Janus, please.” Virgil tried to pull him back, but Janus wouldn’t budge. “What— what if I don’t see you again?”

Janus smiled sadly. “How ever will I last,” he whispered, leaning in one last time and kissing Virgil gently.

The way he did goodbyes.

He pulled his hand out of Virgil’s and ran for the back gate, slipping through it and into the night.

…

When Virgil had no reason to try and dislike Ethan, liking him was much easier. He was sweet, and very cute when he was excited, which tended to happen whenever he talked about theatre, which was his favorite part of school (he got along well with Roman). He knew how to help Virgil if he was panicking, and he took an interest in the kinds of things Virgil liked. Virgil tried so hard to return the favor, but he couldn’t make himself interested for very long. That… that was okay. That would change with time.

For all of Virgil’s fears about what having a soulmate would do to his relationship with Janus, now that the worst had happened, having one actually having one wasn’t so bad. Ethan was easy to care about, and easy to spend time with, even if their interests didn’t always line up. Virgil would fall in love with him. He just needed a little more time.

These things worked themselves out, Patton said. That had to be true.

Virgil’s parents were thrilled to meet Ethan. His mom got along with him really well, and his dad seemed approving, if his smiles and nods to Virgil were anything to go by. His mom was astounded when Ethan mentioned they weren’t dating yet.

“Why in the world not?” she asked, looking over at Virgil across the dinner table.

“It’s just… a big step,” Virgil muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” his mom said, in the way she did when she thought Virgil was being too anxious about something. “I suppose that’s fair. Take your time, of course.”

“It’s not just him,” Ethan said suddenly. “I don’t want to rush things either. We both decided to just take it slow.”

Virgil smiled gratefully at him, glad for the save. Ethan gave his hand a quick reassuring squeeze under the table.

They went up to Virgil’s room after dinner, and Ethan seemed concerned. “Is your mom always that pushy?” he asked, as Virgil shut the door.

“She just… wants me to push myself,” he said. “She thinks I would be more satisfied if I took more risks, went after what I want.”

“What if you don’t know what you want?” Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“And therein lies the main problem in my relationship with my mother,” Virgil sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

Ethan chuckled a little, moving to lean against the wall next to the door.

Virgil worried his lip between his teeth, and looked back at Ethan. “You’re really okay with moving slowly?”

“Virgil, I told you,” Ethan said, smiling genuinely at him. “I want you to be comfortable.”

“You want to be with me though,” Virgil said.

“I… do,” Ethan admitted. “But if you’re not ready for that, I don’t want to rush you.”

Virgil looked at him a moment longer. Ethan wasn’t bad looking. Virgil liked him as a person. Maybe in order to make the switch into liking him romantically, he just had to force it a little.

He took three steps across the room and kissed Ethan square on the mouth. Ethan made a muffled noise of surprise, and Virgil pulled back instantly. Idiot, you need to ask before doing something like that, you moron.

“I’m sorry!” Virgil said, stepping back. “I’m sorry, I just— I—”

Ethan cut him off by reaching up and pulling him back in to kiss him again, and in the moment, all Virgil felt was relief that he hadn’t freaked him out or pissed him off.

He could do this. He’d done this a hundred times with Janus, he just had to… go through the motions. Come on, Virgil. You know what you’re doing.

He pulled Ethan with him as he stumbled back across the room and pulled them both onto his bed, wrapping his arms around his back and trying to push himself a little farther. He’d start feeling something any second now, he just needed to—

“Okay, okay, woah,” Ethan pushed him back, panting. “I need to breathe.”

Virgil leaned back. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no apologies necessary,” Ethan said, grinning at him. “You… you’re very good at this.”

Virgil felt his cheeks grow warm. “You wouldn’t guess, huh,” he muttered.

“Absolutely not a bad surprise,” Ethan said. “It just might be my turn to ask you to slow down a tad.”

Virgil nodded. “Okay. You’ve got it.” He looked down and fidgeted with his fingers. “Want to watch a movie?”

“That sounds nice,” Ethan said, still looking very happy with the situation. Virgil leaned over the side of his bed and grabbed his laptop as Ethan sat up.

It’s okay. It’s okay. You’ll fall for him. You just need a little more time.

…

Time passed, and Virgil didn’t fall for him. He didn’t know what else to do. He tried to come up with something to make it better, some kind of “at least” to work off of. At least Ethan was nice. At least he was pretty. At least everyone else was happy for him. At least Janus didn’t hate him. None of them seemed to work.

Virgil was quickly becoming the soulmate envy of all just like Patton, Roman, and Logan, and feeling absolutely miserable because of it. He hadn’t shown it, of course. He’d beamed at Ethan and kissed his cheek before classes and smiled and rolled his eyes in endearment whenever someone asked him how knowing his soulmate felt.

He couldn’t stand it. He was pretty sure he’d never felt less like himself. But Patton and Logan and Roman all smiled at him like they thought he was happy, and so did his parents, and so did Ethan, so Virgil tried to brush aside the miserable feeling in his chest and fool himself like he’d fooled everyone else.

