#this i s late i said id write it last week but school began an d i literally died

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Guardian of creatures; AU! Queen x reader chap. 1

*Author’s note*

Well it took awhile from the last update (plus things have been happening in my personal life like losing yet ANOTHER kitty cat this year) but I finally came around and deliver to you guys the first chapter of my new Hallowqueen series. Now keep in mind it’s mostly in 2nd PERSON POV which means as the reader it’s basically gender neutral, so be patient with me as I try to make sure to keep my pronouns in order. Also I hope you all watch the video I have linked in the story, I def. LOVED it when I first found it years ago and this guy can really sing and bring a gender-bend Disney character to life, so if you’ve never heard of him, check out his page you won’t regret it :)

Now not really any warnings per-say except rude bosses, seductive gestures, 

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@ixchel-9275​

@simonedk​

@queensdivas​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

@dancingcoolcat​

@queendeakyy​

@kinole009x​

@klausidiot​

@geek-and-proud​

__________________________________________________________

Chapter 1,

First day on the Job

*April 11th, 1926*

First day on the job.  Well it’s really an internship but you were looking forward to it.  Working for the New York Times was an opportunity for any writer.  Your dream was to one day publish the next great American novel, as a child you’ve always been whisked away by the words and tales of dragons, sea-baring pirates, and worlds unlike the one you lived in.

It amazed you how one writer can just take you away on a journey and help distract you from the stresses of the world.  And here is where your journey began in hopes of accomplishing that dream.

You had first heard about the internship for the NY Times in the papers in an advertisement.  The call asked for a 300 word sample of your writing as well as any previous writing experiences you’ve had in the past.

In school you’ve been part of the school newspaper and helped write up advertisements for after school events.  So after submitting your sample as well as a resume, about 2 months later you finally got a letter from the NY times wanting to do an interview.

Long story short, the interview went great and now you’ve got the internship.  You now stood before the doors that would start your future in the world of writing. Tugging the strap of your suitcase over your shoulder, you take a deep breath in before exhaling and entered inside.

Already swarms of people flooded the first floor of the building, their voices echoing off the large room.  The repeated sounds of phones ringing piercing the room as secretaries at their desks were answering them.

It felt like a dream to you for you to actually think that you were now working in one of the top Newspapers brands in all of America.

“You there!” a voice called out.  You turned and saw a young man in a brown suit. “Why are you just standing there!? We are running a newspaper here, not a charity tour.”

“Sorry, I’m….my name is (y/n) (l/n). I’m the new intern to Mr. Grayson.”

“Ohh right. He’s been expecting you. You’re late by the way.”

“Late? But I’m right on……”

“One rule about working under Mr. Grayson, he expects his interns and anyone on his team to arrive before he does. Which is 6am on the dot. And it is now,” he looks down at his watch, “8:45. That’s a good start.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t tole. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

“See to it that it doesn’t. I’m Harry Wormwood, Vice President of the New York Times.”

“Oh Mr. Wormwood it’s an honor to—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just get up to your post and start your internship.”

“Yes sir.” You said solemnly.  Wow he was rude.  To think you have a VP like him that acts like that around new people, especially interns.  But he was right, you had to get up to meet with your head of office and get right to work with whatever he needed help on.

You adjusted your bag once more before heading straight to the elevator and went up to the 13th floor.  After a bit of a ride and getting some more people in the elevator with you, you finally arrive to your floor.

People, like down in the first floor, were swarming the room, typewriters were tapping away as men were at their desks typing away their stories and articles for the paper.  Or as they like to call it ‘putting the paper to bed’.  You walk forward towards a middle aged man with ginger colored hair and ask him.

“Excuse me, do you know where Mr. Grayson’s office is at?”

“In the back, straight down the hall, last door. It’ll have his name plagued on the door in gold.” He said without looking you in the eye.

“Great, thank you.” you followed his instructions but when you got to his door, there was sounds of a commotion going on.  Well when you say that you mean the sound of someone yelling and belittling someone, then yes.

“YOU GODDAMN SONS OF BITCHES!!! If we can get a picture of Joan Crawford in lingerie, then we can surely get a hold of this damn jazz club!” you peek inside and inside you see four men surrounding a desk.

And right there at his desk with a cigar between his teeth was your new boss, Mr. Richard Grayson.  He was a middle aged man around his late 40’s possible even early 50’s. He was a fairly tall man with greying short hair, a small mustache across his lip.

But what really made him well known was the way he carried himself.  He was always described as a man who carried himself like a drill sergeant (that could be because he was one during the Great War).  A true, Bronx accent that carried out demands for miles and miles on end.

“Sir, we have tried everything we could to get a hold of an interview inside but not even our best interviewers could get pass security.” Said a blonde haired man in a blue suit.

“Our photographer Eddie has been on it for weeks and the owners have threatened a lawsuit against him because he’s been taking pictures of the club without consent.”

“Aww what are they shy?” Mr. Grayson mocked out. “Then let them sue us then, get rich on their own standards! That’s what made this country stand the way it is!”

“Maybe we should just forget about it.” Said a brown haired man.

“I have been on this case for years. Ever since these mysterious owners built their club at the start of the decade and has remained popular I want to know just what the secret to their success.”

“Sir the only thing we have is that the owners come from England and that they prefer a specific crowd of people.” Answered a young man around your age who had black hair.

“Yeah right they do.” Mr. Greyson muttered sarcastically. That’s when he suddenly turned towards you. “You!” he pointed at you.  You’re startled by his loud, strong voice as you quickly come inside his office.

“Sorry sir I-I-I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I really should’ve knocked.”

“You’re the new intern right?” he ignored your apology and went straight to the question at hand.

“Y-Yes sir.”

“Excellent. I want you to go to this night club and get an exclusive interview with the owners, bartender, musicians, I don’t care who. Just find someone to talk to and ask them about their Jazz club.”

“Sir you can’t give it to them. This is a big responsibility, not to mention too much for a fresh intern to take over.” Said the man in the brown suit that you saw first speak to Mr. Grayson.

“Shut it Mack! You remember what I had you do the first day you were late working for me. What better way to get started than by throwing fresh meat to the wolves.”

Can you say you regret working here yet? No too early? Okay then.

“So what do you say kid, will you do it?” before you could even answer, your boss continues, “Of course you’ll do it. Now then. Take this camera, your notepad, and come up with a clever story to get inside. Good luck kid!” he tosses you a camera and notepad before escorting you out of his office and shutting the door behind you.

Okay……what the fuck just happened? It all happened so fast you almost couldn’t even believe it.  And what jazz club did he want you to check out again?

Later that night (after getting the information from some of your new team members) you now stood before the building you were supposed to go undercover for.

In a bright neon sign at the side of the building was the name BEWITCHED JAZZ.  Now you have heard of this club before and remember it getting fairly good praise from the public and has a good swarm of people.  Hell even some of the biggest names in Hollywood have been seen going into that club.

But there was always an air of mystery about it.  Like Mr. Grayson said, security is always tight. First of all security actually gives you a pat down before entering inside.  Any traces of photography or recording equipment is immediately destroyed (yes you heard, destroyed).

Thinking it’d be best, you decide to leave the camera in your car and just wait it out.  Cause that seems to be the problem that most of Mr. Greyson’s reporters don’t seem to get, they just think barging on in will get them access.  A good reporter always plans ahead and blends in with the crowd, observes then goes in for the kill.

You stand in the line and for about an hour you stand there waiting to get inside until finally it’s your turn to go up.

“Next.” A very tall and muscular man speaks out as he unhooks the rope allowing you to come forward. “Pardon but I’m gonna need to do a pat down.”

“Go ahead.” As he carefully and precisely starts the pat down, you can’t help but feel intimidated, hell his whole hand goes halfway down your leg and covers your entire back.  He was a pretty intimidating man to look at, and you hope he doesn’t snap you like a toothpick.

“Now you don’t have any weapons or outside drinks that I’m not aware of?” he asks in that deep, deep baritone voice of his.

“No sir.” You answer.

“Show me some identification.” You pull out your wallet and give him your ID.  He looks down at it before looking towards you skeptically.

Swallowing nervously, the giant just looks at you with a skeptical look before finally giving you back your ID.

“Go right on in.” what? Oh god you couldn’t believe you could actually go in.  You take your ID and put it back inside your wallet and thank the guard before stepping inside.

It was a fairly big place, about 3000 sq. ft. A decent size of the typical jazz clubs in NYC.  It looked like any ordinary jazz club, firefly lights hanging from the ceiling, the lights lowered to a slight shadow, tables surrounding everywhere, including each side of the catwalk.

A grand stage was at the very center of the building with a band playing an upbeat jazz score.  Waiters and bartenders tending to each customer.  Some people were dancing to the music while most were sitting down talking to one another.

“Wow.” You softly muttered.

“It’s alright but we make do.” A voice suddenly spoke up. You jump back startled but you stop as you stare at the man before you.

He was unlike any other man you’ve seen in your entire life. He was fairly tall and lean, but not unhealthily skinny, just lean.  His eyes were almost a hypnotic blue and he had fairly sharp features, particularly his nose and even his profile.

It was like looking at an angel.  But what really struck your attention was the curly hair he had.  It reminded you of that one scientist from like the medieval ages or something, what was his name again uhh—Neutron? New—Newton! Isaac Newton that’s the guy.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No it’s—it’s fine. I’m just…..I was just admiring the place. I’ve…..never really been to a jazz club before.”

“Well, I hope we here at the BEWITCHED can help fill your desires. Oh manners, I’m Brian. Head Bartender.” Head bartender? That’s new.

“What’s a head bartender?”

“Basically I run the bar and train all the other bartenders so that every drink is made to perfection. Now come, sit and let me prepare you something.” He does a gentle gesture towards the bar with his arm and you go to sit at an empty cushioned barstool.  Wow this was really cushioned, it kinda reminded you of sofa material. Now so soft that you sink into it but not hard enough to where it’s uncomfortable.

Brian goes around the bar and stands before you and asks with a warm smile and says with that soft voice of his that you can somehow hear over the music.

“Now what can I get for you?”

“Actually I’m…..don’t really know my drinks that well, what’s your most popular one?”

“Well the most popular drink on our menu is French 75. A pretty basic cocktail made with gin, champagne and lemon. I think the main reason why people like it so much is they think it’s actually from France but in truth it really isn’t.” he teases the last part of his statement which makes you softly laugh. “There’s also the Bees Knees, also called our ‘bathtub gin’. Mainly from our pianist player. But that’s basically gin, fresh lemon juice and honey. To give it that sweet yet tart flavor.”

“I think I’ll go with the Bee’s Knees then.” He gave a snap of his fingers.

“Coming right up.” He pulls out a small circular bowl wine glass and with graceful precision he starts whipping up the drink.  Shaking the cocktail up in a perfect blend, pouring out the right amount of gin and juice into the concoction.  Before finally topping it off with some honey and stirred it up.

Then with a grace and delicate pour, he pours the Bee’s Knees, which comes out in a beautiful, clear sunset orange color into the glass before topping it off with two flower decoration toppings.

“Here you are.” He said as he picked it up delicately from the stem of the glass and handed it over to you.  You set down a dollar and took a small sip of it.

And as soon as your tastebuds were washed over with the drink, it was like you had died and gone to heaven.

“Oh my god! This is sooo good!”

“I’m glad you like it. That’s actually one of the owner’s preferred cocktails of choice. Can’t get enough of it.”

“I can see why. And he certainly has good taste.”

“She does. Actually.” Wait did he just say.  I quickly looked up at him and I stammered.

“Wait—you mean this……”

“It’s a partnership. Both she and her husband own the place. She makes most of the decisions since she knows the business world better than any of us. While he takes care of the finances, she’s always been lousy when it comes to the math. Don’t tell her I said that though.”

“My lips are sealed.” You say as you take another sip of your drink.

The curtains then close and a spotlight came on at the center of the curtain.  That’s when you suddenly hear all the ladies in the room beginning to scream bloody murder. God never have you heard so many women scream before nor have you seen them try to get up to the stage so quickly in your life.

“Here they go again.” Brian says as he starts cleaning out a beer glass.

“What?” you ask.

“Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night when my mate preforms, the ladies all go crazy at the chance of getting to him.”

“Mate? You mean you guys are…..” you ask curiously.

“Oh no nothing like that. Where we come from mate means best friend. But even though I don’t condone his constant flirtatious behavior, he’s gotten me out of more scraps than I care to imagine.”

Peeking through the velvet blue curtain was an arm.  The red glittering sequin pattern delicately bounced off the spotlight and soon a hypnotic, soft yet raspy voice began to sing. When the curtains opened up and a soft jazz tune began playing, on stage stood a very, very, very, very handsome man.

When you say handsome, you really mean handsome.  This man looked like he was carved from the god with his ruffled up blonde hair, his piercing blue eyes that unlike Brian’s which were soft and inviting, this guy had hypnotic eyes that just draw you in and could kill you.

He wore a bright sequin cherry red tail suit which was unbuttoned pretty much all the way down, exposing his upper body to the ladies.  His neck decorated with 3 necklaces.  One of which went practically down to where his abs were, the other hung right at the center of his chest and was in the shape of some sort of snail shell or some other type of seashell.  The last one was more of a choker but was decored with beautiful diamonds like a crown of sorts.

He strut across the stage with grace and purpose as he continued to sing with a lustful, hypnotic tone that just made you go numb and melt in your seat.  And your eyes refusing to look away from this handsome creature before you.

*Male singer*

I got plenty money in 1922 You let other rich men make a fool of you Why don't you do right like some other gals do?         

He kneels down in front of the stage in front of a beautiful young woman.  She had long, wavy blonde hair and she looked up at this man with lust in her eyes.  He placed a dollar bill between her teeth and closed her mouth as he walked down the steps of the stage.

        He then walked over towards a woman with short raven hair.  She was fairly lean and had almost an aristocratic air about her.  He stood in front of her and took her hand in his.  He leaned towards her hand almost wanting to kiss the back of it, but his lips teased her hand and you could see her slightly shiver past her authorative demeanor.

With a cunning grin, he then stripped his tailcoat off his back leaving the undercoat which exposed his bare arms, the hint of black ocean waves tattoos decorated around his biceps.

You couldn’t speak at this point as you felt our heart racing rapidly, almost as if it were about to pop right out of your chest. The man soon turned his eyes right on you.  His piercing eyes staring deep into your soul.

Slowly walking towards you, he circles around you like a wolf circling it’s prey.  His hand gently grazes up your arm and you feel a bolt of electricity run up your spine, and it didn’t help when his hot breath gently sung in your ear.

Let’s get out of here, I got some money for you

You're sittin' down wonderin' what it's all about If you ain't got no money they will put you out Why don't you do right like some other gals do? Let’s get out of here, I got some money for you

Now if you had prepared twenty years ago You wouldn't be wanderin' now from door to door Why don't you do right like some other gals do?          You didn’t know why but you were willing to let this god-like siren just devour you. But when you turned your attention back to him, you saw that he was now looking towards you left at the upper floors.

        There at the top of the red carpet stairs stood a fairly beautiful woman. Her hair was a beautiful long ginger color and she wore a similar sparkling dark cherry red dress.  She held in her hand a silver dollar.

        He slowly walked up towards the mysterious woman that stood by the stairs and the two stared each other down.  She gave him the dollar but before she took her hand away, he took it in his and stared up at her like she was an angel (which you’ll admit, she did kinda look like one).

Let’s get out of here, I got some money for you

Let’s get out of here, I got some money for you Why don't you do right, like some other gals, do?

As he did a falsetto for the final note, he grazed the woman’s hand before doing his seductive walk back towards the stage. He turned back towards the audience and gave a flirtatious wink before the curtains closed on him.

The ladies all screamed as the lights came back up and you felt the spell the man had somehow placed on you slowly fade away.  Right now if you had to describe how you were feeling it’s be like running a marathon and had just swam across the entire Pacific ocean twice.

“Hope he didn’t scare you too bad honey.” A soft, Southern accent spoke.  You turned around and there stood the woman that the blonde singer had tried to seduce with his voice.  But she didn’t seem affected like all the other women were.

“I-I ju……he was……” she lowly chuckled.

“He has that effect on all the ladies. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Brian dear, get this dear a glass of water.”

“Right away my lady.” Brian said as he prepared you a glass of water.  She takes a seat beside you and continues.

“He may act all macho and seductive. But trust me, his bark is worse than his bite.” She spoke in that honey-like voice of hers that had a slight raspy to it, but it didn’t change the softness to her motherly tone.

“Who—who was he?” you ask her.

“He only gives out his name to those he truly trusts. So most of the ladies here call him the blonde Siren.”

“The blonde Siren?”

“Now I hope I’m not being intrusive but I haven’t seen you in this club before, have I?”

“No. This—is my first time actually.”

“Really? For business or pleasure?” she said as she leaned her chin against fist, looking at you with red eyes? Wait she had red eyes? And not like the kind of red that comes from being tired or when you get pink eye.  They were literally red eyes, blood red to be exact.  Not wanting her to see that you were stuck in thought you came up with a good excuse.

“I’ve just heard about this place from some friends and—wanted to see for myself.” She looked at me skeptically at first but a soft grin spread across her face.

“Well we try our best. We also want to make sure that first timers are treated fairly and respectfully. That’s the one law here at BEWITCHED.”

“Well I’m fairly happy. The drinks are amazing and the music is phenomenal.”

“I’m glad.” She then hummed out a chuckle. “Silly me, I almost forgot, you can call me Serafina. I’m the owner of this fine establishment.” Your eyes widened.

This young and beautiful woman owned this entire place?! But she couldn’t be older than her mid 20’s.  And the fact that she was a woman running this club, that’s completely unheard of.  A woman owning such a booming business.

Of course there wasn’t any jealously on your part.  In fact you were amazed that such a young woman could run a business like this and be so successful.

“Brian told me that a woman owned this place. But—pardon me for saying this but you’re…….”

“Too young to run a big business?” she said with a quirked brow. Thinking you had offended her you tried to defend your statement but all that came out were stutters of embarrassment. “Relax honey. I get that a lot. Why do you think we’re so secretive? A young woman running a big business. Oh the scandal of it all!” the two of you laugh.

The big clock along the ceiling soon chimed out midnight. Whoa it’s already that late.

“I should get going. If I’m late for work again my boss will kick me to the curb for sure. And on my second day no less.”

“You sure you’re sober enough to drive honey?” Serafina asked you.  You give her a nod.

“Yeah. I only really had one drink and that water sobered me up a lot. Thank you so much Brian, Serafina.”

“Anytime sweetie. Hope to see you again soon.” Serafina says with a warm smile.  You grab your wallet and pay the rest of your tab to Brian before finally walking out of the club.

*3rd Person POV*

Once they were gone, Brian turned to her and said.

“It was them.”

“Just as Freddie prophesized.” Serafina dropped her fake accent and spoke with her normal British tone.

“So it is time then?” another British male voice spoke up. The High elf and the ginger haired witch turned and soon walking towards them was John Deacon himself.

His once long hair was now cut down to a short tuff of brown hair. He wore a clean-cut black tailcoat suit. Serafina extended her hand and the two lovers joined hands with each other.

“Yes my love.”

“Honestly I hoped this day would never come.”

“But it must John. You know this. You have seen what will happen if they don’t help us.” Brian warned him.

“I’m not sure if we can even trust them.” Coming around the bar to pour himself a drink was Roger. “They’re human. And humans have been poking around in our business for centuries. Especially their reporters. We already run the risk of exposing ourselves to the human realm.” He took a shot of his beer.

‘Now, now my darlings we mustn’t quarrel.’ A soft, serpent voice spoke in their heads. ‘The humans are our least concern right now. What matters now is getting our key to help us finally put an end to the dark Wizards once and for all.’

“Yes Freddie.” All four of them softly chorused out.

[goodnightallwhites]

Welcome to the Blackworth Family By BlackingPacking

Welcome to the Blackworth Family 

By BlackingPacking 

Submitted: December 9, 2019 Updated: December 10, 2019 

Blackworth Home is one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country. A boarding school where the students are a family. 

That's not why Ashley went there though. She went there because She's an eager young snowbunny who needs to go to the only school that lets her have all the big black cock she could ever want. 

A discord request. 

Provided by Hentai Foundry.

Chapter 1 - I go to a Blacked school 2 

Chapter 2 - I watch Dorothy get Blacked 8 

1 - I go to a Blacked school 

I spent most of my time at home in my room, behind the tall, artificial wood door that read ‘ASHLEY’ in big letters. The room wasn’t much. It was square with light blue walls, a bed right opposite from the door with a shelf on its left and a chair on its right, and my desk for homework in the corner. Nothing much fun. 

It was just another feature of my family’s plain, boring little suburban home, with a boring life forced onto me. 

I tried to have my fun of course. I kept in touch with as many friends as possible, spent plenty of time online, and even got a boyfriend. My best friend in the world was Dorothy, a girl I loved so much, most people thought we were lesbians. Not that we didn’t have our fun, but I still love dick. Well, at least as a concept. My boyfriend had a 3 inch little shrimp dick, complete with a hentai collection and getting turned on by the Human Centipede. Why I stayed with him I didn’t know. I didn’t even spend much time with him, and he wasn’t my type. What I really needed was someone more... rebellious. I was a bit of a troublemaker. I didn’t behave for teachers or parents and I skipped school often. I’d even watch porn. People said I looked like Riley Reid, but with bigger tits. I even experimented with a few drugs and got all slutty at parties, but that was a secret for only Dorothy and me. 