He hadn’t expected a change to come from Roman. With his general romanticism and his perfect soulmate story, he’d expected Roman to be the last person to be able to tell when someone wasn’t happy with theirs. He’d noticed the occasional suspicious look sent his way by him, but he’d managed to brush it off. He certainly hadn’t expected Roman to say anything.

On the day he did, Virgil had already been feeling pretty shitty. It was around lunchtime, Ethan was sitting next to Virgil and smiling at him as they both ate, riveting them all with a story about what had happened during drama class. Virgil had mastered the art of smiling and nodding along, and that’s what he was doing when he turned at just the wrong time and met eyes with Janus, who looked as miserable as Virgil felt.

His eyes widened when their gazes met, and Virgil tried to think of the last time he’d seen Janus in any way. Janus was very good at disappearing.

As if proving his point, Janus looked away and disappeared into the crowded room like a ghost.

Virgil stood up and pushed his chair back, saying something about going to the bathroom before all but sprinting from the lunchroom.

About halfway to the bathroom he realized that was a mistake, because it was just going to make Ethan come looking for him, so he veered right to head out to the football field. He sat on the bleachers and buried his head in his knees, trying to quiet any of his rushing thoughts.

“You are going to seriously hurt someone.”

Virgil jerked upwards and saw Roman walking up the side of the bleachers towards him, arms crossed and looking firm.

Virgil swallowed, recovering his bearings as Roman stopped in front of him. “What?” he asked.

“Virgil, if you don’t love Ethan you need to tell him that.”

Virgil’s mouth went dry. “What are you talking about, I do—”

“No. You don’t.”

Virgil looked away. “But I have to.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Virgil. You clearly don’t.”

“But he’s my soulmate. What… what else is there?” Virgil asked, like he didn’t know the answer to that question by heart.

Roman didn’t reply right away.

Then suddenly, Virgil was pulled up off the bleachers and into a hug.

“Oh, Virgil,” Roman whispered. “Virgil. There is so much more if you want it.”

Virgil blinked quickly, trying to hold back the tears welling in his eyes. “What?”

Roman leaned back. “Virgil, what on earth made you think that all soulmate bonds have to be romantic?”

“What— but you— but they are,” Virgil insisted. “That’s just how soulmates work.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem very fair,” Roman said, smiling gently. “First of all, aromantic people would be shit out of luck if all soulmate bonds had to be romantic.” Roman’s look turned curious. “I have told you about my mother before, right?”

“Your mother, what— don’t you have two dads?”

“Not always. My mother married my father before she realized she didn’t experience romantic attraction. She ended up divorcing dad, but they’re still close friends. That’s how their soulmate bond works, but my dads aren’t soulmates. And mom lives with Remus. He and I are soulmates, but that’s definitely not romantic.”

“Who’s Remus?” Virgil asked.

“My brother,” Roman said, waving his hand dismissively. “He and mom live a couple districts over. He’ll come over here more often on summer vacation and you can meet him. Point is, soulmate bonds aren’t inherently romantic, nor should they be, in my opinion.”

“But… but you’re in love with Patton and Logan,” Virgil said weakly.

“Because I choose to be, Virgil. The three of us don’t have to be dating. I know that’s what most people tend to do, but it’s not fair to expect that of everyone. What if you don’t want a partner right then? Or ever? What if you fall in love with someone who isn’t your soulmate?”

Virgil’s blood ran cold, and he took a step back, almost stumbling into the bleachers. “Who told you?” he whispered.

Roman’s face fell. “Oh, Virgil,” he said. He moved forward and pulled Virgil into a hug again. “No one told me, Virge. I’m so sorry.”

Virgil’s breathing started to shake, and he pushed himself back from Roman. “I thought— I thought you wouldn’t understand,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Because your soulmate story is so perfect. I thought you wouldn’t—”

“A lot of people don’t,” Roman said quietly. “I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong for being afraid. But right now all you’re doing is hurting Ethan, and yourself, and the other person you love.”

Virgil sat down on the bleachers and buried his head in his hands. Roman, after a moment, sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders.

“I have to break up with him, don’t I,” Virgil muttered.

“I’m not going to tell you what you should do in that regard,” Roman said. “But I think you should strongly consider telling him what’s going on.”

Virgil nodded. “I thought I could make myself love him,” he whispered.

“Love doesn’t work like that, Virgil,” Roman whispered.

“It would be easier if it did,” Virgil muttered.

“Yes,” Roman agreed. “But then you wouldn’t get to have the person you love now. Is that what you want instead?”

Virgil shook his head instantly. He hadn’t wanted to lose Janus in the first place. He didn’t want to trade him for anything.

“Do you want to stay out here for a while?” Roman asked.

“I want you to go get Ethan,” Virgil said firmly.

Roman blinked, seeming surprised. “Right now?”

Virgil nodded. “Yes.”

Roman still looked hesitant. “Are you—”

“I’m sure.”

Roman must have seen he meant it, because a second later he nodded. “Alright. I’ll be back. Um, advice, don’t dance around the subject. Be straightforward and genuine, but also gentle if you can.”

Virgil nodded. “Okay,” he said, and Roman left. Virgil leaned back against the bleachers and took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be fun. It may not be romantic in nature, but he did love Ethan, and he didn’t want to hurt him. He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands again. Why had he thought this would last?

“Virgil?”

Virgil jerked upright and spun around, because that wasn’t Ethan’s voice.

Sure enough, there was Janus, standing just at the edge of the bleachers and looking concerned.

Virgil leapt to his feet. “Where the hell have you been?” he snapped.

“I saw you run off, I wanted to make sure you’re okay—”

“Not what I meant. You completely ignore my texts and then you avoid me at school? You asshole.”

Janus turned his hands upwards, looking a little offended. “What, did you want me to hang around all the time?”

“I didn’t want you to leave in the first place you idiot,” Virgil snapped, jumping down from the bleachers and storming over to stand in front of Janus. “You were clearly miserable on your own.”

“And you were fine,” Janus said, stepping towards him. “I was trying not to be selfish for once.”

“Oh, I was fine?” Virgil said, throwing his hands to the sky. “Janus who’s spent most of these past months avoiding me thinks I was fine. Never mind then.”

“I thought you wanted to do what everyone expected of you,” Janus snapped. “It’s not like you ever wanted to fight for me.”

“Oh, fuck you, Janus! I wanted what everyone expected of me because that made me feel safe.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“No, right now I just want to feel alive again,” Virgil said, moving forward until he was nose-to-nose with Janus. “Which is kind of hard to do considering I’m starting to spend my whole life going through the motions.”

“Why would you need me to change that?”

“Moron,” Virgil said, and pulled Janus into a kiss, desperate and passionate and making up for all of the months he’d been gone.

They both pulled apart when a gasp came from nearby.

Virgil spun around to see Ethan standing at the edge of the walkway leading up to the field.

“Wait,” Virgil said, stepping towards him. “Wait, that’s not how this was supposed to happen. Ethan—”

Ethan spun around but didn’t leave, and Virgil moved across the field until he was right behind him.

“You’re never like that with me,” Ethan murmured.

“I’m sorry, this wasn’t supposed to be how I did this—”

“But you were going to do this. You were going to leave me for him. He’s not even your soulmate.”

“I know. I… I’m sorry. I do love you, Ethan. Just not…”

“Not like I love you,” Ethan said, looking over his shoulder at Virgil.

Virgil winced. “I’m sorry.”

Ethan laughed a little and looked down. “I think I kinda knew it, you know? I just wanted… I wanted to be enough for you. But I was never going to be, was I?”

Virgil started to reach for him, but stopped and dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “You can… you can hate me if you want.”

Ethan looked up at him again. “But you don’t want that.”

“Not everything has to be about what I want,” Virgil said quietly.

Ethan turned to face the school. “I… I’m going now, Virgil,” he said. “I’ll call you if I’m ever ready to talk again.”

“Okay,” Virgil whispered. “Take care, Ethan.”

“You… you too,” Ethan said, and then he walked away.

Virgil watched him until he was gone, and then turned around to face Janus, who was casually looking around back in the middle of the field. He looked back at Virgil when he started walking across to meet him.

“All good?” Janus asked, like he already knew the answer.

Virgil shook his head. “No.”

Janus nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered.

They both looked at each other for a moment.

“Janus?”

“Virgil?”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Janus started grinning, and held out his hand. Virgil grabbed it, and they both started running. They made it to Janus’ car, and both got in, and drove. And drove, and planned to drive some more.

Nothing was fixed. They’d have to come back and face the music eventually. Virgil had to tell Patton and Logan what happened. He’d need to tell Janus about Roman’s parents. They’d have to figure out a way to make this work, actually work, work in the way they both wanted.

But for now, they rolled down the windows, and drove out of the suburbs and out under the open sky. Virgil screamed My Chemical Romance lyrics at the top of his lungs. More than once throughout the drive he checked to make sure no other cars were around and leaned in to kiss Janus’ face off. He had a lot of lost time to make up for, after all.

And now, hopefully, a lot of time to do it.

Part 2

#sanders sides #anxceit #virgil sanders #janus sanders #soulmates #except not really #my fic

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berriusagi · 4 years ago

Text

Stomach Bug Ch2

Dinner Announcement

Should I be writing my geology essay? Yes. Am I going to write it right now? No. Am I instead going to write a new chapter to this fic? Absolutely. Thank you everyone who showed interest in this story it means a lot that people actually like this and to everyone asking to be tagged I’d take a bullet for you. You are all the best.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

The calm collected tone Bruce had during his call did well to hide the absolute madhouse that was Wayne Manor. While he was trying to subtly interrogate his youngest son over the phone his other three were playing the world's worst game of charades. Dick’s arms were flailing around as he made exaggerated motions trying to get a read on what Damian was saying through Bruce’s stony features. Jason was seemed to be working his eyebrows as much as humanly possible seeing if he could get even a hint of a reaction from Bruce. Tim, however, was just patiently waiting too tired to do any of the over the top actions of his brothers.