Dorothy was even more of a slut than I was, despite her smaller tits. I sure loves the occasional sexytime with her. A shame, though, that her ditching school and porn viewing was less safe than mine. She got caught, bad. Now she was at some boarding school, year round. It sounded awful. 

That’s what I thought, at least. 

But then, in the mail one day, I got a letter from her. Well, technically it was a few days late, since neither of my parents bother to get the mail. Still, I was surprised to get the formal letter, reading 

BLACKWORTH HOME FOR TROUBLED STUDENTS 

I opened the letter. To my shock, the first thing I saw inside were... polaroid pictures? 

Yeah, about half a dozen polaroid pictures, all with Dorothy’s tight holes by some of the biggest dicks I’ve ever seen. All the guys were black, with freakishly huge cocks. I thought cocks like that only existed in porn, and that my boyfriend’s penis was just average. But nope, those black cocks were real. Plenty looked way bigger than in porn too. 

I just had to read what she actually sent. The letter read: 

Dear Ashley, 

I’ve missed you here! I’m sorry that I haven’t been writing or texting or calling but it’s been so much fun here! I’ve totally converted to big black cock! And I want you to too. I hope you aren’t dating that 

little loser anymore but if you are you’d better stop RIGHT NOW because I’m about to change your life. 

As a fellow white girl you should really consider what nature intended...let me tell you about how great it is to be a true snowbunny. A snowbunny can help save other white girls from disappointing relationships with white guys, nature truly intended for black men to rule over us. White boys have no place here in the ideal world us girls must forge a path and share our knowledge with other girls and together we can all worship and achieve happiness with our black masters,your body should help breed more black men we need to get rid of gross white boys together. When they are all gone the world will be perfect and we can all feast on black cock. 

I’ve filled out an application for you, so don’t worry about having to bother. You deserve this, I know I did. 

XOXO, 

Dorothy 

Attached to it was an acceptance letter from Blackworth Home. 

I didn’t tell my parents about the letter or the pictures, but I was eager as fuck to tell them about the whole boarding school thing. It seemed like a sort of fantasy, going to a school like that. I fucking hated the idea of being sent a way to a boarding school that wasn’t magical, but I think this one just damn may well have been. 

My parents were thrilled at the idea. The school had great student reviews, and was said to promote a healthy racial environment. I smiled when I heard that, since I knew exactly what that meant. My parents saw it as a good thing too, since my school had a bit of a racism problem. Thankfully, the problem kids weren’t anybody I knew. 

People I know! I forgot all about my boyfriend! Little shrimp dick was small enough to always slip out of my pussy, so he totally slipped my mind too. That day was the last time I ever spoke to him, texting him simply 

I’m sorry, this isn’t working. 

I didn’t need to see him at school because I didn’t go there anymore. I worked hard to talk to the Blackworth admissions team, and managed to get myself an ASAP entry to the school. In just a few weeks, I would be boarding a train and heading to the academy. No boyfriend, no old school, no judgement. And Dorothy too! 

I had never felt so liberated. And I haven’t even left yet! 

The arrangement was that I arrive a few weeks before Winter break, and spend exam time catching up on the material for next semester. I ordered all my books ahead of time, and even began studying. I wanted to spend my time at school doing what Dorothy sent me right away, and I wasn’t going to let a bit of homework get in the way of me sitting on a massive, black cock like she told me filled the school. 

With her letters as a guide, I went shopping too. All brand new clothes that were mostly ripped, low-cut, or sluttier than anything I’d ever worn before. I loved the school uniform too. 

On the ride there, I wore a simple grey hoodie and black leggings on the train, with my black hair tied back. I had never ridden on a train before, but this wouldn’t be the last train run with where I was going. That thought made me grin as a pulled my big suitcase and full backpack into the corner I would ride in. I watched the scenery go by in a big, cushioned chair hidden in the corner. I got it wet through my leggings, I was just so horny. So ready for this. 

I pulled up some porn on my phone, put my headphones in, and listened to the star’s sweet voice narrate how she met up with her tall, muscular, black pool boy, and they fucked like there was no tomorrow. I stealthily took my arm out of my hoodie’s sleeve and snuck it down to my crotch, where I fingered my soaking pussy right there, on the public train. 

Soon, I was there. I got a few looks with how soaking wet the insides of my leggings were, and when I took the headphones out I think the sound kept playing for half a second, but I didn’t even care. I wasn’t ever going to see these people again, now that I was at my new home. Blackworth. 

It was a huge campus, in the middle of the woods on the border of the Carolinas where a massive old slave plantation used to be, before the slaves revolted in the 1830’s. Now it had a few massive, brick and stone buildings, all square, tall, and imposing. I walked in, got my picture taken, and got a photo ID with a room number- 1573. Building one, floor 5, room 73. Right where Dorothy told me her room was. 

I went up there on the old elevator. It felt like the stairs would be quicker, this thing was so old. There were drawings carved into the wooden walls. Most were “girl x boy” and “name was here”, but somewhere hotter. One was a phone number, saying ‘white girls text me’, another was a room number for the boys dorm that just said ‘orgy?’. One was a tiny dick carved next to a huge one saying ‘white vs black’. Fun. The ride took so long that I almost fingered myself right there. The floor was a little sticky, so it wouldn’t be the first time I thought. Gross, but kinda hot. 

The door opened, and there waiting for me was my best friend. 

“Ashley!” Dorothy smiled, jumping up to give me a huge hug. I was shocked to see how she was dressed. She had a peach yellow crop top on that barely went below her nipples (and her tits weren’t even that big!), and hot pink and black short shorts that where basically a small rectangle around her hips. It left nothing to the imagination, and I liked it. 

“Dorothy! You look so good!” I said, hugging her back, squeezing against her perky little tits. 

“Ow-ow!” she mutters, pulling away. 

“What is it?” I ask 

“Nothing,” she grins, “It’s just that I got a tattoo the other day and it’s still kinda sore.” 

“A tattoo? Didn’t you used to say you never wanted to get a tattoo?” 

“Well, that was before I became a snowbunny, silly. Wanna see it?” 

“Sure,” I said. She turned around, pulling up the back of her shirt to show on her back, in big, curly letters, 

SNOW - BUNNY with a little heart in the middle. 

“Like it?” my brown-haired best friend asked. 

“I love it! How do you get a tattoo in a place like this?” 

“This isn’t some stuffy old normal boarding school, you know,” she started walking down the hall, “We’ve got a tattoo parlor, a movie theater, an sex toy store, a hair salon- it’s so great. You’ll love it.” 

As I walked behind her, I noticed she had another tattoo on her thigh. A little queen of spades. It wasn’t there in the polaroids she sent. 

“So how come you can’t use your phone?” 

“Oh- that’s just because of the school’s network. We can use them in class even, but it’s really hard to communicate with people outside of campus without the computers, and I don’t much like email. Sorry about that.” 

“No problem,” I said. Then, in front of us, I saw a tall, skinny white boy turn the corner a walk into a room, looking at Dorothy with pervy eyes. “Wait-” I asked her, “Isn’t this the girl’s dorm?” 

“No, no, this is the white dorm- white boys got really uncomfortable and black guys got really weirded out by having to live in the same dorms, so they changed it. It’s kinda weird, with all these tiny white guys around, but they’re harmless. Flash your tits once a week or so and they’ll do literally anything for you. Besides, you can always just live in the black dorm if you find a guy you like,” she grinned and nudged me in the shoulder, “But I get first dibs at orgies- remember that.” 

“How often are orgies?” I asked. 

“All the time. Ah, here’s our room,” she unlocked the door and pushed it open, showing me our place. It had brown and blue walls with a wooden bunk bed, carved desks for both of us, and a fluffy carpet that Dorothy bought. I recognized it. 

“Is this-” 

“Where the polaroids were taken?” she grinned, “Yeah. I don’t like orgies on the carpet, it’s messy- they cum a lot. The beds are good though, the white boys clean it up.” 

“They do that for you?” 

“For us. If they work really hard, tell ‘em about the fun you’ve had with black guys. The white boys love it.” 

“Really? They’re always so insecure about black guys-” 

“At our old school? I know, Ash, but here they learn fast. Besides, there’s no pretense anymore about them not having little dicks.” 

I laughed. “Haha! So is that, like, more than just a rumor here?” 

She laughed too, “Yeah, it is! They’ve done all sorts of studies on it. We learned about it in Anatomy class. Ask Mrs. McMeekin about it.” 

Just my luck, Mrs. McMeekin, our grade’s science teacher, was my first tutor. Thankfully, I had everything ready from my old school. The curriculum I wasn’t caught up with wasn’t hard to get down, so I got to talk with Mrs. McMeekin. I didn’t like talking to teachers much, but I loved talking to the ones here. 

“So- um, Dorothy told me to ask you about white boys being- um-” 

“Small?” she asked, smiling. She was a beautiful woman with long, brown hair, a long, thin face, and some round but a little aged boobs. In between them was a Queen of Spades necklace. 

“Y-yeah.” I said, looking away from her cleavage, down at her feet. She had a QoS tattoo on her ankle too. Dayum. 

She smiled again. “No need to feel weird. I know Dorothy- one of the most enthusiastic little snowbunnies I’ve ever taught. And yes, white boys are uniquely sexually unsatisfying for us modern women,” she explained. 

“How?” I asked, more confident. 

“It’s about how the nerves work, you see. White males are used to growing up comfortably, as such, evolution has made them lose their defense mechanisms. When they feel something brush up against their penis, it’s usually intentional, so they cum very fast, just getting the sex over with once the stimulation gets to them. Black males come from a more dangerous life- in Africa for thousands of years, then in slavery, they had to adapt to only use their valuable seed when absolutely nescecary. So they are genetically predisposed to needing a long, long time of intense sexual stimulation to achieve ejaculation.” 

“Wow- that makes so much sense!” 

“Well, it’s just my job,” she smiled with happy blue eyes. 

“So- you said you know Dorothy? Has she been a good student?” 

“Well, she’s a lot better at English and History than science, but she’s pretty good, when she’s not with Jason,” she shook her head. Her boobs jiggled. 

“Jason?” I asked. 

“Jason Blackwolf. His family’s been going to this school for generations. You’ll probably know him soon- he’s a year older than you, but he’s huge. Tall, muscled. Big- nnf” she poked her cheek with her tongue and made a grabbing motion at her crotch like she was holding a huge bulge.” 

“And Dorothy- and him?” 

“Well, I know she’s obsessed with him. Really goes into the whole ‘master’ thing with him.” 

“Uh- Master?” 

“Oh! Did you not read the school’s webpage? The heads of houses are called the house Mistress and Master, with some houses preferring Mother and Father, usually a black man and white girl.” I nodded along, “Since that tradition started, girls have been called sisters, black guys masters, and white boys brothers. It fits the whole family thing we try to make this school. It’s called a house, not an academy, for just that reason.” 

“Oh, cool. So I’m Sister Ashley, and she’s Sister Dorothy?” 

“Yup. And No problem. I don’t blame you for reading everything this school gives you. I didn’t when I was your age, and I’m doing just fine.” 

I smiled. She sure was. Then I looked at my watch. “I- uh, have a meeting with Mr. Bates in like five minutes, so I have to go- but thank you for helping me, Miss McMeekin!” I walked off. 

“It’s Mrs!” she told me, flashing a ring with another smile. “And yes, he’s white. If you need any more help, I’ll be here.” 

2 - I watch Dorothy get Blacked 

Wow. What a first meeting. 

Sadly, none of the other teachers were that fun. They had a diverse faculty, both in sex and race, which was definitely a plus, but I guess it was a school first and foremost. It wasn’t a waste of time though, since I managed to get to know the layout of the school. 

When I went back to the dorm room, I was ready for the fun night Dorothy had promised she had every night. 

Instead, I found her walking around the white student’s common room. “Where is it? Where is it?” She kept asking. 

“What is it?” I walked up to her. 

“I wanna go introduce you to Jason, my favorite black master! But I can’t find the key card to the boy’s dorm he gave me, and I don’t wanna wait to be let in like some horny freshman girl! Help me look!” 

Looking under the couch at my feet, I saw a boy- a white boy! A small guy, looking about my age but barely masculine, with dark brown hair and a smooth face. 

“Uh- who is that?” I asked. 

“Oh- that’s Bill- or, Bob, whatever. He’s a friend of mine! He does my homework. He’s helping me look.” 

“Oh,” I got down to his level. “Hey. I’m Ashely. Nice to meet you.” 

“Hi-” He got up to shake my head, blushing as I looked into his eyes. “Everyone just calls me BP.” 

“Ok, uh, BP. Why do you do Dorothy’s homework? She’s smart. Hell, she even did my homework.” 

“Um- she spends her time outside of class with her black friends. Usually Jason. So I do it for her.” 

“Really? Nice.” 

“Found it!” Dorothy lifted the card up, now come on, I wanna see Jason!” 

I followed her, and BP walked with us to get to his dorm. 

“So,” I asked BP, “Could you do my homework too? Because I’m kinda ass at the things Dorothy’s good at.” 

He nodded. “Of course.” 

“And- could you tutor me too? I’m kinda scared, going to a private boarding school, and you seem smart enough.” 

“R-really?” he asked, looking at me with wide eyes. He’s just a little shorter than me. “T-that’d be nice. Are you going home for Christmas? I’m gonna stay here.” 

“I think I wanna stay here,” I smiled, “What about you, Dorothy?” I asked. 

“Of course I wanna spend Christmas here! Hell, I wanna spend summer here to. You’ll see soon.” We kept walking. “And you better not be flirting with my friend, BP. Trust me, Ash, his dick’s like this big,” she held up her pinky, “Don’t even bother.” 

He turned bright red. “I-I wasn’t.” 

I elbowed him. “Hey, I know. Don’t feel bad. I’m gonna see Jason anyway soon, you know that.” 

He nodded. “Trust me, you’re gonna like him. He’s-” he gulped, “Really big. And you’ll get that big bed all to yourself- the black guys get a whole room with a queen size bed.” 

“Nice,” I said, smiling. 

Dorothy opened the double doors to the boy’s dorm, then going to the black guy’s half. She made sure we quickly closed the door behind us so no freshman girls could get in. That made them mad. 

The black boy’s hallway was as beautiful as the rest of the school. It was brown wood with green carpet and big natural light pouring in with yellow evening light. In the middle of the hallway stood a huge guy, over six feet tall with perfect muscles through his Blackworth fleece and jeans. He looked like a bit of a rebel, with a fade cut with the top left messy. He had diamond stud earrings and a silver chain in his pocket. On his feet were expensive brand sneakers. He smirked possessively. 

“Ayo Dorothy!” he smiled, raising his arm. She ran up and hugged him tightly. 

“Ashley,” she said, “this is Master Jason. We’re gonna have fun tonight, aren’t we babe?” she looked up at him. 

“You know it bitch,” he smiled. “Nice to meetcha Ashley,” he shook my hand. Damn, it was so big and warm. I could already see a bulge in his pants. I wondered how big and warm that was. “Sup BP?” he fistbumped BP too. They clearly knew each other. And damn, Jason’ hand dwarfed the white boy’s. 

I noticed that plenty of white girls were kissing black guys, or getting their asses groped. I even saw some tits being sucked and dicks being choked on. Everyone walked past like it was nothing. It looked like Jason and Dorothy would join them very soon. 

“I’m sorry for not being able to come last night! I had to get the dorm ready for Ashley.” 

“It’s fine, babe. You just gotta make up for it when I cum tonight,” he said. She smiled at his little joke. 

BP walked back and sat on a bench, making himself small while I watched Dorothy feel up Jason. 

“So, how’s your first day been?” he asked me as Dorothy helped him take off his button down uniform shirt and fleece. She opened his room’s door and tossed them in. 

“Um, pretty good. I talked to some of the teachers, I really like what this school’s about. I- um- haven’t been blacked for real yet, but as soon as Dorothy introduced me to it, I broke up with my loser white boyfriend and have only masturbated to porn with black guys. It’s so much better- more real too.” 

“It damn is,” he smiled, grabbing her ass through her shorts. “Dorothy’s the best little slut at this school. Gives me the best blowjobs too- and god damn I’m horny.” I could tell. His bulge snaked down his pants, and it was fucking massive. It’d probably look bigger if Dorothy could take her hands off of it. Not that I could blame her for wanting to touch that thing. 

“Please, my black king,” she kneeled down in front of Jason, “Your snowbunny is ready to serve.” 

“Very well then, babe,” he breathed, unzipping his pants and pulling his cock ou- 

FUCK! That thing was fucking huge! When he pulled it out, the whole thing fell out like it was a waterfall. It was pretty soft, but still flopped around like a bean bag as long as my arm! No wonder Dorothy was drooling and falling to her knees. 

“Thank you master!” she drooled. With the mouth she spent hours talking about black guys with, she sloppily licked up and down his black shaft. 

“Yes baby girl, lick up and down my big rod,” He smiled at her as her mouth made his cock get hard. 

She wrapped her arm and legs around his strong leg. Still drooling, she kissed his balls, his base, and right above his cock. Then, she grabbed his bobbing dick and took it down her throat and back out with ease. I had no idea she could do that. “Stupid white cocks get awawy from me and master!” She yelled at BP and some white boys which walked past. 

“Princess- would you like to continue this more.. Privately?” 

“Y-yes black master! Let’s go!” 

“Nooo,” whined BP, getting his little dick out of his pants. I elbowed him in the ribs, not wanting his whines to stop me from seeing this. 

They entered their room without so much as closing the door. It wasn’t too long until I heard a bunch of loud ‘SLAP SLAP SLAP’. I didn’t want to just sit there next to BP as he pulled down his pants and showed off the full 2 inches he had. Jeez, he was smaller than my ex. I let myself in. 

I exptected them to be fucking already, based on the noises, but instead she was tossed over the bed on her back with his cock ramming down her throat. They were so huge and massive that when they 

slapped against her face, it was loud enough to sound like a girl’s whole ass bouncing on a guys cock. He pulled it out and covered her face with her juicy drool. 

“Yess master, slap my snowbunny face with your huge balls! It’s such an honor!” I wasn’t even sure if she noticed me. 

“How my balls taste, slut?” 

“Like hard working black sweat! Tastes like heaven, my king?” 

BP stepped up behind me with his soft little feet against the tile. “I want sis to taste my balls,” he muttered, stroking off. I told him to shut the fuck up. 

It seemed Dorothy did notice us. “Bye bye white boys I only suck black cock!” She held up two peace signs. 

“B-but she wouldn’t even have to put in an effort” he argued with a wimpy whisper. 

“The answer is no,” boomed Jason. 

“N-not even a good luck kiss?” whimpered BP. 

“No girl would ever want that little dick!” she rolled around onto her stomach. Then she grabbed his cock and deepthroated her master’s cock. 

He lit up with pleasure and began to face fuck his little princess. “Fuck yeah bitch!” The sounds of wet slapping and groaning can be heard throughout the room. She stuck out her tongue while her mouth was pounded to lick his huge balls. 

“RAAGH!” he scared BP with his scream, “FUCK YES!" 

She sucked his shaft, taking it in and out of his throat while she pulled herself in with her arms, wrapped around his legs. 

“Fuckin workin for that nigga nut God DAYUM!” He pulled it out and slapped it against her face. 

She gently kissed his shaft with each time it strongly hit her face. “Yes my black king, please cover me with your godly seed!” 

“Unnnngh SHIT!” He yelled, jacking his wet dick over her face. 

She smothered her face in his soaking wet cock. It was big enough to cover her entire face. No wonder it was so hard for him to get his dick blown well. “Please my king give me seed! Let me taste you master!” BP let out a little moan. Just like Mrs. McCaa said, he came a few dribbles on the floor. They both looked over. “HOW DARE YOU?!” she shrieked at him. I only heard Dorothy yell like that when she heard I was once groped at a party by a senior when I was a freshman. “His divine cock is only for snowbunnies to climb on!” BP was scared, and tried to run off, but slipped on the floor. Not on his cum, 

of course. I’m pretty sure it already evaporated. 

“Get out here, short lil white boy!” yelled Jason, stuffing his dick down her throat to cum down. He filled her whole stomach and esophagus. BP ran out to the hallway and got his little dick laughed at. 

“You know that doesn’t satisfy me,” breathed Dorothy. She turned around to lay on her back and spread her legs. “M-master? Please help..” 

He got on his knee, licking his lips then licking his princess’ pink pussy. “Mmmm- MMM!’ 

“P-please breed with me my kind please! I can’t control myself!” 

“Alright bitch,” he got up and slurped his lips. 

“One step closer to white boy extinction my king!” He slid his rock hard black cock into her pussy. She instantly groaned as his beast penetrates her. “O-ooooo---- my king!” He jammed the rest of his cock in her tight pussy as he cackled happily. She moaned with pure bliss as her mind got hazy. “Being blacked is great!” 

I started to give into temptation and took a seat in the corner. I slipped my hand down my leggings to touch my pussier. It had never been wetter. 