“Okay son, if you’re sure I’ll speak with Alfred.” Bruce nodded before hanging up and took a moment to compose himself before his sons launched into their own interrogation.

“What’s going on?” Dick asked, “Is little D okay?”

“What’s up with Demon Spawn I’ve never heard him have an emotion other than anger before,” Jason asked leaning forward.

“Why was he at Ivy and Harley’s?” Tim asked sipping his coffee.

“He didn’t say much.” Bruce sighed rubbing his eyes, “he told me he’ll be out for the rest of the day but that he’ll be here at dinner to explain what happened. He’s also bringing a few guests though he wouldn’t give any names.”

The three boys all shared looks before flying out of the room and scrambling through the halls towards the Batcave. Alfred stepping out of the way as they flew past him all shoving each other away or jumping over the other to try and be in the lead.

“They are quite lively this morning.” Alfred hummed walking over to Bruce with a raised eyebrow, “What did I miss?”

“Damian ran out during breakfast after a phone call and won’t be back until dinner he’s bringing three guests. He didn’t tell me more than that.” Bruce sighed leaning back in his seat, “How am I not grey yet Alfred?” he asked

“Must be favorable genetics as it can’t be from your tranquil life.” Alfred mused as he cleaned up the table and headed off to wash the dishes leaving Bruce alone to listen to the distant shouts of his sons fight their way into the Batcave.

~.~.~.~

“Angel, you need to eat something.” Damian said rubbing Marinette's back as she covered her nose turning away from the food set out in front of her, “I know it makes you nauseous but at least eat some toast.” he coaxed grabbing some dry toast and held it up to her.

“Eating is the last thing I want to do right now.” Marinette groaned still a little green from her last round of sickness.

“I know but the baby needs you to eat.” he soothed looking in her eyes, “you need to eat so the baby can be fed.”

Marinette groaned and pushed the plate stacked meats and eggs away from her and leaned back further to get away from the smell. Once her stomach seemed to settle she gingerly took the toast Damian kept insisting upon her eating and took small bites slowly working through it. Her stomach settled further the more she ate allowing her to relax a bit more and a healthier color to finally come to her face.

“Think she’ll be a vegetarian during this pregnancy,” Harley chuckled taking the plate away and deposited the food in the doggy bowls by the door for the two hyenas to come rip through later, “probably for the best for her to not have any meats though might really mess with her stomach.”

Ivy hummed looking through the pamphlets reading up on the different options, “Marigold we should set up an appointment with the OB-GYN Dr. Beau recommended. We should also grab some prenatal vitamins too since you’re not going to be getting enough nutrients from eating like a little bird.”

“I’ll go buy some,” Damian said standing quickly only to get shoved down in his seat a second later by Harley.

“Yeah no,” Harley said grabbing her brag, “That’s just what we need you on the front page, ‘ Wayne Heir spotted buying prenatal vitamins ’ this whole city would be in an uproar trying to figure out who you knocked up. You stay here and keep our little bug comfy we’ll go do the shopping.”

“You’re just going to leave your daughter alone with her boyfriend unsupervised?” Damian asked raising an eyebrow.

“What are ya goin to do? Knock her up?” Harley chuckled raising an eyebrow at the two blushing teens at the dining table. “You two talk, cuddle, be teens and red and I will do the shopping then later we’ll all go to Wayne Manor and act as buffers for marigold here so she doesn’t go catatonic.”

“Thank you,” Marinette mumbled looking up at the two women who so kindly took her into their home and wanted nothing more than for her to grow and be happy, “for everything I can’t thank you enough.” she sniffled scrubbing at her face.

Ivy and Harley both smiled and wrapped her up in another tight hug showering her in love and affection until her sniffles died down once more. The two women pulled back giving Mari kisses all over her face until she was giggling and pushing them away her face flushed with laughter instead of tears. Only once she was smiling brightly again did they finally pull away and leave the two teens alone.

“She’s going to be okay.” Harley smiled slinging her arm around Ivy’s shoulder, “our little marigold is gonna be just fine.” she sighed as they made their way out of the apartment building.

Marinette finished her dry toast sipping on some warm tea to soothe her throat from the torture it had gone through that morning with her stomach issues. Damian cleaned up the discarded dishes and helped Marinette up walking her over to the couch keeping a firm hold on her so she wouldn’t trip over the stray toys littering the floor. “Dami I can walk just fine.” she giggled softly as Damian helped her to sit.