“You love my big black cock in that pussy baby?” 

She arched her back and forced herself on his gargantuan thing, “Yes my King!! A white boy could never please a woman like you can, my king!!” 

“Glad to HEAR IT!” He lifted her whole body up with his huge strength and began to fuck her. He was thorough and clearly knew exactly how to fit the whole thing in her. She wrapped her legs around him as he fucked her. The walls of her pussy squelched out juices and they tightly hugged her cock. “UNG! FUCKING TIGHT PUSSY!” he fucked her faster and harder. 

She moaned as her pussy loosened. “A-AH!” 

“You cummin on this DICK?!” 

“S-soon my king! My pussy loves black cock!” 

“Cum on this big nigga dick!!!” he slammed his cock deeper in her pussy. 

She tightly wrapped her arms and legs around her master and thrashed on his huge cock. She pulled herself up to hug close to his sweaty chest. “Black boys are so gooood!” She started squirting sticky fluids from her pussy and throbbing clit. 

“Uh! Uh! Keep cumming!” 

She groaned and moaned loudly as her pussy convulsed on his cock, “Ughhhhh master feels so 

good!!” “UNNNN! FUCK yes!” She clung to her master and gasped for air. “Oh, it ain’t over yet, bitch!” he tossed her down, forced her legs apart, and looked right into my eyes. Then, just to show off, he took out his cock and shot in incredibly thick load of ropy cum right in her gaped pussy hole. It all went in. 

“U-ughhhhh black cokkkkkk.” I’d be moaning the same thing if I were her. Fuck, I’d love to fuck a black guy half Blackwolf’s size. To shove more fingers into my converted snowbunny pussy. I ripped off my leggings. Plenty of people outside were naked anyways. 

“Damn, bitch! I’m gonna sleep well tonight!” 

I just noticed then that BP and one of his white loser friends were peeking in. The didn’t even look at me, naked and fingering myself juicily. They stared at that huge black cock, enchanted by jealousy and horniness. 

“M-hmm,” she said, closing her eyes and wiggling herself around as she enjoyed the black cum inside her. “H-hey, white boys!” she said deliriously. “You too, Ashley! Only a black man could ever make a white girl like myself have so much pleasure! Think about THAT when you sleep, white loser boys! And my king- thank you for blacking me... I love black cocks forever.” 

“That’s my girl,” he slapped her thigh, letting her legs close. 

“That makes me hard... muttered the other white boy. 

Dorothy blushed at that and put her hands over her eyes. “Be quiet loser, you never will! Go tug your little shrimp dick while thinking of master. Gross little white boys!” Jason got up and walked out of the room. I couldn’t help but laugh as I saw his huge thing swung past his knees. Compared to that, BP and his gooning friend looked like insects. 

“You’re both undeserving to be around master!” his friend opened his mouth, but Dorothy shut him up. “Your little dicks will never be good enough- because you know what? Size does matter.” 

Jason shoved his way back into the dorm, drinking a gatorade. “Spoken like a true size queen.” 

“Thank you for the praise my master.” 

BP stroked his stiff little thing. “I think it can get a little bigger...” 

“HAHAHAHAHA! Oh PLEASE!” laughed Jason. 

“You both disgust me. White dicks mean nothing to me!” She gently rubbed her master’s cock and points it to the whiteboys. “THIS is what a girl wants!” 

The new boy shook and leaked at the BBC. “Yes ma’am I am weak.” 

“D-didn’t Master Jason say he wants more?” asked BP, loyal as he promised he would be. “Master wants more? Good. Let’s mate all night long, my king! My holes will be stuffed with superior 

black seed! White boys exist only to serve their black kings and white queens!” 

“Whitebois like me are weak and pathetic. Let us worship!” moaned BP’s friend. 

“Yes you are.” 

“Worship what? You stupid loser.” 

“I- I wanna worship your ass,” begged BP, “As it’s pounded by BBC.” 

“Pathetic and Horny. Fitting for white trash like you. I bet if I twerked all the white boys here would cum instantly. You know why? Because you are all gross worthless cucks.” 

“Mm- yes I would. I’d shoot my cums all over the floor!” BP blushed, “M-master’s cum is so thick, sis.” 

“Thicker than my thighs.” She smiled at him and turned around, showing off her ass to Jason and twerking with all her might. 

“Awww, I wish I could watch...” whined BP, “I’m sure his cum’s like glue. 

“C’mon babe, spread my ass cheeks wide and cum inside! Your princess’ ass is nothing but a black man’s cum dumpster!” I climbed over onto the bed next to them, not wanting to stay next to those pathetic white boys. 

“W-what do we do when he cums?” 

“Princess? What do you think?” asked Jason, looking at her as he started finger me. His hands were huge! I tossed my head back as he did his magic. 

“Let the whiteboys lick your cum if they want, their cum goes in the trash though! And if any of their white cum touches me, please beat them up!” 

The boys just moaned. 

“SAY THANK YOU! Master’s cum is glorious, not just anyone gets to lick it up!” 

“THANK YOU SISTER DOROTHY!” the white boys yelled. 

“Now go splurt in the trash, sis is about to get pounded.” 

They both started moaning. The new one kept fapping, but BP came in pathetic seconds, before I even got to see his black cock stretch my best friend’s asshole. 

“Dangit... I always cum first!” already soft, BP walked over to grab a tissue, and got down to clean up his load. 

“Your cum is worthless,” huffed Dorothy as her asshole got pounded, “If it touches me I will vomit. And 

don’t get it on the floor! Get it into the trash! Or the toilet!” 

“I- I jerk my little white thing every time I go to the bathroom!” moaned BP as his friend ran to the toilet. TMI, dude. 

Dorothy’s master- no, our master, had enough of it too. He pushed his cockhead deeper in her stretchy asshole and smacked her cheeks. “Twerk more babygirl! Shut the fuck up about them!” 

“Y-yes my king!” She bent over further and twerked for her. Both me and him were enchanted by how she took his cock anally. 

“Unf! Some BOOTY cheeks!” He stroked the lengthy part of his monster cock that wasn’t in her ass yet. 

She bit her lip and twerked faster. He shoved another finger in my horny pussy. “Watch, white boys!” she cheered. They said something, sounding like moaning little girls. I was in too much bliss to hear it. “I’m gonna vomit if you keep talking!” 

He finally stuck the rest of his rod right into her. “UNNGH! GET IN THERE! DEEP IN THAT TIGHT BUBBLE BOOTY!” he shouted. She groaned as he fully entered her ass and she drooled on his bed. 

“M-my ass feels so good!” 

“DAMN this ass!” 

Her ass convulsed, opening up to fit his cock to the hilt as she trained it. “Ugh ughhh ohhhh fuck- mmmmm” 

“Tell daddy how you want it, and beg for it.” 

She bit her lip and twerked as he fucked her, “D-daddy please I want it rough! Show Ashley how you break my snowbunny ass!” I decided then that we would be friends for life then and there. I just closed my eyes and listen to what they said. “Stretch it out daddy please do it... I want it so bad these stupid white boys are so pathetic, show them daddy, show them how a woman should be pleasured!” She sounded delirious. I loved this school. 

“RRrrrr FUCK YEAH!” he pulled me closer with one hand, easily muscling my whole body over so he could better finger me while he fucked Dorothy’s ass. He was just fingering me, and wasn’t even paying much attention to me, but it was already the best sex I’d ever had. “You like the way Daddy FUCKS YOU, BITCH?!” 

“O-oh daddy!! YES!!!” 

For what felt like half an hour, I heard him yell about how tight her butthole was and how tight her ass was and how much he loved her butt shaking and how red he was making it. She screeched about how much she loved his big black cock, and how her asshole was gonna be permanently stretched after tonight. 

The room was filled with sharp moans. Her mind was slowly shattered as she came at least a few times from her asshole being stretched into a gaping hole.. I definitely did. 

“FUCK YES!” he tore his hands from my pussy after I came twice to slap her ass. I missed his warm fingers... “Damn, you’re STRETCHED,” he slapped her ass. She groaned in bliss as her asshole was completely broken by her master. “You want this bitch?” He ripped his hard cock out of her hole and stroked it. 

She collapsed weekly on the bed, eyes rolled back in her head as she groaned, “Black cooooooock.” 

He flipped her over to put it back in. Once again, muscled young man pounded that black ass. Her eyes opened again, then quickly crossed as she moaned as loud as she could. “UNG! FUCK! I’M GONNA NUT IN YOU, BABY GIRL!” 

I could see her stomach stretch as he slammed his cock as deep as it could go. “Cummmmmmmmm,” she moaned, her ass still gaping as she groaned loudly. 

“AAARRRRRRRGH!” he yelled, blasting a fat, huge load deep in her ass. 

Oh, fuck. I came again. I didn’t even notice I was touching myself. 

Dorothy’s tongue came out of her mouth, leaving a trail of drool as it slid off his cock, “Ugggghhhghghgh cockkkkkkkk.” Her ass was left a gaping, filled, cummy mess as she lay on the bed drooling with a soaking wet pussy. Master had broken her. 

“Fuck,” he said, plopping back on his pillows as his huge cock flopped out from between her asscheeks. “God-dayum. That was the best fuck I think I’ve ever had.” 

I got up, my own cum between my thighs. My nose wrinkled as I smelled the sweaty, dirty, cum-covered sheets. In my heart though, I loved it. “C-can I go next? I asked.” 

“Maybe later, babe. I kinda tired. Did you see.. Did you see where those white boys ran off to?” 

I shook my head. 

“Good. Fuck ‘em, right? Or don’t.” He grinned at me. I smiled black, blushing. I couldn’t believe a naked black guy who just fucked my best friend in front of me was flirting with me, and I liked it! 

“So... I’ll just take Dorothy back to her room?” 

“Sounds good, babe.” 

I got up, pulling Dorothy’s sticky body off the bed. Thankfully she was smaller than me. I carried her bridal style out of the room. 

“Hey,” he called back right before I left. He grinned devilishly. “See you tomorrow.” 

I carried my sexy, dripping friend through the halls and to our dorm, plopping her on our bunk bed once we got there. I’d have to get my clothes back tomorrow. 

Steamy black cum leaked from her ass as she groaned in monotone. She looked in pure bliss. The kind of bliss only a black man could give. To that, I sat on the floor and fingered myself again. 

My first night at Blackworth, I didn’t sleep at all. And I fucking loved it. 

[tomhollandish]

Always Like This

A/N: After maybe two years of never writing anything, I’m back for @pparkerwrites writing challenge! This is my magnum opus, clocking in at 14k, and it’s inspired by Studio Ghibli’s Whisper of the Heart, The Louvre by Lourde, the prompt “I wish we could stay like this forever”, and my own anxiety about finishing college and growing older.

Summary: As you begin wrapping up your final year in college, you have some wishes, fears and regrets. This is the story of how you overcame all of them, with a little help from your friends. Platonic!Avengers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, mentions of past Bruce Banner x Reader and Quentin Beck x Reader (Yeah, I know,)

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of (public) sex, and the reader being an anxious wreck

Word count:  14k (my bad)

                                         *            *            *            *

There is a tap once, twice, three times against the plastic cubicle, but your attention is elsewhere. As you breathe heavily, you can still see the black and white pages of your latest research endeavor printed underneath your eyelids. You swim in the words, trying to pick out what you can even comprehend when the rapping becomes less gentle.

“’Tis some visitor,” you recited, mumbling out the lines of a poem you’d once memorized. “Rapping at my chamber door.”

“It’s campus police,” the visitor said, and you fumbled to sit up properly. The harsh florescent lights made your eyes bleed, and the ugly khaki uniform of the man hovering over you was just as terrible a sight.

“Fuck,” you cursed, and then upon realizing that you just cursed in front of an officer (a glorified security worker, but you weren’t about to take pot shots right now), you covered your mouth. “I’m sorry, I just–”

“I just need your ID.” He smiled politely and you squirmed under the gesture.

“Right.”

You found it wholly ridiculous that this man was carding you in your campus library at—what time was it? —three in the morning as if you could be anyone other than a student. No sane person would be doing this without reason, and even so your reasons were wearing incredibly thin as your shitty bachelor’s degree grew closer into your clutches.

A bachelor’s degree in English? What will you even do with that?

Doesn’t matter what it’s in. It just matters that I’ve got it.

You didn’t want to spend four years doing something you hated. (With your bullshit Liberal Arts Program, it was really only two years of English, but who was counting?) You thought it would be easy to just pick up some desk jobs that would pay the bills once you graduated. But then you decided to grow noble and have an ambition and things rapidly changed.

The officer handed your card back to you. His eyes flitted over to the mess of a work station you had, before giving a pitying smile. “Long night huh? Haven’t seen you stay here this late in a while.”

Goosebumps ran up your arm. You tried to play it cool, painting on a smile as you wracked your brain for familiarity. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“No, not really. I’ve been working this shift for maybe two years, and you’re on this floor a lot at night. I just, uh, remember you.”

“Uh,” you blinked, unable to answer. The odds of this guy remembering you were like, twenty thousand to one. And while you were a regular patron of the third floor (it is the film section after all) it seemed unlikely that someone could pick out your face.

The guard seemed to understand that he’d stumped you, so he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and moved on. Still stunned, you stared back at the pile of books across the table and groaned at the thought of continuing. It was late, and you had class at ten the next morning. The very class you were doing all this work for.

You sighed deeply and pondered whether or not to call it a night—it was only the third week of the fall semester and you were already working like a dog. There was a terrible feeling in your gut that if you didn’t save your energy for later, it would bite you in the ass.

Settling for checking out one last book, you scribbled down its call number and pulled yourself out of the mini cubicle, heading for the stacks. As you made your way you noticed that there were really only a few other people with you, many of them with their heads ducked into textbooks or laptops, engrossed in their own worlds.

The people began to fade away as the rows and rows of books dominated the room. You looked up and down between your notebook as you stomped through sections, passing anatomy, then biology before glancing at American literature. You ducked down one row, fingers grazing every book as you mumbled the call number under your breath, afraid it would escape you.

Finally, you knelt down, wincing as your knees cracked audibly in the quiet library. Sitting on the bottom shelf like it had been waiting on you for eons was the book in question; an innocuously black bound book, the title in plain white letters on the spine. A library reprint. You opened it, just be sure it was the exact copy you were looking for, when you realized something.

Someone had annotated this copy. Your school didn’t charge damages for writing in library books, but this person seemed to have written paragraphs worth of content between margins and on blank pages. It was the kind of analysis that could only belong to someone taking it very seriously; perhaps a fellow film studies major.

But the writing wasn’t mesmerizing because it was insightful, rather, it was because you recognized it. You stomped your way back to your seat with purpose, looking for the other companion novel; a newer, cleaner, bigger book and yet, as you flipped the pages you caught glimpses of the handwriting—legible, but obviously a quick scrawl. The e’s were always connected to the letter after it, and the m’s were hardly definable squiggles, but it was still nice to look at.

As you’d combed your way through these books, you’d found their handwriting more than once. They usually echoed the sentiment you’d been trying to capture, but they had done so first. It had discouraged you at first, thinking yourself a simple copy-cat, but it later comforted you that someone shared your ideals.

It was wishful thinking to wonder about them. Useless and distracting.

You still entertained the thought.

The whole trip back to your dorm, you busied yourself with thoughts of them–their major, if they had graduated already or if they were still here; what if you shared a class with them, or better yet, if you knew them? Your mind filled with romantic possibilities as your body took you through the process of getting you home—a maneuver you could pull in your sleep.

Once at home, you forgot all the formalities of bedtime routines and simply stripped down, crashing straight into bed. Sleep would overcome you in any moment, but in your last fleeting moments of consciousness you dreamed of flipping pages and handwriting.

                                           *            *            *            *

If college were a racket, you’d be fucking rich.

You’ve been at the same shit for nearly two decades, and still you felt like you were the absolute best at it. Sure, you weren’t top of the class (probably not even close) but your professors loved you and other students made the effort to know your name. You weren’t the obnoxious teacher’s pet, nor were you class clown, but people acknowledged your existence, which was honestly more than you could ever ask for.

It was moments like these when you thought twenty thousand a year (all in loans!) might have been worth it; you were talking with your professor—whom you called Kyle with the ease of an old friend—after class about some nonsense that had happened over the weekend, about the movies you had watched recently, and about school.

You felt a strange bittersweetness as he began to talk about your undergraduate thesis again, bringing up all the regalia that your presentations entailed. Maybe he noticed your sudden hesitation at the topic, because he stopped speaking and hummed.

“You’ve already started working on it, haven’t you?” It was a confirmation, but there was still a layer of trepidation to his voice you couldn’t decipher. You nodded, but it didn’t disappear. “You’re far more prepared than the others.”

“I’ve been thinking about this since sophomore year,” you confessed. “It’s nerve wracking, thinking about the presentation, but I like the topic.”

“When you blurted out your thesis during the first meeting, I think everyone wanted to kill you,” he laughed. “But as I’ve gotten to know you, I’m not surprised at all. You always know what you want.”

There was a lull then—a moments hesitation where you wanted to bluntly correct Kyle and tell him that you didn’t actually know what you wanted, but the words wouldn’t come out. Instead you smiled, and took that silence as a good place as any to end the conversation and quickly walk out of the room as the reality of your situation crashed back into you.

Staring at the tiles beneath your feet, you tried not to trip over your own mental leaps. Everything came folding in on itself as you thought of the upcoming semesters like the end of an era; the last of your eighteen years of education. Anxiety crept up your spine like a chill, and you felt yourself gripping your books tighter to keep from shaking.

And them something jammed into your shoulder, hard, the books in your hand spilling all over the floor. You grumbled to yourself, thinking you’d clumsily walked into a wall, but then you heard “Um, hello?”

Fear struck your heart as you turned to face someone: a boy, looking at you with knotted brows and his arms open with the expectation of an apology. Your fear turned to annoyance as you studied details like his tiny, low ponytail, his navy-blue blazer and the copy of The Sound and The Fury clutched in his hand.

You looked back at his face, painted with clear annoyance and spat out a half-assed, “sorry,” topped with a fake smile. His animosity was near palpable as he heel turned and kept walking, leaving you to pick up your things alone. You muttered under your breath angrily.

“Asshole, English Major Prick.”

                                          *            *            *            *

It was ironic to call the boy you’d bumped into earlier an asshole, considering who you spent your time with.

Your Monday/Wednesday afternoon schedule ended with a late as hell lunch with some old friends. Emphasis on old, because you were pretty sure after your major switch you had nothing in common with these men anymore.

“And what I’m telling you,” Tony Stark punctuated with a wave of his hands, “is that there’s no way Beck’s design would even theoretically work, let alone should Dr. “MIT graduate” allow him to continue with this completely doomed to fail idea.” He pointedly took a bite of the (likely now cold) pasta he’d spent ten minutes raving over before spitting it out onto a napkin. “God, what the fuck is up with this cafeteria?”

“Maybe if you would shut up for ten seconds, your food would still be warm.” You never had any clue what the self-proclaimed genius was ever talking about. It was a wonder you considered him a friend still, but even his annoying tendencies couldn’t break the brotherhood you all had from sharing the shittiest dorm on campus freshman year. You felt like you still owed Tony a debt for killing that roach in your shower all those years ago.

“I agree with Y/N, for once.” You side eyed Strange, wondering if there was some sort of punchline, but then he gave a nod of solidarity. “You’ve been complaining about this guy non-stop.”

“Beck is just,” Tony banged his fists on the table, shaking every one of your trays. “So infuriating. Y/N, how did you ever fuck this guy?”

“Stop,” Bruce says, his arms hovering over his drink and other objects that might fall over. “Tony, I’m begging you to let this go.”

“See, even Bruce admits he’d tired of this. Can we move on please?”

“Oh? Tired of me bring up your ex in front of your ex?”

“Tony, knock it off,” Bruce warned, but there was no threat in his voice. Tony dropped the subject, but still looked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.  

“Or do you have any exciting developments in…what is it you do again?”

You threateningly held out your fork towards the engineering major and he flinched. “I’m about to major in murder if you don’t Shut. Up.”

The three science majors stopped their babbling and hurriedly shoveled their food into their mouths. You sighed into your cup of powered lemonade. While you were used to Tony’s jabs, he was right: your future felt inconsequential next to their aspirations. But you would be damned if you let either him or Stephen Strange know that you felt that way.

Bruce laced his fingers together and fidgeted for a moment. You turned to him, and he smiled nervously. “So, how’s your paper coming along?”

There was another awkward pause as you sipped your drink, trying to come up with something impressive or dramatic enough to hold their attention. And then you rolled your eyes at the thought. “Well, I’m at the part of the process where I sit in the library until my mind goes numbingly blank from staring at an empty word document or director interviews or companion books and then I go home and never sleep.” You said honestly. This earned a laugh out of Tony.

“English Majors: They’re just like us!” he joked.

“That fact that you think college majors are equivalent to high school cliques is very telling of your immaturity,” you sneer at Tony. He throws a fake smile at you—not that any of his smiles are ever real.

“Psychoanalyze me all you want, Dickinson,”—his habit of calling you whatever writer came to his mind was also telling— “But the fact is, the three of us are more like each other than we are to you. It’s just facts.”

You looked to Bruce for a moment. Like always, he was on the same wavelength as you—he averted his gaze the moment you two locked eyes. “Be that as it may, we’re still friends somehow.”

“‘Somehow’ being the operative word,” Strange spoke under his breath. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Not my fault the three of you are giving into society’s capitalist ways and are only in it for the money.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tony says, dropping his fork in his barely touched food. He purposefully scoots his chair back with a grating noise and you wince at the sound. “Y/N, I can’t handle you when you’re like this.”

You huffed. “Now you know how we feel about you all the time.”

“I’m done with this discussion. Strangelove, Brucey,” he acknowledges his friends by their stupid nickname before rolling out. Strange sighs before following his lead, but Bruce stays put.

“He’s sensitive about that.”

You shrugged. “Then maybe he should try going into a career that helps people instead. No ones making him become a money mongering executive.”

“You know what his dad is like.”

“Yeah, rich.”

Bruce dragged his hands down his face, but there was a chuckle underneath his exasperation. “Your coldness is honestly so incredible. Aren’t writers supposed to be compassionate?”

“I am compassionate,” you stated defensively. And then, more flippantly, “Just not to rich industrialists who steal from the middle class.”

You laughed when Bruce shook his head at you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So are you,” you said, nudging his shoulder with your own. There was nothing in the gesture, not like there used to be. “I mean, you want to be a nuclear physicist, or whatever. Ain’t nothin in that but prestige and your name on same wall.”

“You know that’s not what I want.” He used that voice, the one you’d become intimately familiar with towards the end of your relationship. “I just want to pursue something I’m passionate about. Isn’t that what you want too?”

The fruit under your fork slid out and rolled across the table. Both of your eyes followed it as it fell out of sight, and then you said nothing. Bruce sighed.

“I didn’t mean too—”

“Yeah you did.”

The buzzing of your phone jolted you two out of the tense moment. You lifted it up, seeing a message from Steve. You felt Bruce’s eyes peering over at your phone.

“You got to go?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

“No, Tony’s probably waiting for you outside. He’ll just follow both of us if you don’t go with him.”

He pursed his lips, caught between a rock and a hard place. He looked up at you as you prepared to leave.

“I really didn’t mean it.”

“Even if you didn’t, you’re right.” It wasn’t hard to admit anything to Bruce, even after everything. “You’re damn good at it too.”

He tried to swallow back his bashful smile, but there was still a shimmer of it in his eyes. “You’re good at what you do, too.”

“Well, after four years, I’d fucking hope so.”

Bruce laughed through his goodbye, and you reveled in that small victory as you booked it to the art building.

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Perhaps it’s the creative part of you, but a piece of your heart fully adored that decrepit, godforsaken building. The elevator was broken, the hallways were a rotating gallery of amateur and professional projects, and it always smelled like some sort of chemical, but the building has charm.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Steve stopped in his tracks to look at you when you said that. He’d been guiding you through the labyrinth known as Bauer Hall with a well-trained quickness. He resumed it after the initial shock of your statement wore off. “You’re a real romantic, you know that?”

“I do,” you said, knowing there was no way to defend yourself from such a true statement. “But so are you.”

“There’s only so many things I can romanticize, and I have to say, Bowser Hall ain’t one of them.” You laughed through your nose at the ridiculous nickname. “Besides, I’m all romanced out.”

Steve walked through a room lined with canvases bigger than the both of you. In different corners students painted in different styles, with different elaborative brush strokes that revealed their subjects in a matter of moments. Someone’s music played from a wireless speaker, but you imagined everyone had tuned it out.

Steve lead you to his station, which was currently covered with photos of you. It was embarrassing to see yourself plastered all over his desk, but as you studied to pictures closer, you became enthralled.

“Is it narcissistic to compliment how awesome these looks?” Awesome didn’t even encapsulate the emotion. Not by a long shot. Over the summer Steve had approached you about featuring in his senior art show pieces, and you’d shot preliminary photos. He couldn’t guarantee that he’d paint you given the complexity of his idea (as well as his own perfectionism) but now he was promising that he would paint you.

So, you stared down at the photos, remembering the how he’d climbed onto your roof at night and shined a flashlight taped with blue gels through your window and you tried not to laugh. The fruits of that night where in your fingertips, and you were struck at how much more somber your face looked on a physical photo than it had on the camera that night.

“It’s not narcissistic considering Nat took the photo,” he said, leaning over your shoulder. He rummaged through the stack before he pulled out a specific picture. “I think I’m going with this one.”

“Of course you are,” you poked fun at him, but you actually did like that photo. The light that shined across your eyes was blue, but you were shrouded in a hazy purple. It was a close shot, with your hands framing the expression on your face that was equal parts haunting and beautiful. Steve had been trying to capture those hard-to-explain moments that crossed people’s faces, and yours had been the most agonizing. In his words.

“With most people it takes forever to get the shot. You got it in one.” There was veiled concern in his statement, but you’re a master of words. You drop the photo and step back from it all, looking at Steve.

“Wasn’t hard,” was all you told him. Steve took the photo and tacked it up to a ready to paint canvas.

“I’m thinking about using these two as well.” Steve handed you two other photos of different subjects, only one of which you really know.

“When’d you take this?” You flipped over the photo Sam, his face caught precisely between elation and realization. Steve took it gingerly before sitting back on his stool. You wished he could paint the look of utter longing that plagued his own blue eyes.

“He got the deployment letter that morning,” Steve explained. His voice was low as he talked through the lump in his throat. “I asked him to pose for me, because I knew when I saw his face that I wanted to capture whatever the hell it was I just saw.”

“He’s used to being your guinea pig. I’m sure he liked knowing he’s the inspiration for your project.”

“He’ll probably hold it over my head ‘till I die,” Steve managed a laugh, but it was hollow. The sigh he took afterwards could have cracked his ribs.

“It’ll be a great gift, you know? A huge photo of his favorite thing—himself.” His laugh this time was slightly more genuine. You’d have to take it.

“Who’s this?” You showed Steve the second photo, one of a man whose face was marred with the shadow of blinds, his eyes looking back as if it pained him to. Nat was a wonderful photographer, and Steve had an amazing vision, but you knew Steve well enough to know that whoever this was, the look was all his own.

“Oh, that’s Buck,” he said easily, and you lean forward as a gesture to elaborate. “Bucky, my best friend?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“Hmm. You probably don’t know him because he was in Prague the semester we became friends.” Steve had been part of your freshman dorm nightmare, but he lived on a different floor than the rest of you. You didn’t get to know him until you realized Nat was a mutual friend.

“Did he spend a whole year there?” You leaned forward and stared at the picture, trying to find any recollection of this guy. “Cause it’s been like, a year since then.”

“No, but he did have an internship when he came back, I’d forgotten about that.”

You dropped the photo, feeling jealousy prickle down your arms. “Wow. Busy guy.”

“He tries to keep himself busy. Otherwise he looks like that all the time.” You understood the implication. You pinned the photos next to each other and contemplated just how Steve was going to recreate them in all their glory. He seemed to have the same thought, because he ran a hand through his hair.

“It really will take me all semester, but I’m excited.” He bounced on his feet. “I think I’ve found my thing.”

“Your thing?”

“Yeah, my niche, I guess,” he shrugged, but his excitement was contagious. “It’s good to be excited about something again.”

“I’m glad you love your project, because it’s going to turn out amazing,” you assured him.

“Thanks. I started Sam’s painting already and it wore me out. I think I’ll start on Buck’s next. Sorry,” he shot you an apologetic grin. “I’m just tired of looking at the same colors.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for anything,” you said earnestly. “I totally get it. In fact, I think I’ve taken a long enough break on my own work.” You backed away from the blank canvas and glossy photos, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “It’s no masterpiece, but.”

“Hey, your writing is always incredible. I read that paper you wrote about the mis-en-scene of Art Cinema.” He recited with your work with such ease, it made you blush. “You’re really good at writing., Y/N.”

“You remembered.” You tried to laugh off the little swell of pride in your chest. “You’re sweet, Steve, but this is a lot more than a three-page writeup.”

“If it’s yours, it’ll be great. What’s your thesis again?”

“The politics of monster movie horror films.” When you told him, Steve shook his head with a proud grin.

“See? That’s brilliant!”

“It’s been done before—”

“Everything’s been done before. But you haven’t done this. You’re smart, you love movies, and you’re the most well rounded, analytical person I know. You’ve got this.”

You wanted to run back and give him the clingiest hug of your life, but instead you swung bashfully on the doorframe. “Thank you for your support, Steve, but I have to at least write it first.”

He waved you off. “Fine. Go, be great.”

You felt something unidentifiable rise in your stomach as you left, the knot only growing bigger and bigger until you reached the library. You wanted to exhale it out of your chest as you pushed the up button in the elevator, but it stayed stuck in your throat instead. You decided to leave it be as you settled into one of the plastic cubicles on the third floor, your home for the foreseeable future.

                                           *            *            *            *

Anxiety. That had been the feeling.

It gnawed at your stomach and in return you gnawed at your lip, thinking about Steve’s success as an artist and Bruce’s summer spent applying to grad schools. The future was in sight for both of them while yours was blocked by your laptop screen, showing you the three pages you had done out of the twenty you needed.

Angrily, you slammed the computer screen down and shoved it into your bag. The buzzing overhead light made red spots dance in your eyes even when you closed them, so you figured it was time for a break.

And by “break”, you meant spending the fifteen minutes between your apartment and the library trying to reword the sentence that had been bugging you over and over again. You were so out of it that when you opened your apartment door you were in shock of all the people sitting in your living room, despite having seen all their cars parked out in front.

Someone’s greeting went whizzing by you, but it’s only after the door slammed shut did you piece together that it was Pietro. The rest of the group chorused “Hi Y/N” with varying levels of enthusiasm.

“Hey, sorry they’re so loud,” Wanda pulled her cardigan close when she crossed her arms, smiling uncertainly at you. “I won’t have them here too late.”

“Nah, they’re fine,” you brushed off, slipping out of your uncomfortable shoes. You hated the fall—it always encouraged your terrible habit of style over function. “I’m just here for a quick costume change then it’s back to the ol’ grind.”

Normally Wanda would chuckle at your ridiculous phrases, but she creased her brows when she continued talking. “Actually, we were thinking of grabbing some food. Pietro’s bulking, or doing some other stupid diet and Viz thought we could go back to the diner. You know, the one on the corner of 11th?”

Oh, you knew the 11th street diner. It was the premier spot; you’d been there on dates, 21st birthdays, celebrated there after long arduous projects, and gorged on fries after movie marathons with Peter. The sheer mention of the diner was enough to make you swoon, and Wanda was likely exploiting that weakness.

So, when you sighed, her eyes lit up. “I’m sorry,” you said, watching as her shoulders deflated. Your heart broke at the sight. “I have to work on this paper. It’s—”

“Your senior thesis, I know, but. Y/N when was the last time you ate?”

You had the audacity to look defensive. “I ate with Bruce and Tony earlier today.”

“I saw Bruce and I asked him. He said you only ate a bowl of fruit and some lemonade.”

Snitch. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“You need to take a break from your work or you’re going to burn out.”

The sound that came out of your mouth was harsh and condescending. “I’m already a burnout, Wanda. I’ll be fine. Have fun at the diner.” You dodged the rest of her questions by slipping into your room and closing the door. As you hurried into a sweatshirt and old jeans, you heard the gang walk out of the house and leave you in silence. You checked to see if the apartment was empty before grabbing your things and locking up.

You planned on daydreaming the rest of the way back to the library, but the sound of a bicycle following you made your hair stand on end. When you turned to see who it was, you relaxed the grip on your pepper spray.

“Fucking hell, Parker,” you chastised as the teenager as he hopped off his bike and came up to walk beside you. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You looked like you were going to shank me,” he laughed, falling into stride with you. Regardless of his own destination, Peter would always ditch his own path to walk with you, day or night. The night part was incredibly sweet and chivalrous. “Where are you going anyways?”

“Library,” you said curtly. You were tired of explaining yourself. “You?”

“Came back from MJ’s, I’m heading home.” Peter still lived on campus due to his scholarship, and frankly, you were a little envious. It would be amazing to live seven minutes from the library again.

“How is the new girlfriend?” The smile in your voice made Peter roll his eyes.

“MJ’s fine. She’s in abnormal psych and she hates it because it’s too basic for her.”

“Ugh, yeah I took that class. But it’s a prerec for—”

“Psychopathology,” you two said simultaneously. “She told me.”

“If she wants, she can have my old notes from the class.”

Peter quirked his brow. “You still have them?”

You shrugged. “I keep all my old notebooks.”

“Why?”

The question was simple, but you felt yourself pondering the answer for longer than you’d care to admit. Why did you keep all that old stuff? You never went back and studied any of it, so it was essentially junk. Yet you treasured it like a childhood keepsake.

“I don’t know,” you lied, completely aware that you felt exposed by Peter’s question and embarrassed by the real answer. “I thought they’d come in handy one day. Looks like I was right.”

Peter looked at you, and it struck you how similar the expression was to the one Bruce had given you earlier. When he’d asked you about passion and doing what you wanted.

He seemed to drop the topic, because when he opened his mouth again, he said, “I don’t think she needs it, considering how much she loves that kind of stuff, but thanks for offering.”

You only hum in acknowledgment, spending the rest of your walk together listening to the cars passing by and the soft clicks of Peter’s bike chains; sounds that had plagued you since sophomore year.

After this year, you’d never hear them again.

You bit your lip to keep from sighing. Peter would surely ask you what was wrong, but you couldn’t admit all this to him. He had way too much on his plate, between his honors scholarship, his biochemistry major and his job running the Photo Lab, it was a wonder he even spent time with you.

There was no way to tell Peter you missed him without spilling your guts, and you were too tired and too scared to say it. So instead you made a joke when you parted ways, and spent too much time in your head worrying about what you should’ve said.

And if you’d been paying attention instead, you wouldn’t have bumped into someone for the second time that day. This time the person had spilled all their books, a large stack of hardbacks that scattered in the doorway.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” you said, not looking them in the eye. You crouched down to help them pick up their books, but when you placed The Essentials of Faulkner into someone’s hand, you looked up.

The blue eyes were soft on yours for a brief moment before recognition sparked in them. The man furrowed his brows before standing to his full height, which towered over you even when you stood too.

“You again,” he said, arrogance still pronounced. The English Major Prick.

Your blood pressure seemed to spike with anger. “Hey, I said I was sorry.”

“I’m mostly just shocked at my odds,” he said. “I must be the unluckiest person in this whole university to get knocked over by the same spaced-out girl twice.”

“One,” you glared, “I didn’t knock you over, my shit fell the first time. Second of all, you could also avoid me, ya know.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

“Hey,” a third party cut through your arguing. Someone walked around you two, flicking his middle finger at the both of you. “People have to fucking walk here.”

“Mind your business, asshole!” you whisper-yelled, and at the same time the English Major Prick said “Take a fucking hike, buddy!”

You were about to stare at him, but he was already disappearing into the pitch blackness. You shook off the encounter and headed back up to your regular post on the third floor.

Determined to actually get farther than before, you treaded through the floor stacks, searching up and down for the theory books you needed. One such book you found on your first stop, flipping through the index to find the pages you were looking for. A flash of blue caught your eye, and marked all over the page was the mysterious handwriting, like in the books from before.

“Huh,” you said, wondering what the odds were that you had checked out the exact same books as this person. It was unbelievable, and quite fantastical, if you were honest, but here it was; their handwriting in your hands once again.

“I wonder if I’ll find you, mystery person,” you lamented, before closing the book and carrying on.

                                           *            *            *            *

Weeks passed by in a similar haze: you would spend your days pretending to take notes while in reality you were highlighting sentences in articles, re-wording paragraphs and rearranging structures in your head. Mid-terms came and went, stringing you out even further. Time was unraveling at the seams, only stitching itself together when you needed to know what day it was or where to be.

Everyone around you seemed to be planning for something though; whether it was grad school or lining up jobs, or even something as simple as graduation, their eyes were on some far away prize while you could barely visualize waking up the next day.

Kyle noticed this. “You look awful,” he’d said, after he begged you to stay and talk after class. You rolled your eyes.

“Is that all you wanted?”

“No,” he said pointedly. “But it is concerning. You’ve been working on your paper?”

‘Working’ was both an understatement and a gross misuse. “I’ve been staring at the screen wondering why it doesn’t sound like I know it can.”

“That’s the dilemma of the author,” Kyle chuckled, but you were too numb to respond. “Tell you what. When you come in for your advising,”—he put emphasis on the word because he knew you hadn’t signed up for a time slot yet— “bring your essay and I’ll edit it. Sound fair?”

“You know it’s still a first draft,” you whined, mostly to hide the dread that bubbled in your throat.

“I know, and I expect it to be rough. But I know you’ve been working hard, so let me help you out. Please.” He added the extra please to sweeten the deal, and it had worked. Which is how you ended up outside of his office, contemplating which spot to take when something caught your eye.

It was blue ink, the m’s and n’s nothing but little scribbles, the capitol J hanging well below the line. It was familiar, so familiar that you fumbled around in your backpack for the research book you’d been carrying around with you, the one that held mystery persons notes.

You held up the defaced text, looking between the scrawl on the page and the name written on the line. It was exact match down to the ink, and you gasped in elation.

“I found you,” you whispered, making a squeal of delight. “I actually found you, James Buchanan.” You squinted, reading the name in the slot. Your excitement died down as you tapped your finger to your lips.

The name didn’t ring any bells. You didn’t expect that you would know the mystery writer, but the fact was, you shared an advisor. You pressed your fingers to the name as if it would disappear before your eyes.

“You complicate things,” you told it, as if somehow, they could hear you, feel you. Maybe they could.

“I’m no shrink, but talking to pieces of paper is definitely on the spectrum of insanity.”

His voice couldn’t scare you, even if it was so sudden. An office door closed, and Thor looked at you in amusement. He looked better than you last remembered, considering you hadn’t seen him since he had told his father—the college professor—he was dropping out.

“What are you doing here?” you straightened up, facing him with a beaming smile. He mirrored the expression.

“Talking to dear old dad about some things,” he took a few steps way from what you presumed was his father’s office. “Checking in on Loki.”

“How is the snake these days? Haven’t heard from him since you left.”

“I suppose there really is no reason for Loki to speak to any of you anymore.” Thor side eyed you. “Not that he shouldn’t.”

Thor’s departure had been a curveball in your sitcom-esque life up until that point. He was the connective tissue in your helter-skelter friend group; smart, compassionate and charming, he’d taken all of you out of your fussy shells and made you relax in ways you didn’t even realize you needed to.

And then, just like that, he was written out, and in his absence the void grew and grew until you didn’t feel like friends with anyone anymore.

It hadn’t been Thor’s fault. He’d done it for himself, and you were proud of him. You just wished it didn’t make things so goddamn complicated. So different.

You couldn’t dump that on Thor. “Yeah, well, he’s probably busy freaking out over the LSAT to even remember we exist.”

“God, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!” Thor laughed. “I have all these videos of him cramming and falling asleep on the dinner table. I once picked him up and put him back in bed and Hela filmed the whole thing.”

“Shut up,” you said, a maniacal grin forming on your face. “Odinson, don’t lie to me.”

He wasn’t lying. The two of you laughed loudly in the hallways as you watched Thor lift Loki like he was a little girl into his arms and proceed to walk through their house, Hela snickering behind them. You were bracing yourself against a wall trying not to howl, while Thor held no such qualms about letting his booming laughter fill the silence.

It registered somewhere between your fourth gasp for air and Thor’s winding down laughter that someone had opened a door. And then, in a low, pointed voice they said, “Hey, people are trying to study in this lounge.”

You tried to hold back your laughter, but Thor’s insistent giggling kept a smile on your face. “Sorry,” you said behind your hand. “We didn’t realize—”

The smile slipped off your face when you looked up, seeing the angry pout of the English Major Prick staring back at you. His eyes glanced between you and Thor, leaned cozily up against a wall and laughing at something private. Embarrassment coiled in your stomach.

“Didn’t realize the lounge was right there. Sorry.” You averted your eyes. Thor had stopped laughing at this point, turning to you with an expectant look. You nodded and waved goodbye, noting the look he gave the English Major Prick as he walked past him.

And then he turned his accusatory stare back to you. “Was that Thor Odinson?”

“Yeah?”

“I thought he dropped out.”

“So what if he did?”

“What’s he doing hanging around the English department?”  

You crossed your arms. “His father is a professor here, smartass.”

“Oh.” All his malice seeped out as his shoulders deflated. The two of you stood awkwardly facing one another. It had been a long time since you’d bumped into him that day (twice), but you’d started to see his face everywhere. Out of the corner of your eye in the stairwell or sitting on a table in the school café you’d catch brunette hair and distant, sad eyes.

They were never that way when he looked at you. It was probably the anger.

“Read any Faulkner, lately?”

You wanted to fucking die. It was lame as hell, but he didn’t seem like he was leaving anytime soon and you just had to break this tense air.

“What?”

“Every time I see you, you’re reading Faulkner.”

He looked away for a moment and you banged your head against the wall when. You muttered stupidstupidstupid to yourself while he chuckled.