“You’re pregnant I don’t want you to fall.” He said sitting down beside her, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“Walking around the apartment isn’t going to hurt me or the baby.” She sighed leaning on his side, “I might be a klutz but I’m not going to fall that easily. I was Ladybug for three years have some faith in me.” she mumbled closing her eyes all the stress and tension from the morning finally easing off now that she had Damian by her side.

Damian sighed wrapping an arm around her hugging her gently, “I have so much faith in you,” he whispered leaning down to kiss the crown of her head, “I’m just worried about what could all go wrong.”

Marinette sighed sitting up and turned to face him looking up into his emerald eyes, “I don’t want you to worry, I’m already scared I just want you to be the one to tell me everything is going to be okay. That we’re going to be okay.” she said moving forward to bury her face in his chest, “I want to act like this wasn’t an accident and that we’re not two stupid teens.”

Damian wrapped her up in a tight hug pressing a gentle kiss to her temple, “Okay angel,” he mumbled, “I’ll be your rock, we’ll get through this and we’ll be the best parents we can be.”

“That’s all I want.” she sniffled nuzzling closer using Damian's relaxed state to shove him back to lay on the couch quickly climbing up to cuddle up onto his chest burying her face into his neck, “I love you Dami,” she mumbled.

“I love you to angel.” he smiled softly gently running his fingers through her hair to help her relax as she began to slip away into a quiet sleep. He waited until she was fully asleep to allow himself to fully relax and take his time to process just what was happening. “I’m going to be a father.” he mumbled rubbing a hand down his face a soft laugh bubbling up from his chest as he smiled at the ceiling, “Todd’s going to have a stoke.”

~.~.~.~

“How is there nothing?” Dick asked staring at the screen of the bat computer, “That’s impossible there isn’t anything you can’t find.” he said turning to look down at Tim as he tapped away at the keyboard staring intently at the screen.

All three of the eldest Wayne boys had been down in the Batcave for hours scrubbing through phone logs, security feeds, anything and everything to get even a hint of what was to come for dinner. The longer they searched the more interested they got at the sheer lack of anything involving Damian and anyone else that would prompt him to act how he did.

“Doesn’t make sense Demon Spawn doesn’t just change overnight so either he’s just really good at covering his tracks or he’s a clone,” Jason said stretching out in his chair propping his feet up on the desk.

The other two made a humming noise as they continued to search through the documents for what felt like the hundredth time. “Wait!” Dick shouted jolting Tim and Jason nearly out of their seats as he pulled the keyboard from Tim’s grasp and started typing away, “We’re going about this all wrong.”

“And how, pray tell, should we be doing this?” Jason deadpanned looking over at Dick with a raised brow, “We should just go ask Demon Spawn and let him feed us a load of bullshit?”

“I mean clearly he doesn’t want us knowing anything because he buried it so deep but maybe asking him will give us some answers?” Dick said smiling in the face of his two brothers thoroughly unimpressed looks. “Oh come on it’s worth a shot.”

“Master Dick,” Alfred hummed walking down into the Batcave, “Master Timothy and Master Jason.” he nodded looking at the three men, “Our guests will be arriving for dinner soon please head up to the main house to clean up and get ready.”

“It’s time for dinner already?” Tim muttered turning to look at the clock noticing just how long they had been down there looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

“Yes so if you three will make your way to the manor proper.” Alfred nodded turning on his heels and headed back up the stairs so that he could continue with the dinner preparations.

The three men sat in silence for a moment longer before slowly making their way up the stairs. “Well, maybe we’ll get some answers during this dinner?” Dick asked looking at the other two only to receive shrugs in response.

Reaching the top landing they all split and went their separate ways to get ready for dinner taking their time to do their own thing. Soon enough a hard knock was heard through the manor signaling their mystery guests arrival. The three ran down once again shoving and tripping up each other to try and be the first in to see who would come through just narrowly avoiding crashing into Bruce’s back as they slid to a stop behind him.

Alfred calmly walked past them and opened the door, “Good evening Miss. Quinn, Miss. Ivy.” he said stepping aside allowing the two women to enter, “Welcome home Master Damian.” he said bowing his head to him, “and good evening miss?”

“You can call me Marinette.” she smiled softly up at the older gentleman, “I brought dessert,” she added holding out the large pastry box to Alfred trying to hide her nerves.

“Thank you, Miss. Marinette I’ll go put this away now. Dinner will be served shortly I hope you enjoy your stay.” he smiled softly nodding to the three women as he made his way to the kitchen.

“Damian you had us all quite worried when you ran out of here this morning.” Bruce said looking at his youngest and taking a moment to look over the three women before him, “Would you care to explain what happened?”

Marinette started to fidget keeping her eyes on anything but the Wayne’s before her, the soft pressure from Tikki in her purse doing little to keep her heart from beating out of her chest as her mind filled with everything that could go wrong. She managed to relax just a little as she felt the calm warm pressure of Damian's arm settling around her waist gently squeezing her hip to help ground her.