“You’re paying too much attention to me, mystery girl.”

The nickname made you perk up you head. “Mystery girl?”

It was his turn to look embarrassed. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered. “That’s what I’ve been calling you in my head.”

He seemed to realize what he’d said too late. You sucked in a breath to calm down the nerves that felt like they were frying all over your body. “You think about me, huh?” It didn’t sound cheeky like you wanted it to—it sounded almost hopeful.

“You left quite an impression on me. Literally, my shoulder is bruised.”

You hummed. “Better than what I’ve been calling you in my head.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Oh, you really don’t want to know, buddy.”

He was out of the lounge now, leaning on the door frame and fully facing you. “But I really, really do.”

You smiled down at the ground, partly because you were about call this boy a prick to his face, but also because he was smiling at you for once, and he looked rather sweet when he curled his hair behind his ears.

“English Major Prick.” His eyebrows shot into his hair and you had to put your hand over your mouth to stop laughing. “I told you you didn’t want to know.”

“No, no, it’s—” he scuffed his shoes against the ground. They were well shined oxfords with scuff marks on the very tips. “I deserve that.”

“So, we finally agree on something.”

The bashful smile he gave was infectious. “Well, I’d prefer you not refer to me as that.”

“Who says I’ll be referring to you at all?”

“Well, you do think about me.”

It shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did, considering you knew he did the same. And yet your reaction was textbook flustered. “I mean—”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name,” he continued. “It’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

Oh shit. Oh no. “You’re Steve’s friend?” It came out as a question because you were suddenly terrified. You had been off-handedly telling Steve about this guy for the better part of the semester and now you knew he was his best friend but you were also—no, you were not falling for this guy you barely knew.

But you did feel something in this stupid little interaction. Especially when you saw a new expression on his face—surprise.

“You know Stevie?” Stevie. Cute.

“Yeah, he’s—I, huh.” You took a minute to gather your thoughts. He was patient about it. “I modeled for him? You know, for his senior exhibition.”

Something crossed his face before he said, “Oh,” in a tone that was supposed to be surprise, but sounded like something else. “You’re the girl he’s painting.”

God, this could not be any more complicated. “Yeah, I am.”

The conversation came to a full stop, and from behind Bucky a familiar bearded face popped out, looking for him. “Hey, Barnes, don’t leave me hang—” Quentin Beck’s entire face went pale when he saw you, muttering out a “sorry,” before disappearing into the lounge.

Bucky whirled around, and you didn’t expect the wide eyes he gave you. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get Quentin to shut up?”

You snorted and he shushed you, but it was no use. The two of you broke into suspicious giggles, trying desperately to be quiet.

“It’s a long story. One you don’t have time for. Quentin will set this building on fire if you don’t pay attention to him.”

Bucky bounced his shoulders against the wall. “You’re probably right.”

You stood there dumbly for a moment, not meeting one another’s gazes until Bucky cleared his throat.

“I guess, um, I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.” You turned around on your heels so you wouldn’t have to see him anymore, but also to hide the stupid, childish grin you got from thinking about bumping into him again.

                                          *            *            *            *

You found yourself thinking about Bucky Barnes at the most inopportune, and rather inappropriate times.

You were never going to make a move on him; he was smart and well rounded and Steve’s best friend, three things that intimidated you into only confessing your feelings in drawn out day dreams. In your head he would always say yes, but there were many other discrepancies between your head and real life.

For example, in your head your essay was a masterpiece, but on paper you weren’t so sure.

A strange assembly of people sat around your table to read your magnum opus: Nat, Bruce, Wanda, MJ and Pete all flipped through the copies of your first fifteen pages, highlighting and scratching in notes. You had decided to stay with them and answer any initial questions, but it got very quiet very quickly as they became absorbed with your writing.

To keep from bursting with anxiety, you’d let your mind drift, thinking of the earlier days when this might have been a dinner party, or maybe even one of Tony’s house parties. And then you remembered that Steve had been to those too, but on the peripheral of everyone else. And if Bucky was his best friend, he must have been on the fringe as well. What it would have been like if you’d known him then…

Their insistent chittering interrupted your daydream, so you engaged them by saying “Something you want to share with the class? Peter, MJ?”

Peter shrank back at your raised eyebrows while MJ’s bored look persisted. “I was just telling him that I think your topic has been done before.”

You instantly remembered why the younger girl intimidated you so much. MJ seemed to read your face, because she continued: “I like your take on it though. You break it down in new ways, but you don’t dumb it down for your readers.”

“Okay, okay,” you repeated. There was nothing you could do with praise except keep your paper the way it was, but that wouldn’t help you write the remaining pages. “Everyone else? Thoughts?”

Nat kept scribbling down something in the margins while she spoke, never looking at you. “Your argument is well thought out, and your choice of movies reflects it really well.” She added one last embellishment before smiling up at you; small and genuine, but gone in a flash. “I might even add in one more film if you can.”

You breathed out to keep your elation under control. Had you seriously pulled this off? And so far away from the deadline? “You think so? Like the theory doesn’t feel like an afterthought?”

“Not at all. It feels like you’ve developed it pretty well. It’s solid.” Bruce complimented. His smile was warm and there was a twinkle in his eyes when he slid your paper back to you. “It’s a pretty good paper.”

The elation disappeared, replaced with a cold rush of fear. “Is that all? It’s just good?”

Your panic must have been alarming, because everyone tripped over themselves to console you.

“I like the part where you call the films low-key racist.”

“Thanks, MJ.”

“Yeah, you picked some good movies. You should use Jurassic Park.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a monster movie,” Peter explained this like you were stupid, and hadn’t just write fifteen pages on the ethics of monster movies.

“It doesn’t, it’s not—”

“It doesn’t work. No one wanted to fuck the T-Rex, Peter.”

“Can we focus on my theory and NOT on fucking T-Rex’s?”

Wanda came to your rescue. “Y/N, the theory is sound. It’s a well-constructed paper, with very minor issues—”

You wanted to tear out your hair. “What issues? You guys haven’t said anything!”

“Hey, hey,” Bruce came out of his seat and walked around you, placing his hands on your shoulders. Your short breaths became a sigh as you let him soothingly rub out the tension. You hadn’t been this close to Bruce in a long time, not since you two broke up sophomore year. But he could still read your anxiety like a book.

“Calm down. We know this paper is important to you.”

“I won’t graduate without it.”

“But you did a great job.” The occupants of the room smiled at you, and they felt honest. “You picked us to read it because we wouldn’t lie to you, right?”

You nodded. Bruce really did know you well.

“This is a great paper. Your teacher will love it.”

Bruce had never lied to you, but it didn’t mean he was infallible.

Kyle had a strange look on his face while he read your paper. A couple of times you’d broken away from your daydreams (usually about Bucky—you really did think about him in your worst times) and caught him whispering questions to himself or underlining furiously. You caught words being written in bold red ink and your heart dropped out of your stomach.

“Y/N this is,” he started, but was unable to finish. “It’s rough.”

“It’s my second draft, Kyle.”

“I know,” he was trying to use a calmer voice, but he was strained. “But it’s very early, and if you go back and fix some things, I think it’ll make more sense.”

“It doesn’t even make sense?!”

“Hey.” His tone was firm against your hysterical whine. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

His hands were laced across his desk as he looked to you pointedly. Your words died in your throat. There wasn’t anything you could tell him, there was no reason your draft was shitty. It was all you, all in your head, everywhere except on the page where it needed to be.

When you didn’t answer Kyle sighed. “You know you’re one of my favorite students, right?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does matter.” He was offended, you could hear it. Offended, concerned, and angry.

“You’ve never gotten higher than an A- on your papers. Not in my class. But you’re extremely smart and I know you can read my comments, so I’m just wondering why you think it’s okay to waste my time—and your hard work—not changing your essays when I tell you to.”

You felt like a scolded child. Tears pricked in your eyes, but you held it together. Just not enough to speak.

“Everything is here, but it feels like you’re holding back. Like you can’t see the bigger picture, and that’s not like you. So, I’m asking you, right now, why you’re afraid to put everything in this essay.”

“I—” your voice was thick with emotion. He knew you were on the brink of collapsing, and he sat back, defeated.

“This paper isn’t the same as all the others. You can’t get an A- and go. As you go farther in academia things change, and you have to step it up. You’re a senior, Y/N.”

“What if I don’t want to be?”

You weren’t sure how that thought slipped out of your mouth, but Kyle sat up when it registered to him what you’d said.

“That’s just how it is. Are you…are you scared of that?”

Your heart rattled in your chest. The obviousness of his accusation hit you like a freight train, and Kyle could tell he was right.

“Y/N,” he started, but you stood abruptly, snatching the paper off his desk. “Y/N, wait.”

“I’m sorry, professor, Kyle, I just—” you left it at that before bolting, shooting down the stairs and storming out of the building. The tears came dripping down your face and you crumpled, breathing heavily like you’d never had air before.

It was utterly humiliating. Passerbys would look at you and remark in hushed tones, avoiding you like the plague. You wanted to scream about how normal this breakdown was, but it didn’t feel normal.

He’d seen through you like glass and shattered you twice as easily. Everything was raining down too fast, and there was no way to stop it.

You were shaking so hard that when a hand came to rest on your shoulder you hardly felt it. “Whoa, Y/N?” came Peter’s warm, boyish voice. “Hey, hey what happened?”

He slid next you, curling his arm around your back and forcing you to lean on him. You did so with very little protest. His heart beat was steady as he coddled you, and through bleary eyes you could see Ned Leeds squatting to look you in the eye.

“Hey, do you want to talk about it?” His voice was so soft, like he was talking to a baby. The thought made you laugh.

“I’ll be fine in a minute. I’ll just, bounce back up and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

“You don’t have to pretend, Y/N.”

“Yes, I do Peter,” you sighed, feeling another round of tears prick at your red rubbed eyes. “I have to, or else everything will come fucking crashing down—”

“Hasn’t it already?”

The statement pierced through your sobs like an arrow and you glared at Peter. Even through watery eyes you managed to take him aback.

“I’m not going to sit here and have you fucking patronize me, Parker!”

“Fine then, let’s go somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

Peter didn’t exactly smile, but his mischievous look was enough to ground you. “Somewhere the entire campus can’t see you have a breakdown.”

                                          *            *            *            *

Now that winter was approaching, the sunsets crept up earlier and earlier until by 7 pm the sun was already set, and twilight brought out the first twinkle of stars. Peter led the way up the scaffolding stairs to the sloped roof of the creative sciences building, despite having the afterhours key.

“I wanted the nostalgia of sneaking up here,” he told you, tossing his backpack over the highest point of the building and hauling himself up. The two of you helped Ned and the walked over to the best vantage point on the entire campus.

This far from the city, and with the lights out in most of the buildings you could see the stars wink into existence. It felt like lifetimes had past since you were last up here—it was Thor and Valkyrie who’d imparted this knowledge on you and you’d kept it confined within your friend group ever since.

The three of you laid down, backpacks under your heads like pillows. The only sounds were of the wind in your ears or the cars down below. You breathed deep to clear your lungs, and you hiccupped out your last sob.

“My professor says I’m afraid of change.”

There was a shift on either side of you as Peter and Ned simultaneously sat up and stared.

“He said that?” Ned asked incredulously. “Like, to your face?”    

“No; he kind of asked me, I guess? I don’t know. He fucking read me.”

“Are you scared?”

Peter’s voice was as uncertain as you felt. No, that was a lie—you’d know this for quite some time now. You closed your eyes, letting it all wash over you.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.”

“You mean crying over a paper that’s worth all of your grade and contemplating jumping off a roof?”

You laughed outwardly and loudly at Ned’s response. “No. Well, Maybe.”

“Elaborate.”

“I want to always be in college. It’s been the most stressful, chaotic, stupid crazy time of my life and I just,” you opened your eyes to face the truth. “I don’t want to give it up. I don’t want to leave all of you, some of us scattered in the wind, the rest of you left behind. I want us to stay like this forever: sitting on the roof and counting the stars and pointing out constellations we don’t even know the name of. Laughing in the diner until midnight and screaming on the streets every time we jaywalk. Drunken house parties, movie marathons. This era, forever.”

There was a moment of silence after your confession, and you dragged your hand down your face. “Sorry, that was—”

“That was sooo poetic,” Ned told you, reveling in your embarrassment. “How long have you been holding that in?”

“Y/N,” Peter said seriously. “You can’t just fail your classes and bomb your senior thesis and stay in college forever.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“You sure? Because it’s all going according to plan.”

“Peter, what if I’m not ready to leave?” You sat up to face him. “I’ve been going to school my entire life, and now I’m just supposed to walk out and be an adult? I never thought I’d even make it past the age of sixteen, let alone do all this! What if I can’t do it?”

“You think any of your friends are ready? You think Bruce, or Wanda or Steve are just, full fledged adults, ready to take on the world?”

They hadn’t even occurred to you. The mention of them felt like a slap in the face.

“God, for someone so smart, you’re really stupid. None of us are ready for whatever the hell is out there. We never were!” His voice had that pain in it, the one that shouldn’t belong to someone so young. “We all wish it could be crazy fun teen shit all the time, but we have to move forward. And we have to do it together, so we don’t leave each other behind. That means you have to move on.”

“Damn,” you let his words sink in. “When did you get so wise?”

“Sophomore year,” he said precisely. “When I had a mental breakdown over chem class and you told me the exact same thing.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You told me that the crying and the failing happened to everyone, but that I couldn’t dwell on it and stay stagnant. I had to be the best version of my myself, and that included moving forward from my mistakes.”

You remembered that moment. Peter had been curled up against the wall of his tiny, dirty dorm room and you, Bruce and Tony had coaxed him out with the promise of ice cream and you knew for the first time in your life that you always wanted those boys in your life. You smiled at Peter.

“Sneaky trick, Parker.”

“I learned from the best.”

Your phone buzzed against the roof and you picked it up before it rattled off the edge. Wanda had called three times, and she was calling again.

“Hello?”

“Where are you? Peter said you were crying?”

You shot a look over at the brunette and he played dumb. “Yeah, I was.”

“Well I was worried about you! You usually come home and change by now, or at least tell me you’ll be late but…” her voice morphed into concern. “What happened?”

You didn’t want to be at home right now. In fact, you didn’t want this night to be like all the others—with you laying in bed until your mind finally shut down. You turned to Peter and Ned and mouthed a question, to which they nodded vigorously.

“Hey Wanda, I was thinking we could get some food and catch up. Say, 11th Street Diner?”

She grappled for words before giving a snort of disbelief. “You’re a heart attack, you know that?”

“Meet me at 8.”

                                          *            *            *            *

Wanda had brought everyone—and by everyone you meant her usual motley crew of Clint Barton, Nat, her boyfriend and her brother. They were all wreaking havoc in different sections of the diner: Pietro, Peter and Ned were outside filming skateboarding tricks while Vision was taking his sweet time picking something at the jukebox. Nat and Clint had taken seats at the bar to get their food faster, leaving you and Wanda sipping your shared milkshake. Strawberry, like you both liked.

“Wanna hear a secret?”

“Tell me.”

You two used to do this when you realized you hadn’t talked in a while. You’d tell her something no one else knew, because she was both your roommate and the best at keeping secrets. So, you leaned over and whispered into her ear about the time you gave Quentin Beck a hand job in the corner booth of this very diner, and she sucked down her drink to keep from screaming with laughter. Or possibly disgust.

“How long have you been keeping that in?” Pink liquid still escaped her mouth and you handed her a napkin.

“Since we dated.”

“Do you regret it?”          

“While I never want to do it again, no, I don’t.”

“It’s breaking the rules, but can I ask for another secret?”

You tilted your head. “‘Fraid I’m all out.”

“Not quite,” she said coyly. “What happened, when Peter said you were crying?”

You watched the ice in your drink while you swirled your straw and monotonously recounted the events of your disastrous advising meeting and the roof with Peter and Ned. Wanda’s face fell into its usual pensiveness.

“Is he right?” The question was leading, but you fell for it regardless.

“Yup. Peter and I have established that my subconscious is sabotaging my paper.”

“I always knew you’d be your own worst enemy.” She wasn’t not smug when she said it, but the sip of her milkshake is. You snatched the glass yourself and she pouted.

“You’re right, I just hate hearing people say it.”

“Well, it’s because you’re always in that big brain of yours.” She prodded her finger on your forehead, like fuckin E.T. “And your overly romantic heart.”

“God, you’re like the fourth person whose told me that.” You counted them on your fingers. “You, Bruce, Q, and Steve. That’s entirely too many.”

“Five,” Nat interrupted, walking up to your table with Clint in tow. “I’m saying it now. Also, Bucky Barnes has been staring at you for ten minutes.”

A shot of adrenaline went through your heart. “Bucky Barnes? Where?”

“He’s at the bar, alone, so I suggest you do something about it.”

Wanda looked at you expectantly, then leaned out of the booth to get a look at him. You hissed at her to stop, but her mouth curved into a satisfied grin.

“Well, he sure is handsome. I wouldn’t mind if you ditched us for him, but you’ll have to tell me the details of this later. After you properly explain the Quentin hand job thing.”

“The what now?” Nat’s stoic face broke into one of pure shock, so you found it a good a time as any to escape the tension and enter…new tension.

Bucky turned his head to act like he wasn’t overtly staring at you, but you’d caught the sight of his eyes going wide. You sat on the stool next to him and waved off the server before leaning over the counter.

“You know I can see you even though you aren’t looking at me, right?”

He seemed to be ready for the confrontation now, because when he swiveled around there was confidence painted on his face. He opened his mouth but you stopped him in his tracks.

“Actually, before you say anything, do you want to get out of here? We have an audience.”

He looked behind you to see three sets of eyes peering over the booth you’d just left. He huffed before placing exact change next to his plate and standing up. You followed suit, snatching a few fries off his plate and flipping off your friends.

When you two stood on the curb of the diner, he confessed, “I walked here, so, there’s really nowhere for us to go.”

“Oh.” You realized it was the same for you, but you tried to hide your disappointment with a smile. “That’s okay. We can walk.”

So, you did. When you told him you’d go anywhere but the library, he seemed surprised. “You like, live there.”

“So it would seem. I’m just not really in the mood to do any work tonight.”

“Oh, so it’s one of those days.” He said it so knowingly, and you realize that he is also an English major, and a senior.

“Yeah, I’ve been working on my senior thesis.”

“No shit,” he said, but without the condescension. In fact, he’d been perfectly civil. “Same here.”

He talked about how he was taking Southern Literature because it was dark and surprising. His paper was on the Southern Gothic, and how that idea had moved on to other aspects of modern American ideology. Bucky moved his hands when he talked, his broad shoulders going up and down. He was wearing a blue bomber jacket that you liked because it caught the light from the street lamps nicely.

“What’s yours on?”

“Oh,” you came out of your thoughts abruptly, unsure of what he’d said. “Well, I specifically study film—”

“That makes sense.” He blurted out, and you creased your brows.

“What do you mean?”

He hissed out something to himself. “Nothing, it’s just when you’re on third floor sometimes I see you watching the weirdest shit and I wonder ‘why is she doing that in the library?’”

It took a minute for you to fully understand the implication. “You’ve seen me around?”

He rolls his head with a laugh. “You’re hard to miss.”

This was news to you. You’d flown under the radar for quite some time, never having joined any clubs or sports people could recognize you from. You’d gotten a few compliments on your outfits in the past four years, but nothing you thought could make you known.

He was very good at making your stomach turn into a mosh pit of butterflies. You felt not exactly vulnerable, but strangely delicate around him. Like you were floating on air.

So, to quell that feeling, you replied. “I’d beg to differ.”

“I’ve seen you around the library since, what, sophomore year? You’re always on third floor, you walk in like you own the goddamn place.” He smiled down at the ground when he talks about you. It was the cutest thing in the world to watch him curl his hair behind his ear and smile at you sideways.

“You never noticed me.”

It was true, you hadn’t. “I try to pick through my memories and find you. I feel like I’m retroactively learning about you.”

“Thinking hard?” It’s an accusation you’re okay with, because he was bashful, not arrogant when he said it.

“Maybe.”

You swayed when you walked beside him, thinking you could listen to his stories for hours. At times you felt like you were boring him, because the stories of Austria and internships were large compared to your freshman dorm party memories, but he laughed like he’s never been more entertained in his life.

“I wish I’d talked to you earlier. Gotten your name from your lips before anyone else had said it to me.”

Your eyes widened. “I never told you my name?”

He shook his head, and the hair came out from behind his ears. “No. that day I told you mine, was it the first time you’d heard it?”

“Maybe. I think Steve just calls you ‘Buck’.”

“Steve talked about you first. And then when I became friends with all his adjacent buddies, they talked about you too. And then, of course, when I went back to Quentin that day, he told me.”

“God,” you groaned. “What did he say about me?”

“That you’re smart and crazy and kind. He would say your name like it was cursed and enchanted all at once.”

“And my friends call me romantic,” you rolled your eyes.

“I’ve been branded that too. But I don’t mind it so much. There’s worse things to be.”

“Like what?”

“Like an English Major Prick.” He emphasized that last consonant and you hid you face in your hands.

“You won’t let me live that one down, huh?”

“Maybe. If I like the way you say my name, I might consider it.”

There was a split second where you realized how fragile the moment was; one wrong step and it was broken on the floor like humpty dumpty. You thought of your professor pegging your fear of change. Peter’s words echoed in your brain and you felt like you were jumping off the roof when you said:

“Bucky Barnes, you smooth son of a bitch.”

He smiled, brighter than the moon. All at once, everything that was ever certain was shattered, but you leaped over it and left it behind.

                                           *            *            *            *

Steve called you in one last time about two weeks before the showcase. You were scribbling over the words written by the mystery writer (James, you affectionately called him) while Steve wiped sweat from his brow. And incidentally, paint in his hair.

Tapping your leg to the beat of whatever pretentious song, you were too engrossed in your ‘work’ to hear Steve say “You look happy.”

“What?” you screamed over the music.

He turned it off and sat next to you with a smug look you disliked. You pushed his face away and he only laughed, that big almost fake sound you knew was real.

“Seriously, you’re so empathic that whatever your feel, I feel. And today’s goin’ great.” He gestured to the painting that was supposed to be you, but all you saw were swirls of paint. You took this to mean things were going well.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I had a rough week last week, but things are getting better.”

“Did you talk to your advisor again?”

“Yeah.” Kyle had spent the better part of an hour picking apart your thesis in ways you couldn’t have even imagined. By the end of it you’d had at least three pages worth of new material, but still a hell of a way to go. “Kyle and I worked it out.”

“That’s good. You know my advisor’s freaking out about my work? He thinks it’s too complex.”

“It’s just faces.” It sounded dumb to say, but that was the way you saw it.

Steve picked up your chin. His fingers were wet and cold with paint. “You’re not just a face, Y/N.”

“Ah!” you screamed as lilac rubs off on you. “Let me go, paint monster!”

You dropped your book into his lap as you ran around looking for the sink. Steve’s laughter subsided as he looked down, puzzled at the writing that swirled around the pages of the library book.

“Hey, Y/N?” he called out, but you’re preoccupied with wiping paint off your neck. “Y/N?”

“What?”

“Where’d you get this?”

“The library, doesn’t it say that on the spine?”

“But this hand writing,” His voice tapered off.

You exchanged the book for the rag and assessed James’ words. “I’ve been curious about it too. It was in like, all the books I checked out, isn’t that wild? And—get this—it belongs to some guy named James Buchanan, and we have the same advisor. Isn’t that crazy?”

Steve looked like he was trying to say something, but he eyes turned towards the door as someone knocked twice.

“Yo, punk? You in here?” Bucky’s voice carried into the room. When he walked in, he immediately paused, taking stock of the two of you staring at him.

“Oh,” his voice wavered and a nervous smile appeared. “Hey.”

Steve’s eyes cut to yours, and you feel immense pressure. “Hi, Bucky.”

“Hey, Buck.” Steve’s voice is a bullet, and Bucky turned to him, automatically annoyed. “Y/N has this book I think you’ve read.”

“Oh, which one?” He crossed the room in easy strides, and you were helpless in the situation you thought Steve was orchestrating. When you handed it to him his eyes lit up in recognition as he flipped through it.

“Holy shit, I really wrecked this one, huh? Good thing the university really doesn’t give a shit.”

You were having trouble processing what he’s said. Steve had gotten up wordlessly, but there was a particularly blank look on his face as he avoided your eyes. You turned back to Bucky, who was fondly reading over James’ words.

“Though Scott himself does not adhere to Weaver’s interpretation, the fact still remains that the tension between the Alien and Ripley,” he trailed off with a stunned look. “I was a regular old critic, huh?”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull. “You wrote that?”

He was startled at the way you raised your voice, and answered cautiously. “Yeah, like, years ago. For a film class I took.”

You reeled back at the information. You fought the urge to open your backpack and ask him if he’d written in all the other books, but that couldn’t—how could he be—

“I checked out, like, seven books from the library this semester and they all have the same handwriting in them. And then, I found out that it matched to a guy named James Buchanan—”

“Barnes,” He finished.

“What? No. That’s not what I saw.”

“That’s my name. James Buchanan Barnes.”  

You sat there dumbly, your eyes narrowed in thought. There was no fucking way that he’d written in all these film books. In every single one you’d painstakingly read with romantic ideals and dreaming of who it’d belong to and how you’d meet. The fantasies were crumbling around you, leaving you in the dust.

Bucky’s face was earnest though. Steve was silent behind both of you, painting away like your worlds weren’t colliding.

“You. Okay,” you restarted. “If your name is Bucky,”

“Doll, it’s a nickname—”

“Let me finish.” You ignored the ‘doll’ part and tried to Sherlock your way through this. “If everyone you know calls you Bucky Barnes, why did you write ‘James Buchanan” on Kyle’s sign-up sheet?”

Bucky settled into the stool Steve had been sitting on. “It’s a joke between the two of us. He thinks it’s funny, so I humor him when I can.”

“Okay but, the books are companion pieces for films, I thought you were an English lit major?”

“I am, but I took Intro Film sophomore year.”

“What? With who.”

“Kyle.”

You thought back to two years ago, when you’d been new to the world of film, and you’d met Kyle for the first time. You’d aced that class with flying colors, quickly becoming one of his star students. Coincidentally, so was Quentin Beck, a cock sure boy who got into arguments over any little thing with you. The two of you were the most outspoken in the class, and you never paid much mind to anyone that wasn’t him. But there had been other people that would wait after class for a moment with the professor, and it was in those memories that you recalled him.

Brunette hair, but far shorter. Crystal blue eyes and impeccable clothes. Bucky.

“That…you were in that class? But I never—”

“You never noticed me.” His voice was resigned and so was his smile. He’d told you this before, that he’d seen you around before, but you never imagined he’d known you since sophomore year. “I remembered you from all the way back then: you had long, shiny, impeccable hair and this glint in your eye whenever you talked. Which was a lot. You could dazzle the class just by breathing. And I sat rows and rows behind you, and never spoke. There was no reason you would have ever seen me.”

There was a wavering sadness in his voice, and for a moment, Bucky looked exactly as he did in Steve’s portrait: haunted by the past, unable to fix it.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I just now figuring out that you’re the boy of my dreams?”

There was music playing in the background that hadn’t been there before; a cozy, soft melody by one of Steve’s favorite artists. It matched Bucky’s breathlessness as he gazed at you with a tilted head and eyes full of hope. A far cry from just seconds before.

“What did you say?”

“I’ve been thinking about this mysterious ‘James Buchanan’ who’s written exactly what I think, and has seen all the same movies as me. And I’ve been wondering what he’s like, or if he’s nice, of if he’d ever even like me if I met him.”

A coy smile stretched across his face. “Well, what is he like?”

“He’s,” you blanked for a moment, trying to tone down all the wildly romantic thoughts you’ve been having ever since you’d met Bucky Barnes. You decided to risk it all and tell him the truth.

“He’s very smart; he reads Faulkner but think Hurston has more heart. He dresses like he already has his PhD but it looks good on him. He’s sweet but extremely romantic, which is okay because I could listen to him talk for hours. He’s a bit of a prick, though.”

He hung his head back when he laughed at the last part, and you felt your heart swell tremendously. He wasn’t mocking you. He was agreeing with you. You knew this to be true.

“Well, do you think he does like you?” Bucky suddenly became serious. He was nervous.

“I don’t know, does he?”

“Can you two just fucking kiss already?”

Bucky threw something at Steve, but you couldn’t tell what. In the moment he threw it you were laughing, but once it’s over his hand slid onto your face and pulled you into a kiss. Your eyes closed when you felt it, and he tilted his head to keep you occupied. Otherwise you would have heard Steve triumphantly yell “yes!” behind you two.

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. His blue, blue eyes were so much lovelier this close. He whispered, “I think he does.”

You kissed him quick, once, then twice, then sighed contentedly. “Good. I like him too.”

“Well I for one am happy for them.”

This time you see a wet paintbrush beam for Steve’s eye. “Less talking, more painting, punk!”

                                          *            *            *            *

Bucky is lost in thought when the door to Kyle’s office opened. There was a low chatter between two people and he looked up to see Kyle propped up in the door was as you spoke to him. You were dressed up nicely in a tweed coat that matched his own.

Kyle’s eyes rested on the chair Bucky sat in and he perked up in recognition. “Oh, James,” he said, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for me?”

“No, not you.” He stood up and brushed out the wrinkles in his shirt before coming to your side. You gave him a quick smile before turning back to your professor, whose face was openly shocked.

“Oh,” he said in a dubious, but delighted voice. “So, this is happening.”  

“We’re going to the senior art exhibition to see our friend’s graduation project,” you explained, looking rather annoyed at the two men. “We’re both in one of his paintings.”

“Together?” he asked, a bit of scandal in his voice.

“No,” you droned, shutting it down. “Mind your business.”

“You’re both my advisees, this is my business.”

“Good night, Kyle,” you said pointedly, turning around and marching down the hall. Kyle sent a congratulatory wink at Bucky, who acknowledged it with a salute.

As he caught up with you, he handed back a thick essay, riddled with blue ink and yellow highlighter. You added it to another similar essay, one with exclamation points and significantly less marks.

“How’d he like it?” Bucky made conversation as you two trekked across campus. Winter made the nighttime seem even darker, but the two of you glowed underneath the street lamps.

“He loved it. Said it was infinitely better, and then apologized for the millionth time for making me cry.”

“What did he say about the part about Ripley and the Alien?”

You shot him that crazy grin, the one that looked unbelievably beautiful as you approached the traffic lights. Your face was highlighted in red and Bucky thought of the painting you two were about to witness.

“He didn’t say a thing. I should have cited you on that.”

“I’m not a published writer.”

“I know. But one day when you are, I can tell people I gave you your start.”

Bucky laughed, mostly to keep his heart from beating out of his ribcage. Crazy, crazy girl.

You two entered the exhibition hall and traded your backpacks for flutes of fake champagne. The room was lighted lowly, the works of art brandished with bright lights to show off their artistry. You two walked through still life paintings and abstract canvases, marveling some he understood and other’s that made him think.

“Art’s not my forte,” he confided. You hummed, taking a lofty sip.

“Mine either. But they’re gorgeous.”

You floated down the hall as if pulled by a string, and Bucky noticed what you were hung up on.

Steve’s paintings were hanging in a trapezoid shape, and when you walked closer, they seemed to engulf you in color. To your left was Sam and to your right was Bucky, but you stared dead ahead at yourself.

Bucky had seen the painting early, per Steve’s request. He’d helped him move them from his apartment, and had seen the three of you looking very somber and one another.

You were silent as you examined the pieces, and Bucky strode right up to your side.

“So, what do you think?” you started. “I know art isn’t your forte.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

You hummed, pointing to your right. “I like this one better.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you like about it?”

“His eyes; they’re so expressive. I remember being moved when I saw the reference picture. It’s haunting, but ethereal.”

This wasn’t poking fun now, you genuinely meant it. Bucky tilted his head.

“I was thinking about the future.”

“But you’re looking back.”

“Isn’t that ironic?” There was no humor in his voice. “I was thinking about how it could be the last time I ever modeled for Stevie, done everything at his beck and call, whatever the fuck he wanted. How it was my last year to do something impressive, something memorable. How I had,” he eyes looked to yours for a flash, but you caught his meaning. “Wishes. Regrets.”

Your hand snaked up his back and rested on his shoulder. The touch burned and comforted him all at once. “Do you still have them?”

“Some of them. Not all of them.” He gave you a smile and a quick kiss. Not you.

“Good. That’d be a shame. These three deserve to be happy.”

“They look so beautiful when they’re upset, though.”

“Don’t they?” you sighed and laid your head on his shoulder. “They should hang them in The Louvre.”    

“They’d shove me in the back.”

Steve’s voice echoed from your left, and Sam strolled up with him. He stared at his own giant face, all mellowed out with blues and pinks.

“This face deserves to be in every museum. Front and center.”

“God, I did not miss the sound of your voice,” Bucky groaned.

“And I didn’t miss your sour attitude Barnes, and yet here we are. Y/N, remind me again why you’re with this loser?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. He’s had a crush on me for a looong time,” you drawled, lacing your hands together when Bucky rolled his eyes. “Decided to give him a shot.”

“I’m glad you did. Now he can finally stop talking about you with that look one his face.”

“What look? You mean that one?” Sam pointed to the portrait.

“That same exact one.”

“I’m leaving.” Bucky marched back the way he came, with you, Sam and Steve laughing at his heels. He tried to turn away and hide his smile, but everything was falling into place very nicely. All those wishes and regrets withered when he walked back to the entrance and found all their friends gathered loosely on the street.

Bucky had never been part of a friend group so large, but they cheered at his arrival. You greeted everyone in different ways; shoving Peter light heartedly, hugging Bruce and telling Tony to fuck off. They walked as a pack down the street to the 11th street diner, stupid, young and infallible as they all jaywalked, hollering like they were committing murder and not a minor traffic offence. In the hilarious chaos your hand found Bucky’s and you ran like hell, racing Pietro though you two knew you would lose. He kissed the back of your hand. Tony gagged.  

He wished they could always be like this.

[axelsagewrites]

Late night conversations

Masterlist HERE

Wattpad HERE

Harry: 

Everything was stressful. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and (Y/N) were searching for Horcruxes, not knowing if their loved ones were alive.

One night when Ron was passed out in a food coma and Hermione was reading before bed Harry and (Y/N) sat on a makeshift couch in the tent.

(Y/N) cuddled into her boyfriend's side as he played with her hair. "If it wasn't for the war what would you be doing right now?" (Y/N) broke the silence.

Harry seemed shocked for a second "Well, um. Probably be at Hogwarts I guess."

"And after that?"

"Id hopefully be an Auror. Move out into a flat. Maybe have you'd live with me?" He said shyly.

She grinned lightly "That'd be nice. We would probably fight over how to decorate though."

"No." Harry shook his head "I wouldn't even try. You'd be fully in charge."

(Y/N) nodded "Good. I'd probably try become a..." most of the night the two stayed up talking about what they'd be doing, how many kids they'd have, where they'd live.

"Do you think we could do it? After the war I mean." (Y/N) asked.

"Of course. We're gonna make it through and make a little Potter Quidditch team."

"Were not having 7 kids!"

"I'm the last of my name!"

Ron: 

As the night went on people began leaving the common room till it was just Harry, Ron and (Y/N).

Until "I need to go to bed. quidditch tomorrow."

"Boring!" (Y/N) called after him as he went up the stairs. Once it was silent she turned to Ron. "So..."

"So..." He looked to the floor. "what do you wanna talk about?" Ron asked, scratching his head.

"Dunno. Um, oh if you could relive any day what day would it be and why?" (Y/N) propped her head up on her fist.

Ron leaned back "Decisions, decisions. Probably-probably the day I met you." He looked at her with a shy smile.

(Y/N) looked down, face as red as his hair "Since when were you sweet?"

"Since we're finally alone. I mean we get a couple hours alone at Hogsmeade but that's kinda it."

(Y/N) frowned "Yeah, guess your right. Maybe we should just ditch everyone tomorrow." Ron looked up "Seriously. We write a note and just spend the day alone."

"And where would we go?"

Huffing, she pondered over all the places in the castle. Suddenly a lightbulb moment "The room of requirement! Cmon, it'd be fun."

Ron faked thought over the idea "Let's do it". (Y/N) clapped. "We should do this once a week though."

"At least."

Hermione: 

It was summertime and (Y/N) was visiting their girlfriend Hermione when they decided she might as well spend the night.

Hermione's parents had set up the couch with tons of pillows and blankets but (Y/N) couldn't sleep.

When she heard someone walking down the stairs she clamped her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. "Hey, you awake?" she heard Hermione whisper.

With a sigh she sat up "Yeah," she whispered back "Wanna sit?" Hermione didn't need to be told twice and the two cuddled up on the couch.

"Why can't you sleep?" Hermione asked.

(Y/N) stayed quiet for a second "Its just with everything going on going to sleep seems so weak. Like anything could happen and I wouldn't be ready to protect myself or you or anyone else. The darkness just kinda crushes you."

Hermione didn't know what to say "Wow. I didn't expect that." It was quiet for a few moments "I couldn't sleep either. But it was because of you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you." She nodded "All I could think was I have this wonderful amazing person downstairs on my couch and I'm trying to sleep. how can I sleep when I could be spending time with you."

"You're sweet." (Y/N) couldn't help but smile "Well lets sleep, together."

"Forever," Hermione mumbled.

The next morning her parents saw you both on the couch but said nothing. next time you went to Hermione's house you did, however, see a framed picture of you two on the mantle, along with all the other family pictures.

Draco: 

It was a couple of years after the war, the memories of the horror slowly faded, and (Y/N) and Draco had moved into a modest apartment. No one had expected the pair to last through the war but the rings on their fingers said otherwise.

(Y/N) eyes fluttered open. Glancing at the clock, they saw it was only 3 am. Groaning, (Y/N) turned trying to get into a better position but accidentally walking Draco.

"Is it morning?" he mumbled.

"Only 3 am." They groaned. "Now I'm thirsty."

"Wait here." Draco dragged himself from bed to get his love a glass of water.

"Thanks," she reached out to take the glass. Draco got back in bed and the pair was silent. "Do you think dolphins have feelings?" (Y/N) asked out of the blue.

"What?" Draco laughed.

(Y/N) sat the water on her bedside table, turning to face him properly after. "Some muggle researches think they can understand humans so what about emotions?"

"I think its too early for this conversation." He said, moving to lay down properly.

(Y/N) curled up on his side "Humour me."

Draco sighed "Sure. They probably do."

"Thought so."Draco shook his head at his crazy spouse. He'd have it no other way.

Fred: 

Fred and (Y/N) got basically no alone time. Between dormmates, friends, George, and the teachers who apparently didn't love love so there were few times they could be alone.

It was Christmas break and (Y/N) went to visit Fred and the Weasleys. They assumed they'd be able to escape for a date in the Muggle town nearby but when they said they were leaving George invited himself, not realising it was a date. When George caught on Ginny and Ron had also invited themselves so there was no going back.

That's how it went most of the day. At one point they thought they had a chance hiding in the broom shed but then Ginny had gone looking for you for advice.

It was around midnight and the house was silent apart from the snores. Molly had insisted (Y/N) stay in Ginny's room. ginny was passed out and nothing would wake her so (Y/N) was fine to keep a candle burning to read (Y/N)'s book by.

Knock knock. (Y/N) looked at the door, before getting out of bed with a silent huff. They opened the door partly at first but when they saw Fred they stepped into the hallway. "Whats up?" they whispered.

"We're alone." He whispered grin etched on his face "What would you say to a midnight snack."

Being as quiet as possible they escaped to the kitchen where they were able to talk quietly instead of whispering.

"Sorry," Fred started "you know, for the lack of privacy."

"I don't mind that much," Fred gave (Y/N) a look "Really. I think its cool you've got a big family. Lots of love."

Fred took a bite of his biscuit before asking, with food in his mouth "So would you want a big family?"

"First of all, I don't want to see your food." Fred gave a cheeky grin "And yeah I guess it could be cool. But theirs no way in hell I'm pushing out a full quidditch team." Fred snorted "What about you?"

"Maybe, I guess. But honestly," he hesitated, "I think smaller would be better. I love the Weasley clan but theirs 7 of us between two parents. Sometimes it feels like you're an afterthought."

(Y/N) frowned "I didn't realise."

"Yeah, no one does. That's why we started pranking. Got us noticed. Plus at school, it got us attention too. I know mum and dad try but they can only be there so much."

Fred stared glumly at his biscuit "Hey, your never an afterthought around me," Fred perked up slightly. "You're always on my mind. It's a pain in the ass really." He chuckled.

"Well I'm not sorry," it was silent for a few moments "So...wanna start on that making babies thing?" Fred pulled (Y/N) closer by the waist.

"Your families upstairs!" but (Y/N) couldn't stop a chuckle.

"So?"

George: 

Gryffindor was having a party meaning George and (Y/N) could sneak off to his dorm. Not for that reason! Pervs. Just cuddling.

As time went on they began to get drowsy. The whole night they talked about random crap, nothing makes much sense. Until George asked "Why did you pick me? You could've had Fred or pretty much any other guy in the school."

"Because I wanted you." (Y/N) tried to dodge the question.

George didn't give up "Why?"

(Y/N) turned to face him properly "Because your you. Because you make me smile, and laugh. Because you're sweet to me. Your caring and smart even though your not a straight O student. Who else would've been able to turn a corridor into a swamp?"

"Me and Fred did it together."

(Y/N) sighed "But who came up with the idea? You. Plus Fred doesn't make me laugh like you, or smile by just being in the room. theirs so many little things about you that make you perfect."

George looked away. "Thanks. It's just weird. Like me and Fred are always seen as like one person so it's strange having you to myself. Good strange though."

"Well I'm glad it's the good strange," they chuckled, drawing circles on his chest with their finger. "Otherwise we'd have issues. And you'll always have me to yourself."

"Always?"

"Always."