“Father, this is Marinette Isley-Quinzel,” Damian started his features cold and unreadable as he stared his family down, “she is my girlfriend.”

A pin could drop and sound like a gunshot in the silence that followed, the Wayne patriarch did well to hide his shock keeping a blank face as the three sons behind him ticked down to their own detonation.

“How much is he paying you?” Tim shot out.

“Where did you meet?” Dick grinned leaning forward.

“Blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.” Jason cut in.

Ivy and Harley stifled their laughs as they watched the three Wayne boys continue to throw outlandish theories and questions at poor Marinette. She seemed to calm down a small smile beginning to show on her face as she giggled at the two thinking she’d been coerced and the one trying to find out her life story. “He isn’t paying me or forcing me to be his girlfriend.” she smiled as Tim and Jason looked completely unconvinced, “and we met through a penpal assignment when I was thirteen but we didn’t start dating until I was fifteen,” she added on to answer Dick’s question.

“Well it is a pleasure to meet you Marinette it’s not often my youngest shows interest in anyone.” Bruce smiled stepping forward to take her hand, “shall we move to the living room while we wait for dinner?”

“That sounds just lovely Brucie.” Harley smiled stepping through them grabbing Marinette's arm and dragging her along out of Damian’s hold depositing her on a large armchair. Ivy shook her head smiling and followed her as she shrugged at Bruce taking a seat beside Harley on the loveseat as the Wayne’s made their way in. Once everyone was settled in and Damian got Marinette resettled on another loveseat so he could be beside her Harley decided it was a great time to drop the bomb, “So who’s gonna tell him?”

“Harls,” Ivy warned giving her a stern look.

“What? They need to know,” she said looking far too innocent for the chaos she was about to start.

“Tell me what?” Bruce asked looking at the two women carefully.

“Father,” Damian said drawing the attention of his family, “I know you just met Marinette but we feel you should know.” he said wrapping an arm around her to help keep her grounded, “Marinette’s pregnant.”

Silence doesn’t even begin to describe the absence of noise that followed, it was like a cold void swallowed the room as the Wayne’s collectively shut down at the news. Bruce’s face was unreadable as he took in the latest bit of news. Dick was practically vibrating out of his seat his eyes filled with glee. Tim looked as if his own brain was blue screening like a cheap laptop. Jason was the one to break the silence.

“Demon Spawn fucks.” Jason deadpanned

“JASON!” the room erupted from there Harley and Ivy cackling, Dick asking a million and one questions, Tim trying and failing to keep a straight face, and Jason roaring with laughter.

“What?! You’re going to look at me and tell me that I’m wrong?” Jason laughed, “the only thing I’m wrong about is that Demon Spawn would lighten up if he got laid.” he pointed at Marinette grinning wide, “She’s proof that he can fuck and still have a stick up his ass!”

“How long have you known?” Bruce asked his voice calm and collected effectively shutting down all conversation.

“I...” Marinette started her face a little pale from fear as she looked at Bruce’s emotionless face, “I found out this morning. I’ve had morning sickness for the past week.”

“You’re positive it’s Damian's?” he asked

“Father!” Damian glared moving to stand only to be held down by Marinette's small hand on his shoulder.

“I expected this,” she whispered urging him to remain seated before taking a deep breath and looked at Bruce, “I’ve only been with Damian since we began dating. If it’s not him then it’s Jesus coming back.”

Jason snorted getting a wide grin at the joke as he eyed Bruce trying to gauge his reaction.

Bruce seemed to take in everything he’d learned before a small spark lit up his eyes, “I’m going to be a grandfather.” he whispered tension starting to leave the room as he looked at Damian and Marinette pride and joy filling his eyes as he smiled wide, “I’m going to be a grandfather.”

“I call dibs on best uncle!” Dick shouted hopping up racing over to Marinette only to be tripped up by Jason.

“Like hell!” Jason shouted jumping over Dick, “I’m the best uncle for Pixie Pops kid.”

“Pixie pop?” Marinette asked letting out a yelp as Jason got right up to her practically throwing her up in the air as he lifted her from Damian's grasp.

“Hell yeah you’re small like a little fairy.” he grinned holding her as he jumped away from Damian's reach and Dick’s attempts to grab her, “so you’re Pixie Pop.” he chuckled.

The chaos began to unfold as Marinette finally relaxed all the stress bleeding away as she was welcomed into the crazy Wayne household. Ivy and Harley chuckled watching the two eldest and the youngest Wayne’s fight to grab hold of Marinette while Tim and Bruce seemed to quietly come to terms with all that was happening.

“So when’s the baby shower?” Ivy asked grinning wide.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

@myazael @beautiful-disasters-sunshine @moonlightstar64 @moonlitceleste @stainedglassm @casual-darkness @mochegato @ultimatetornshipper @heemsanddamemes @nathleigh @qualitypeacepainter

#daminette #damianette #damidad #mominette #maribat #maridami #ml x dc #teen pregnancy #Stomach Bug

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theweasleysredhair · 5 years ago

Text

One For The Road [S.B.]