[lifeofalaurie]

my uwc story

i remember reading through uwc blogs when i had just found out about uwc and when i was applying and going through all those months of WAITING for the next step...and they were so helpful. im so glad these exist

i first found out uwc through my brother’s friend, who actually went to UWC atlantic college (where im headed!!!!) a few years back. it was one ordinary saturday afternoon (idk if it was actually saturday but that sounds right) and we were carpooling with said friend (usually i dont participate in these but i happened to be in the car that day) and we were talking about next year and whatever and she just kinda said that she wasn’t going to be back next year bc she was going to this ‘abroad’ program. i didnt even really think about it that much. i in fact forgot about it after that...apparently my dad did not.

so my dad would talk about it here and there but i was NOT INTERESTED for that whole year..then...i started researching a bit myself and thought oh this sounds kind of cool. i still didn't really get what UWC even was or if was even a legit thing. it just sounded like another boarding school (a huge NO for me). then i saw that there was a such thing as a “short program” (or maybe someone actually told me about it) and i decided to apply for the one at the USA campus in New Mexico. i remember writing the essays over winter break and thinking they were pretty terrible (there was also a skype interview involved and that was rough) so i was pretty shocked when i found out i had gotten in but it worked out well bc my fam was going to arizona anyway a week before that so i just flew to new mexico myself after that (i say that casually but we had to cancel tickets and get new ones so that i could go to new mexico instead of home PLUS i had to fly for myself for the first time and i was pretty confused). (also, the program is called global leadership forum or GLF)

after hermit’s peak hike (ALL UPHILL FOR A SOLID 4-5 HOURS) i think it was like 8 miles IDK. view was so nice though 10/10

GLF turned out to be an amazing experience and really solidified my trust in UWC and confirmed to me that it was indeed a real thing. i really loved how much we did in those 2 and half weeks or so - camping, hiking, interacting w wolves, having important discussions - and it really pushed me to decide to apply to UWC for real. maybe ill talk more about it in another post!!!!

ok so coming home i did even more research and really really started liking UWC and decided that i might as well try to apply. i knew they never had a certain ‘criteria’ for students but i also knew it was a long and stressful process and involved really digging deep so i really didn’t think much of it (didn’t think i really had a chance) after submitting my written application. and then began the long waiting game...

here’s a nice picture of the sky @ a wolf reservation! just wanted to add a nice pic 

i never joined any of those fb groups or college confidential things for applicants and good thing bc looking at some of them now stress me out so i wouldve probably been even more stressed if i had been involved in that. also i didnt even know they existed until later so thats also probably why.

anyway i had totally forgotten about UWC (more like i was sure they’d forgotten about me or there had been something wrong like my application wasn’t submitted or something) bc i didnt hear back until the end of november (i submitted the application early october). but finding out i was a semifinalist was kind of traumatic bc in my GLF snapchat group one of my friends (who’s going to Pearson this year!!!) said he’d moved on to the next stage and i hadn’t GOTTEN ANY EMAIL. i think i just accepted it that that was the end. but then a few hours passed when i finally decided to check a different email and, alas, there it was. so a few days later, i got an email from my interviewer when we should do our skype interview and it turned out to be the same day i was taking the ACT. good

the interview turned out to be completely ok and actually really great (enjoyable even!!?). if youre at that stage, seriously the best advice i have is to just chill and be honest when youre answering. also, make it more like a conversation rather than the interviewers (yes there are prob going to be more than 1 but i assure u its ok) asking u questions back and forth. think of it as a conversation- that helped me so much to relax. the interviewers just wants to talk to you and find out what kind of person you are and if youre the same one that wrote all those deep meaningful essays from the written application - so if you were honest from the start youll be completely fine...if not, well..sry

after that, school and extracurriculars and life really went up for me and i just forgot about UWC again. i never really told any of my friends about it or anyone except for my parents. i kind of wanted it to be a personal thing- get in or not in the end.

after a really good last day of school before winter break, i went to the town library (lol) and checked my phone and therE IT WAS. I WAS A FINALIST WHICH MEANT I WOULD BE GOING TO THE UWC USA CAMPUS FOR FINALIST WEEKEND. did not know what to expect

waiting for finalist weekend felt looooong

but it came

i flew there myself AND IT WASNT EVEN DIRECT and i remember feeling so independent and proud for making it. it turned out i was one of the later ones and in the last group to be bussed over (but i met a friend on the bus who i still talk to here and there who is going to RBC this yr!!). we were so late we missed the initial meeting and first night of activities and just went straight to the hotel. at the hotel i saw my interviewer and she gave me a hug (<3) and that helped calm me down and it was also really nice to see her in person bc i remember really liking her during our skype interview. then finalist weekend happened. and im pretty sure im not supposed to expose the process so all i can say was that it was actually so genuinely fun and a real good time 

UWC USA <3 

at the end we all exchanged social media and fb and all that and started a messenger group chat -- as nice as it was to be able to connect to everyone, i think it really stressed everyone out. they told us that results would come out early that week (FALSE). THAT WEEK AFTER FINALIST WEEKEND WAS THE MOST STRESSFUL THING EVER. IT TOOK YEARS FOR IT TO GO BY. i remember constantly checking my email between classes and everyone in the group chat wondering if anyone had heard. then on wed night, we all got an email that said the results would be notified by friday instead. the worst

i remember that friday evening i was packing for my first hackathon (it was fun) and thinking the call wouldnt come until later that night. people were freaking out all over the group chat. then, as i was scrambling packing my sweatpants into my bag, the home phone started ringing and i ran..RAN TO THE PHONE. it said my interviewer’s name on the caller ID and i was like OK THIS I S REAL. and i picked it up and it turned out i was too late so i frantically called back probably 10 times on multiple different phones (my efforts did not work). but then, i got a call to the home phone again and it was her so i picked up RIGHT AWAY and when she told me... i kid you not that i screamed and ran around my house a few times. so thats it. it was kind of a really long and sstressful process for sure, but SOO WORTH IT. i definitely learned a lot just from that process bc it makes you think and reflect a lot all throughout. weeee

if youre even thinking about applying please GO FOR IT (well as long as ur in the right age limit, 16-18.... and also make sure you’ve done some research to get a feel for it).. but just DO IT. and u can ask me questions if u want and ill answer to the best of my personal ability (but remember that im just one person and one experience and each person’s experience is completely different)

here is the general website btw:

https://www.uwc.org/

i will probably do another post to explain UWC - at least in my own words and perspective!

<3 <3 <3

[raspberry-starship]

Start reading the series here.

Masterlist for this book is here.

Read by scrolling up the tag here.

A/N: OKEY!! So, this chapter includes a heavy amount of (imagined) smut, so if you don't like that, then you can skip part of this chapter! I've marked the smut by putting an extra empty line between the paragraphs where it starts and then stops. I tried writing this part different ways, but this is the only way that felt right to me.

WARNINGS: smut

• PART TWO: IN ANOTHER LIFE WITH[OUT] YOU •

Sam was wandering towards the bathroom to brush his teeth. He came from the library and specifically went the way that would take him past Dean’s room. Four days had passed since they dropped Ren off at that train station, and since then, things had been somewhat peaceful. It did seem like the dream had eased some of Dean’s pent-up need from the Mark, but there was an elephant in the room—both of them were wondering how long it would last. When Sam went past bunk 11, there was no noise, and he assumed it was because Dean had his headphones on. And so, he kept walking.

As he was rinsing after brushing his teeth, the phone he’d left on the shelf beside the sink began to vibrate. He frowned and turned to see the screen lit up with a name he hadn’t seen on caller ID in a long while.

Sadie Eldredge was calling him.

He spat out his water quickly and then cleared his throat. Just before the last dial tone, he managed to pick up, and his voice sounded awfully shrill to his own ears.

“Sadie, hey.” He winced at his awkwardness.

“Hey, Sam.” She said, the smile audible in her voice. “How are you?”

“I’m—I’m good, yeah.” Sam nodded, beginning to pace around aimlessly in the bathroom. “H—how about you? How’s school?”

“School’s alright, thank you for asking.” She replied sweetly. He could imagine the smile she had on her face at that. “How are you?”

“Oh, uh, I’m alright.” He realized that he hadn’t replied to her email, two weeks ago, and before that he’d been almost a month late in replying. “I—I’m sorry that I didn’t email you back, I got a little caught up and then it just slipped my, uh, mind.”

“’S okay, Sam.” Her voice was patient, “I know you got a lot on your plate, so don’t you worry about that.”

“No, I mean, I—I want to keep talking with you. I need to, uh, make time for my own things, and I’ve just been…” He sighed, “…doing badly with that lately.”

“Hm.” She was clearly about to tease, “And since when were you ever good at not makin’ everybody else’s problems your own?”

He let out a soft laugh, “I guess that’s a fair point.”

“Well, I’m not saying that you’re on the hook for forgetting to email me back, but I will point out that most normal people use a phone to keep in touch.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

He smirked, “Oh, do they?”

“Yeah, Spaceman.” She let out a soft snort of laughter, “I know you’re busy but you’ll give me a call if you need to talk, right?”

He nodded, “Of course.”

“Good.” There was a creak from the other end of the phone, and he realized that she was pacing around, too. “Well, I called because I think I caught wind of a case.”

“Really?” Sam’s brows rose, “Where?”

“In my backyard.” She replied, “You think you can make a trip up here to Chicago, Spaceman?”

He smiled despite himself, “Yeah, I think I could manage that.”

“Well, good.” She said warmly, “’Cause there are some people here that would like to see you before the sky falls down. Again.”

He smiled, “We are pretty good at making that happen.”

“Mm, I know.” She teased, “I’ll give you my address—you and Dean can stay at our apartment while you’re looking into it.”

“Oh, no, Sadie, we wouldn’t want to impose—”

“—Yeah, yeah, but I want you to impose.” She replied easily, “And I hear you’ve got my car.”

Sam smiled, “Oh, now I see what this is really about.”

“Am I that transparent, Spaceman?” She smirked gleefully—he could practically see her doing it.

“Sadie, you couldn’t be opaque if you tried.” He replied, making her laugh—it was genuine and honey-sweet, just like he remembered.

“Fair enough.” She sighed, “Well, anyways, I’d take care of the case myself but you’ve kinda got all my weapons now, don’t you?”

“Do you have stuff to keep yourself safe?” He asked, immediately concerned.

“Yeah, I got a machete in my nightstand and wards up in my windows.” She replied with tired adoration before quickly moving on, “Now, enough worrying and tell me whether you’re in or not.”

He smiled, biting his lip and nodding. “Alright, yeah, I’ll tell Dean.”

She snorted a bit, “Ian says ‘hi’, by the way.”

“Psh…” Sam shook his head, “Tell him I said ‘hi’, too. And, uh, we’ll be there soon.��

“Alright, talk to y’ later.” She smiled, “Oh, and, Sam?”

“Hm?” He raised his brows.

“No street-racing the Evo.” She said, smiling as he chuckled, “I know that’ll be hard for you but the thing’s past its prime.”

“Oh, come on, now, give it a little credit.” Sam smirked, “He’s still got some spark left in him.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She beamed, “Have you decided on the gender of my car?”

“Yeah,” Sam crossed his free arm over his chest with a playful smirk, “we’ve been, uh, getting pretty close while he’s been staying here.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve gotten attached!” She laughed, and he could imagine the little blush in her cheek.

“I might have a little bit.” Sam joked, listening to her laugh again and savoring it for a moment.

“Alright, well, I’ll let you go.” Her voice was soft, like an image that comes out of putting vaseline on a camera lens. “Text me and let me know when you’ll get here.”

“Will do.”

“Alright.” He could hear her smile, “See you soon, Spaceman.”

“Bye.” He said before they both pulled their phones away from the ears and hung up.

Sam told Dean and, of course, he was in. It was a bit silly, to Sam’s rational mind, that he was just running over to her when she hadn’t told him a thing about the case, but then again, he knew that she wasn’t about to waste his time. He and Dean agreed to get a start in the morning, so they could sleep a bit more. Sam had been almost tempted to just go alone, worried about what Dean might get up to, but the thought of him back here without supervision seemed worse. He knew that the only thing that had stopped Dean when he’d been beating up Cath was Sam’s voice shouting at him.

The address Sadie provided was on a quiet street in Roger’s Park. The apartment building was old, with a brick facade and tall windows. When they pulled into the alley that she told them was safe to park the cars in, the grated side door to the building opened. As Sam stepped out of the Evo, he turned to see a familiar boy with sandy-brown hair and a big grin waiting.

“Ian?” Sam asked in disbelief.

Without another word exchanged, Ian ran over, wrapping Sam up in a hug. Sam beamed, chuckling a little and patting him on the back.

“It’s been a while, buddy.” Sam said as they pulled apart, “Did you get taller?”

“Hell, yeah, dude!” Ian nodded proudly, “I’m five-nine now—bigger than Cath! Sadie is super bitter because I’m gonna be taller than her someday and we both know it.”

“Ah, well, on that front, I am sympathetic.” Dean came around from the Impala, giving Ian a small smile, clearly nervous. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi, Dean.” Ian smiled just as brightly at him as he had at Sam and walked over without hesitation, giving him a hug. At first, Dean was surprised, but then he got in a few pats on the back before Ian pulled back, “It’s nice to see you.”

“Yeah, it’s, uh, good to see you too, kid.” Dean patted Ian’s shoulder a bit stiffly, looking a little nervous, “But, show us the apartment, will ‘ya? It’s fuckin’ freezing out here.”

“Mm.” Ian nodded very seriously as he led them to the side door. “They really don’t call it the windy city for nothin’, I’ll tell you that.”

He continued chatting away as they went up all five flights of stairs to the top floor. Ian held the door open for them and they walked in, finding themselves in a tiny kitchen—now made more cramped by the two giant men standing in the middle of it. Sam ducked his head to avoid some multi-colored lights hanging in the doorway to the living room. The place was nice, with miss-matched string lights hung around the room and a bunch of plants sitting on the coffee table and window sill. There was a dining table to the left and beyond it was a hall that led further into the apartment.

Sam was about to ask where Ian’s roommate was when another familiar figure appeared in the doorway from the hall. Sadie yanked out the headphones she had in her ears, looking a little shocked to see him in her apartment. Her hair was longer now, falling down to her breast, and there was a soft redness to her cheeks. She wore a long-sleeved coral shirt and, for him, she donned a big smile.

“H—hi.” She stumbled, chuckling a little, “Sorry, I was just about to text and ask where you were!”

“Hey.” Sam replied, finding himself a bit out of breath.

There was another moment of hesitation, then she walked over to wrap her arms around his neck. He let his duffel fall off his arm and onto the floor, his other hand immediately going to hold her back. She gave him a squeeze and then they pulled apart.

“You cut your hair differently.” She commented with that sweet, teasing smile.

“Uh, yeah.” Sam chuckled nervously and ran a hand over the hair in question.

“It looks nice, Spaceman.” She said softly, her stare unwavering. It was going to take him some time to get used to the intensity of her gaze again.

“Thanks.” He felt heat rushing to his cheeks, and he remembered he had something for her. “Oh, and, uh,” He quickly fumbled to get her keys, holding them out, “he’s out in the alley next to the Impala.”

She beamed, taking the keys from him. “Thank you, Sam.”

He smirked, “Wouldn’t wanna keep you two apart for much longer.”

She grinned up at him, “Gosh, you are just too sweet on me, Spaceman.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I can’t be staying over at your house without some kind of repayment.”

With a good-natured shake of her head, she tucked the keys away, “You’re always welcome here, car or not.”

The moment became a bit softer now, and his voice was quieter than he’d meant for it to be when he replied, “Thanks, Sadie.”

“Of course.” She smiled, “Though, I do very much appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

He nodded once again, “Anytime.”

“Mm.” She smirked and shook her head, staring up at him in what he might describe as adoration, “Always prepared.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam shrugged, “I thought you might change your mind if I didn’t bring him.”

She laughed at that, shaking her head and glancing down. He watched her with rapt attention, the smile on his face soft and his eyes glued to her. Dean, who’d been occupying Ian in the kitchen, then came in. Sam stepped aside quickly, and Sadie hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans.

“Hi, there.” She said, wondering if he would be okay with hugging her or not.

You should just go for it, he was pretty touched when I hugged him. He’s goin’ through a lot, Ian’s voice spoke in her head. Without another thought, she walked forward and gave Dean a brief hug.

“Heya, Sadie.” He said as they embraced.

“How’s it goin’, Dean?” She asked, the two of them pulling apart with a mutual pat on the shoulder.

“Eh, y’know.” He shrugged, “I, uh, heard you’re gonna be beat for tallest Eldredge, soon.”

Sadie gaped and turned to look at Ian. “We don’t know that for certain yet!”

Ian laughed, while Dean gave her a solid clap on the shoulder.

“Denial is the first stage. I know from experience.” He jerked his head towards his younger brother who rolled his eyes with a smile. Dean returned to addressing Sadie, “So, uh, where should we put our stuff down, Scraps?”

Ian laughed at the new nickname, while Sadie only rolled her eyes, unable to completely subdue a smile.

“Over here.” She led them into the first room outside the living room. It was big and a bit sparse, with one bed and an air mattress on the floor. “I figured you two would be a little tall for the couch, but if you’d prefer it over the blow-up bed, then that’s cool with me.”

“Nah, you know what, we’ll be fine.” Dean said, moving to set his stuff down.

Sam stayed still in the doorway, looking around at the couple decorations in the room, and the desk sitting in front of the windows. He turned to Sadie.

“Is this… your room?” He asked.

“Yeah.” She nodded, “It was me and Cath’s when she was here, and it’s the bigger one, so I thought you two would be more comfortable in here.”

“Thanks.” He said genuinely.

She beamed, “I’m just tryin’ my best to be a good host, Spaceman.”

With a little smirk, she went off to do something else. Sam watched her go and then turned back to the room. Dean was frozen with his brows raised pointedly at his brother.

“What?” Sam frowned deeply.

“Dude.” Dean smirked, “What kinds of emails have you two been sending each other?”

Sam felt heat rising to his cheeks and he quickly went to put his stuff on the bed. “Shut up.”

“Alright.” Dean relented immediately, “I’m gonna take this one if that’s okay with you?”

Sam nodded, voice tight as he said, “Sure.”

If Dean noticed the anxiety in Sam’s voice, he didn’t let it on. Slowly, Sam set his bag down on the floor beside the bed—he felt like it was too dirty to just put right on the sheets—and tried not to think about how this was the bed where Sadie usually slept. The first evening was to be spent reacquainting each other. Sadie didn’t turn on the overhead light in the living room, just the string lights, making it feel even cozier than it already was. When they were done settling in, Sam and Dean came back out of their room, inside a space for the first time in a long while that was strictly shoes-off.

They paused in the doorway to the living room and surveilled the situation. Ian was in the kitchen, cooking and humming along with the music he had playing. The door to the other bedroom opened beside them and Sadie appeared. She had her hair up, but one, dark tendril hung a little further out of the bun, and again, Sam was confused as to why he found that so appealing.

“You guys can sit down, y’know—I promise the furniture doesn’t bite.” She said with a smile, coming to slip between Sam and the doorway, a gentle hand on his arm.

His heart stuttered in his chest and then she was in the kitchen—those damn long legs. Dean began walking immediately, taking the armchair. Sam glanced from the armchair to the two-person couch on the other side, then turned to give Dean a flat look. Dean smirked, slouching down a bit. Sadie’s head popped in from the kitchen, leaning on the doorway.

“Would you guys like anything to drink?” She asked.

“Uh, what d’you have?” Dean replied, obviously skeptical.

“I’ve got some IPA that Cath left, some hard ciders, and some wine.” She replied.

Dean sighed, resigned to his fate. “I’ll take a beer, thanks.”

She nodded and then looked up to Sam.

“Uh, cider. Please.” He said, and she beamed, nodding and then turning to go get it.

Sam sighed and walked over to sit on the couch, arms on his thighs when Dean spoke.

“Dude.” He frowned, “A cider?”

Sam shrugged, “What? The only time I ever drink is with you, and we always get beer. I’ll try something new.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something when Sadie reappeared, holding out a bottle to him. He quickly shut up and thanked her. She nodded and walked over to hand Sam a bottle too, before sitting on the couch beside him. They were on two different cushions, but the proximity was still nerve-wracking. They were quiet for a moment.

Sam cleared his throat, “So, Sadie, how’s, uh, how’s school?”

She sighed then took a long swig of her cider—it appeared to be a different one than his. “It’s a lot. I mean, I’m glad it’s happening and stuff, but yeah, it’s a lot.”

Sam nodded and glanced over at Dean. He was sitting in the armchair, frowning at his brother. He really just stared at her that whole time, he thought. Sam made a questioning face and Dean smirked.

“Y’know what?” He stood, “I’m gonna go keep the chef company.”

Sadie smiled at him while out of her sight Sam’s face was turning red. When he got into the kitchen, Dean set his bottle down on the counter.

“Anything I can help with, Professor X?” Dean attempted, unsure of what Ian’s reaction would be.

Ian smirked, “I liked Boy-genius better.”

Dean rolled his eyes good-naturedly, “Yeah, I’m sure you did.”

Ian chuckled, then said, “Y’ know how to toast nuts, Dean?”

He frowned for a moment, then realized Ian meant the food. “Uh… is there somethin’ specific you gotta do other than… toasting them?”