Character: Sirius Black

Word Count: 2029

Requested?: Yes/No

Summary: Post-Azkaban Sirius is a jealous guy... especially when it comes to his girl and Snivellous.

Disclaimer: Gif isn't mine, credit to whoever made it

A/n: I hope the requester enjoys! (requests still open, feel free to send some my way!) also yes I only named this fic ‘one for the road’ bc of the arctic monkeys song

+ + + + +

“Do you have to go back to Hogwarts this year?” Sirius groaned as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his head on your shoulder as you tried to wash the remaining pots.

“I reckon so, being a teacher and all,” you laughed, placing a pan on the drying rack. He nuzzled his face into your neck, his long hair tickling as he placed a soft kiss there.

“I’m going to miss you.”

You’d been waiting for this. Sirius hadn’t really made any comments about you having to leave, even though he and you were aware that you’d be away most of the school year, just like Harry would be. You had begun to worry about him being alone in Grimmauld Place again, especially after being around people constantly over the summer holidays.

You dried your hands on the tea towel and spun around in his arms to face him, “I’m going to miss you too. But you know you can write, and I’ll write too, and Christmas will be here before you know it. It’s only four months away.”

Sirius pushed his lips against yours for a moment, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you closer to him. You responded immediately, kissing back and wrapping your arms around his neck. “That’s four months too long, love,” he mumbled against your lips as he pulled away a couple inches.

“It’ll fly by, I promise. Remus said he’d stay with you in the meantime so you’re not here alone. I hate thinking about you here, especially with that bloody painting... I just want to take you with me.”

“I’ll happily jump into one of your suitcases love, just say the word and I’ll do it.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you grinned as you turned back to washing. You were just placing the last pot on the drying rack as people started arriving at the house. You placed the tea towel on the counter and slowly pulled away from Sirius’ arms - much to his dismay - to greet Remus, who was followed closely by Tonks.

“Wotcher, Y/n!” Tonks greeted as she pulled a chair out at the dining table. “Hi Tonks!”

“How are you doing, Y/n? Ready for work?” Remus asked, taking his own seat at the dining table. “I’m not doing bad, I’m half packed for the next term, still got a few bits I need to sort out but I’ll get there. You’d think I’d be a dab hand at this by now but I still end up forgetting something every year,” you said with an airy laugh and a shrug, leaning against the counter.

The sound of Walburga Black screaming in the hallway made all of you look over, Sirius sighing dramatically as he left the room to go shut her up - although not before giving your bum a cheeky squeeze, causing you to swat at him with the damp tea towel and making him chuckle.

He returned a few minutes later with Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad Eye, Arthur Weasley and Bill Weasley, who were followed closely by Severus Snape - an old school mate and colleague of yours - and finally Dumbledore.

You greeted them all with a smile, taking a couple of steps over towards Snape, who you chatted with for a small while about the year to come at Hogwarts. At some point, Sirius had sidled up to you and threw an arm around your waist not-at-all subtly, making you roll your eyes playfully at him. You turned to Arthur instead.

“No Molly today?” You asked him. He shook his head, “No no, not today, she’s with the rest of the kids, getting ready for Hogwarts. Thought it best she keep an eye on them all.” You nodded understandingly.

The rest of the meeting went off without much drama, besides the glares you saw Sirius shooting over at Snape, but that was to be expected by now, what with the whole hatred thing they had going on. You didn’t really understand it, even back when you were all at Hogwarts yourselves. And whilst you didn’t agree with the way he treated Lily the last time they spoke, you’d never personally had a bad experience with the man, and actually got on well at Hogwarts - or as best you could, anyway.

When everyone had finally left a couple of hours later, you decided to continue packing for Hogwarts, knowing it would be worse to try and rush the morning of your travels.

As you placed some of your final items into your last trunk, you turned to Sirius, who was stood in the doorway of his - or rather, your shared - bedroom, leaning against the frame with his arms folded across his chest.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet, what’s up love?” You asked, raising an eyebrow worriedly. “Nothing,” he replied, not quite meeting your eyes.

You smiled to yourself and walked the short distance over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and making him automatically rest his on your hips. “Is this about Severus? Because you know I’ve told you to ignore the things he says,” you said brushing your nose against his. “Snivellous,” Sirius spat his name out, “Can say what he wants about me. What I don’t like is when he’s so close to you.”

“Ohh, you’re jealous!” “I’m not jealous.” “You’re so jealous! Oh Godric, I never even realised. Oh love, you know I adore and love you and no one else, you don’t have to worry about him. He’s just someone I have to work with. No one could hold a candle to you,” you said, closing the small gap between you and pressing your lips to Sirius’. He kissed back easily, spinning you round so you were pinned between him and his bedroom wall. “You promise?” He mumbled against your lips. “I solemnly swear it,” you teased with a laugh, finally making him crack a smile, “I’ll be back before you know it, don’t you worry.”

***

It had been nearly two weeks since you’d arrived back at Hogwarts. The students were starting to settle back in, as were the staff, and honestly you loved being there, loved your job. Sure, it was disheartening sometimes when you couldn’t see Sirius but the smiles on your students faces made up for some of it.

You’d just owled a reply to the first of Sirius’ letters for the school year, wanting to update him on your first couple of weeks back. You were also worried about him, knowing he hated being stuck in Grimmauld Place, especially when he was alone. You’d also happened to mention Snape’s idea of starting a duelling club, and how excited you were to be a part of it, loving the idea of teaching the students more magic. What could be better?

A couple of days later, you were sat in your classroom, a pile of students’ essays sat in front of you as you marked them. This was the part of teaching you didn’t like as much, but it was nice to know that nearly every student you taught had handed something in, and most were to a high standard. Not a huge surprise, considering many of your students adored your lessons, but the response was still nice to see.

You were lost in your work, when suddenly there was a knock at the door that made you look up, “Oh Professor L/n?”

Although you couldn’t help the smile that was fighting to show on your face, you exclaimed, “What are you doing here?! You could be seen - are you mad?”

The dark haired man stepped inside and closed the door behind him, “Of course I’m mad, I spent 12 years locked away. But anyway, I just came to visit my lovely girlfriend at her amazing job.”

You moved around your desk to give him a hug, “You must be careful, I can’t have anyone seeing you - did Dumbledore agree to this?”

Feeling Sirius chuckle under your embrace, you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.

“Of course not. I never asked permission. I just missed you.”

“I missed you too! It’s only been two weeks as well,” you said with a grin as you pulled away slightly to look up at him, however still staying in his arms.

“A very long two weeks. I don’t think I’m going to make it until Christmas without seeing you, I just felt I had to come and see you, I missed your pretty face.”

You looked at his ‘innocent’ face and squinted your eyes, before scoffing with amusement, “Bullshit... you were jealous weren’t you? Of Severus? Because I mentioned him in that letter?” “Of that greaseball? No way,” he shook his head but you could tell he was blatantly lying.

“You do realise I love you and only you right?”

“I know, I know. You always say and show it and I’m so lucky to have you. I just... I’m so scared you’ll realise you deserve better,” he sighed, looking down as he gently squeezed your hips, “I mean... you deserve someone who can take you out on dates and show you off to the world! I can’t do that, I’m just an old fugitive.”

“I don’t care about all that, I don’t want someone else, I want you. I deserve you and you deserve me. I love you, Sirius, and I wouldn’t change you for the world. You’re a fugitive because the ministry were incompetent - as always - with handling the entire case, but regardless, I don’t care. No one, not Severus, not anyone could take me away from you. I waited for you because I knew you’d escape and I knew you’d come back to me because we love each other. I always have, from way back when you were a bloody heartthrob and girls chased you. You used to tell me that none of them mattered because they weren’t me. Now it’s my turn to tell you that no other guy matters because they’re not you. I love you so bloody much.”

You pushed your lips to his, kissing him passionately and with as much love as you could pour into it. He kissed back, lifting you up onto your desk and nudging the papers out of the way as he stood between your legs, one hand squeezing your thigh as the other cupped your cheek. He tilted your head to deepen the kiss, licking across your bottom lip as you parted them to allow him access into your mouth. “I love you,” he mumbled between kisses. “I love you too.”

You didn’t know how long you were there, all you knew was that you were thankful no one had tried to walk in on you both - although you weren’t sure you would have noticed if they had. You ran a hand through his hair and pecked his lips again, “As much as I want to keep you here, you probably need to go before you get caught!”

“What if I don’t care?”

“I do care, I want you to spend Christmas with me, so please make sure you get home safe,” you said.

“Fine, fine, I’ll see you again at Christmas, counting down the days!” He stepped backwards, before quickly kissing your swollen lips again and then reluctantly beginning left the room.

“See you then, my love,” you called after him, receiving a loving smile in return. You just about caught a glimpse of him turning into his dog form before you took a deep breath, going to sit back down at your desk to continue marking the papers.

You’d just written down an “O” on one of them when a head popped round the door of your classroom. You looked up, expecting a fellow teacher or perhaps a student, instead being met with the cheeky grin of your Sirius Black.

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, he beat you to it, his grin turning easily into a smirk as he said, “I don’t suppose I could have one more kiss for the road?”

And well... when he looked like that, who were you to deny him?

#sirius #sirius black #sirius x reader #sirius black x reader #sirius imagine #sirius imagines #sirius black imagine #sirius black imagines #post azkaban sirius #post azkaban sirius x reader #post azkaban sirius black x reader #post azkaban sirius imagine #post azkaban sirius black imagine #marauders #marauders x reader #marauders imagine #marauders imagines #harry potter #all queue have to do is follow the spiders

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