Ian shrugged, “You just gotta keep a close eye on ‘em. And also they keep cooking even after the heat is off, so you gotta get ‘em out of the pan quickly.”

Dean nodded stoutly, “Alright, I think I can handle that.”

Ian beamed, then pointed to a little cast-iron pan sitting on the stove-top with one hand, while the other picked up a box of pine nuts off the counter.

In the living room, Sadie was telling Sam all about her college experience thus far. She was a bit lacking in social life, due to the amount of work for school and the attention taking care of Ian demanded, but she was happy. At least, she seemed happy. He wasn’t sure, honestly—a lot can change in a year. Her accent was a bit less strong now, and the hollows under her eyes were a bit darker than he’d like—he wanted her to be getting enough rest.

“…and anyways, yeah, that’s how I almost got into a fight with a professor.” Sadie finished with a proud smirk.

Sam let out a soft sigh of laughter, “I’ve never gotten into a situation like that, but if I had, I would’ve done the same thing, I think. You were totally in the right.”

The grin that elicited from her was the warmest he’d ever seen from her. It was strange—she seemed so much more… saturated. There was more color in her skin—although she still looked pretty pale, Sam attributed this to the contrast between her skin and the darkness of her hair—and there was much more happiness behind the smiles that he’d already used to be almost overwhelmed by.

“How are you, Sam?” She asked, cocking her head.

He sighed with a tight smile, leaning onto his thighs and staring ahead of him. “I’m alright.”

She stared at him for a long moment, until he couldn’t take it anymore, and lifted his gaze to meet hers. She was studying him—his face, his posture, etc.—and she knew he was a liar. When he turned to look at her, those blue eyes stared right through him. He had forgotten how exposed he always felt around her. She could coax anything out of him, and he had no power to stop it; the comfort he received upon confiding in her was just too hard to resist, even now, when he didn’t want to be a bother.

“You’re worried about Dean, aren’t you?” She asked softly.

Sam heaved a long sigh and faced forward again. He took a sip of his cider and then sat back against the blue-floral couch. Still, she waited for a response.

“Did, um, Cath…” Sam swallowed, “…did Cath tell you what happened?”

Sadie frowned, “What happened when? She texted me the other day sayin’ she was going out of the country for a little while with Charlie and wouldn’t have service. Which reminds me, she said that you guys introduced them—Charlie sounds nice!”

“Oh, uh, yeah we did.” Sam stumbled, a bit nervous.

Sadie gave a shrug, “She’s on her own journey. I mean, I’m worried about her, but if something happened I’d feel it.”

“And did you feel something?”

She shrugged again, “A while ago—a couple months, now. She said it wasn’t a big deal—is everything alright?”

Sam stared at the bottle between his knees as he responded, voice soft and almost ashamed. “So, the Mark, it, uh, takes over sometimes, and… Dean can’t stop being violent until… until something snaps him out of it.”

Sadie’s face shifted, “Sam, what happened to my sister?”

He shook his head, “She’s, I mean, she’s fine, considering but she, uh… put herself in between Dean and someone else he couldn’t stop hurting. It was, uh, Charlie, actually. Cath probably saved her life—saved both Charlie and Dean. If he’d…” Sam swallowed, “…he’d never have been able to live with himself. So yeah, Cath got hurt from that.”

Tension was released from Sadie’s shoulders and she sighed, “Well, that does sound like her.”

“He has no control over it, Sadie.” Sam began, “I mean, it’s like he’s in some kind of—of fugue state—”

“—Sam.” Sadie interrupted, waiting for his gaze to meet hers before she continued. “I’m not upset. I understand that this is territory that no one understands, and I also know that Cath is an adult who made a choice to put herself in harm’s way.”

He sighed, “Thank you.”

She nodded and took a sip of her cider. They were quiet for a moment, then she spoke again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sam frowned and looked over at her. “No, no, Sadie, it’s alright.”

“Are you sure—?”

“—Sadie,” He interrupted, gentle but firm, “you need to focus on your schoolwork, I don’t want to,” He let out a humorless chuckle, “disrupt your life again.”

She smiled at him for a moment, then her voice was soft as she replied, “The last time you did, it didn’t end so bad.”

He glanced up from the ground to her. There was a gentle pink in her cheeks, or maybe it was from the lights, but either way, she was smiling at him in a way that stuck in his mind. Something about that moment made him consider the fact that he’d never seen her smile at anyone else like that, but he’d seen her smile at him like that a good amount of times. When he thought that, he reminded himself that this was probably just what he wanted to be true.

Dinner was nice. Sadie moved a bunch of books off the end of the table so all four of them could sit down together. Ian made a pasta dish that was surprisingly advanced for a thirteen-year-old, and after, Dean insisted on doing the dishes, which Sadie still had to help with, since he had no idea where things went. Sam sat at the dining room table, reading and intermittently listening to them chat as they worked. It was superficial stuff that probably should’ve already been gotten out of the way when they were all living together, but now Sam was glad that they were at least getting acquainted with one another. Ian trudged off to his room at ten, and the Winchesters decided to do so as well.

Dean was sound asleep at the foot of Sam’s bed by eleven, soft snores echoing around the room. Outside the open window, in the street, someone shouted something unintelligible and Sam rolled over. Sadie slept with a lot of pillows, apparently—she’d come in earlier to take all but two and a new pair of pajama shorts that were almost identical to the ones she’d worn to bed when living in the Bunker. Call him what you will, but he’d always been a guy who just needed to be horizontal with one comfortably under his head. He stared at the unused one beside him and thought. He wondered if she held one while she slept. She probably did. It was probably adorable.

He knew she must’ve put on clean sheets, but he couldn’t stop thinking that the bed smelled like her. He wondered what she did to fall asleep at night. As he turned over again, the soft cotton of the sheet brushed a sensitive bit of his ankle where his sweatpants had ridden up. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on sleep. The more he tried to focus on that, though, the more his mind wandered.

Sam wondered if she was a rough sleeper, or if she was a cuddler. He wondered what it would be like to turn over and see her there, tangled up in the sheets beside him. He could imagine the first rays of the morning sunlight seeping in through her east-facing windows, and he could imagine them gently waking him. He imagined what she would be like right when she woke up—if it was just the two of them. He liked to think that she would forego the “Ogg-state” as Ian had called it. Sam liked to imagine that she would enjoy waking up more because he was there.

Sam’s hand slid up to tuck itself under his pillow. The feeling of his knuckles skating over the fitted sheet made him imagine what it would be like to reach across the bed and touch her. In his imagination, she was wearing that grey tank top she’d worn to bed when they were staying in the Bunker, her back turned to him. He was no longer sure if he was dozing and half-dreaming or if he was just succumbing very hard to the fantasy.

He imagined what it would feel like to gently drag his knuckles up her bare arm—just barely touching enough to make her notice. He imagined her stirring slowly from sleep, groggy and snuggling further into her pillow with a wry smile, keeping her eyes closed.

“Why d’you always gotta wake up so early, huh?” He imagined her grumbling.

“Because, maybe…” He’d say, leaning forwards to brush a kiss against her neck. “…I can’t wait to wake up to you.”

He imagined the little snort of laughter that would elicit from her. She’d finally open her bleary eyes to squint at him, turning a little more onto her back.

“You’re a cheeseball.” She’d say.

“Yeah, maybe. But you wouldn’t have me here if you wanted anything else.” He’d reply with a warm smile, one hand cupping her cheek, “Good morning.”

She’d smile up at him, offering no protest as he brought his lips gently down onto hers. She’d taste like sleep and smell like nothing but herself since they’d only just woken up, but he wouldn’t care—he would be the same, anyhow, and if she wasn’t complaining, then neither would he. He imagined her relaxing all the way onto her back, one hand tangling into his hair—fuck he’d love to feel her hands in his hair. He bet that she’d love it too—she was one of the most tactile people he knew.

Of course, it all started off as innocent imagination, but the more he considered it, the more he realized that if he had her—if she let him sleep in her bed and let him hold and kiss her like he was imagining—then he knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He would bet that she’d make the prettiest little noises when he did something she liked. The mere thought of those sounds that she might possibly make caused a surge of want to rush down his sides. He shivered, pulling her blankets closer to him.

He imagined watching her. He imagined hovering over her, one hand tangled gently in that dark hair and eyes intent on her face. He imagined his other hand inside those infuriating little shorts she wore to bed. He imagined his fingers slowly twirling a thick lock of her hair, watching her hands fumble around for something to hold onto.

If this were to happen, he’d turn her on her side, back to him, and then kiss her neck until he found the place that made her shiver. He’d slowly part her legs again, draping one over his and then running his fingers up the sensitive skin of her thigh until he came to the hem of her shorts. He’d nibble and suck on her earlobe, the hand that wasn’t slowly tugging those little shorts down would be cradling her head. His arm would be bent under her, and his hand would be slowly tracing patterns into her scalp.

He bet she liked talking. In fact, he knew with almost 90% certainty that she’d like to hear him talking. There were so many things he could say to her—he liked talking dirty. She probably liked hearing how much he wanted her—how desperate he was for her to be pleased. He wondered if she’d praise him, or if she’d be too overcome to form speech. Fuck, he wanted to see her at a loss for words while he was knuckle-deep inside her.

The bathroom was the next room over, and the shower was pretty loud. It turned on, waking Sam from his half-doze and drowning out the sound of Dean to replace him with irregular patterns of falling water. Sam knew Ian was asleep already, so it must be Sadie in there. Sam also knew that he was walking a dangerous line—if he wasn’t careful, the hunger he was stoking might turn into a problem. But then, without his permission, his mind began imagining her right now.

Water flowed down her skin in rivulets. Her hands were running over her dark hair and she heaved a sigh as a hand pulled open the curtain. A big smile graced her face as he stepped in beside her.

“Hello.” She murmured as he drew closer, one hand around her ribs pulling her to him. Her hands immediately slid up his arms, well-acquainted with the territory.

“Hi.” He said back, voice low and a bit husky. She swallowed, trying to keep her composure.

“Are you here to spend time with me, or are you here on a mission?” She asked with a smile.

“Both.” He replied, kissing her softly.

As their lips pulled apart, she smiled, “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

He smirked and kissed her again for a long moment, then pulled away, to murmur, “You should know what you do to me by now. I don’t think I could ever get enough.”

She bit her lower lip, staring up at him with dark eyes—he knew exactly what she liked to hear. When the lip between her teeth became too much of a distraction, he kissed her again, sucking it from her mouth into his. She didn’t protest, just tangled her wet fingers into his dry hair and gave a gentle tug. He pulled back with a groan, baring his teeth a little.

“How do you want me?” He asked at a whisper.

“Hm…” She trailed a finger up his arm, “…well, I think I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He replied immediately.

“Oh, but what if it’s…” She began to sink down, eyes never straying from his, “…this kind of repayment?”

Her hands wrapped gently around him and he groaned. Through his teeth, he managed to say,

“You don’t owe me anything, but if you want something,” He swallowed, heart beating fast in his chest, “take it. Take whatever you want, Sadie.”

She hummed in appreciation then slowly took him into her mouth. She started slow, feeling him stiffen beneath her. Her eyes were closed as she focused on working him up, hands busy in aiding her mouth. He grunted out a curse, hand wrapped tight around the shower curtain rail. He exhaled, glancing down only to make himself groan again, sounding almost injured at the sight of her. She was so focused on her work that she didn’t look at him, but he wished she would.

The hand that wasn’t on the rail tangled into her damp hair. She moaned against him and he could feel the vibration of it more than he heard it. She began to speed up a bit, now taking time to peer up at him. The view was incredible—her thick thighs under her, those pretty lips wrapped around him and the piercing stare of her blue eyes was too much. She hollowed her cheeks and dragged a sound from him that he didn’t recognize. Desperately, his hands both cupped her face, pulling her off. She didn’t go without one last powerful suck, her lips making a wet pop as they were freed.

He fumbled until he got her up onto her feet, his lips crashing down on hers furiously. She held the backs of his hands as they cupped her face, and he could taste himself just a tiny bit on her tongue.

The shower turned off and Sam awoke from his daze. He blinked a couple times and glanced around. Dean was still asleep, but now Sam was hard as a rock in his sweatpants. He groaned internally at himself in annoyance for getting so carried away, then waited until he heard her leave the bathroom.

When he was in the shower, he had one forearm braced against the wall, his head bowed against the spray of water. It flowed down his back, over the rippling muscles of his shoulder blades. The hand on the wall closed into a fist, his face scrunched up. His other hand was wrapped around the flushed head of his cock, starting slowly.

He’d bet a thousand dollars that she was a tease but hated being teased herself. He bet that she liked being on top the best—that she’d stare down at him as she bounced on his dick. He imagined himself finally losing patience and sitting up. He wrapped his arms around her ribs and tugged her close, kissing her furiously as their movements slowed.

He imagined himself settling against the headboard, Sadie gathered up against him, while he was still buried to the hilt inside her. He imagined beginning to take over, watching as her weak hands fumbled around for purchase. He lifted his knees behind her, and she let out a shout of a moan, her hands immediately going to cover them. She used this new hold to meet his thrusts, eyes unable to stay open and breasts bouncing furiously with their movements.

When he knew she was close, he’d tell her to look at him. He’d ask her over and over again until she managed to do it, and then he would make her come. Her hands gripped the headboard on either side of him, pretty mouth hanging open and eyes half-lidded—it was all she could manage. He watched her face as she moaned his name—telling him how good he made her feel.

And with that image—her riding him, breasts bouncing almost violently, dark hair hung around them, and muscles quivering—he came in his hand. He stifled a groan by biting down on his fist, working himself through the aftershocks. In his mind, she was writhing in his lap. He imagined putting a thumb on her clit and beginning to press soft circles into it. Fuck, he’d make her scream his name and he wouldn’t stop until she had come longer than any other man had made her come before. She’d forget any name but his, just like he’d already forgotten any name that wasn’t hers.

He finished his shower in shame, feeling disgusted with himself. When he came out ten minutes later, he was surprised to find the living room light still on. With a frown he drew closer, only to find Sadie sitting at what seemed to be her usual spot, on the long end of the table closest to the wall, her computer open in front of her and a heavy textbook on the table beside her.

“Sadie?” He asked, voice a bit hoarse.

She glanced up, wearing glasses he’d never seen and an adorable little frown. Her expression softened when she looked at him, and she gave a smile.

“Hey, Sam.” She put the pen she’d been using to take notes down, “Are you okay?”

“Y—yeah,” He cleared his throat and carefully leaned against the doorway beside her.

“Trouble sleeping?” She tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear.

“Sort of.” He wanted very much to change the subject. His eyes drifted to the text she had open on her laptop. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” She glanced back at it, “it’s Foucault.”

“Foucault?” Sam’s brows rose.

“Yeah.” She chuckled, “I’m thinking that I might minor in philosophy.”

“Psychology and philosophy. It’s an odd combination.” He teased gently.

“Psh, I know.” She smirked.

“Well,” He shifted slightly, a gentle smile playing at his lips, “you do like to think about things a lot. Maybe you’re calling is in philosophy after all.”

She laughed, “’ Can’t make a living off of thinking, though, can I?”

“No, I guess not.” He conceded gently.

They fell into a brief silence, then. Finally, she broke it, “Well, I, uh, should probably, um… get back to it…”

“Oh, yeah, right, sorry.” He nodded, “Uh, goodnight.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Goodnight, Spaceman.”

When he got back into her bed, there was a new hollowness in him. He really didn’t want to interrupt her life—and it seemed like a good life. Sure, she invited him here, but every time he tried to tell himself that, it didn’t seem to make him feel any better. He was a distraction to her—a hindrance to her living a normal life. The kind of life that he still, deep down in parts of him that he never spoke of aloud, wished he could live.

[showingthroughtome]

out of our hands

“a five part study on the effects of eye contact on perceived closeness”

Or the one where Harry is a psychology grad student who is running a study, and Adalyn is the girl who signs up for it.

a one shot i wrote for ash last summer that i didnt post on tumblr for some odd reason

read below

Harry had been in school for a long time. A very long time. Years and years and years, is what he'd say if anyone asked.

He did thirteen years of school before he started college and then six since - four years of undergraduate where he got his bachelor's degree in psychology, and for the last two years he'd been working on his master's degree.

He was supposed to be almost done. He was supposed to have seven more weeks until he was out of the collegiate atmosphere. But the forces of nature, or magnetic energies, or maybe even God himself wasn't ready for that. Because somehow, his final research article had been skewed. So much so, that if he couldn't fix it, have it sent for review, and approved before the deadline, he'd have to stay around another semester and conduct his research study all over again.

One of his peer reviewers, this asshole Brennan, noted on his article that his findings could have been altered due to "unaccounted for manipulation". When the board saw that and questioned Harry, he knew right away Brennan was correct. His results wouldn't be significant enough to grant him a well-written article, and Harry wouldn't get his master’s degree.

Thankfully, he had enough time to conduct his study one last time, on one completely new participant. All he had to do was find someone he had never once met before, someone he had no chance of knowing. He went to a friend and asked them to spread the word. After only three days, he heard back, hearing about some other psych major who was always participating in studies - it was her thing, her love.

So here he was, with six weeks to do an entire study, get together a write up, and send it off. And all he had was a name.

Adalyn.

 session one

 Adalyn was ecstatic about life as of late. She was halfway through her sixth semester of college - only having seven weeks before summer break and having just turned 21 right before spring break. That meant she didn't have to sneak in bars with a fake ID anymore, or pretend to be sneaking when in reality the people just let her stay because her hair was pink and her eyelashes fluttered. She didn't mind having guys look at her in awe, but it did make her feel dirty, slightly sleazy, for using her looks to get her what she wanted.

Other than legal alcohol consumption, age came with a sense of assuredness for Adalyn. She was finally feeling confident in declaring her major, thinking psychology was the right path for her, especially after volunteering for all those research studies over the last two years - any that she qualified for, she would readily go to. It was probably because her freshman year Research Methods class taught her the value of a good sample size and how helpful it is to the experimenter when people actually participate in their study instead of ignoring it completely. (Life tip #1: always fill out a survey honestly and carefully. People work hard at developing those, and sometimes base their whole career on responses.)

Not only did she find the studies to be fun, but they also looked good for grad school applications. Her grades were looking excellent so far, not getting anything but A's since she took English 300 her sophomore year. (Life tip #2: don't take a 300-level class until junior year - not that it's actually that much harder, but they normally suck horribly, so just save yourself the heartache for one more year.)

That's why when her best friend heard from her friend that his friend was conducting a study that called for a new participant as soon as possible, she jumped on the opportunity, figuring it could only do everyone some good.

She had to be in the research building by 10am, not too early and not too late, but still, she found herself rushing there. Her first class of the day got out at 9:30, and the buildings weren't far from each other, but of course she spilt the last little bit of her coffee on her chest when she went to put her notebook in her backpack. She had to run back to her dorm and change into something else.

Originally she was dressed nice, wearing light-wash jeans, a polka dotted blouse, and her favorite pair of oxfords - classy chic was her goal. With the quick change though, she didn't have enough time to find a non-wrinkly shirt so she picked the first folded t-shirt she had in her dresser - a grungy old Nirvana one her older brother let her have (or she stole, who knows, really?).

To say the least, she was out of breath swinging the door open to room 3068 on the third floor of the psychology department's low-tech research wing. She was shocked to find no one in, first assuming she was early. Looking at her phone, it read 10:04, so nope, it wasn't a miracle, she wasn't early. It just happened the experimenter also had bad time management skills.

All that the room held was a table and two chairs placed on either side of it - reminiscent of interrogation rooms. Adalyn could've sworn she saw an exact replica of the room on one of those A&E shows where they recount the violent crimes of various criminals.

Staring at the empty room, she didn't know what to do with herself. Like any sane person would, she plopped her butt down on one of the cold metal chairs and waited. But not for too long, because after just a few scrolls through Instagram, the door was once again swung open and a man walked through - or more so rushed in.

Adalyn first noticed his height, his tall, lanky legs and arms. Then she noticed his age. He was younger than she expected - most people who ran studies were nearly greying or at least old enough to be rocking a wedding band on their finger. This guy, though, looked to be just a few years older than Adalyn.

“Hi!” She popped out of the chair, going in for a professional, strong handshake. The man reacted accordingly, shaking hers for just a second before going about the room, dropping his books off and picking up a clipboard.

“Running a bit late.” Were the first words he breathed. Turning back to Adalyn, he held out the clipboard to her. “These are the consent forms, pretty standard stuff. Just take a look through and sign please.”

“Of course!” Adalyn responded cheerily, not letting one ounce of her day’s misfortune carry into her interaction with this man. Still, he raked his hand through his hair and turned to gather materials.

She sat down and read over the paper. She could've just skimmed and signed it, but what can she say? She's a nerd for this kind of thing. She thought maybe research procedures and release forms could totally be her future. Or maybe after she spent a decade testing the effects of ambiguity on helping behaviors.

The paper had all kinds of fun information though. Not just procedures but researcher information - hypothesis, thesis, compensation. From it, Ashlyn learned the name of the man in front of her, the one who had taken a seat on the opposite side of the table and began fiddling with a timer: Harry Styles, a graduate student looking to explore eye contact in association with perceived closeness.

She signed the form and slid it to the side, waiting further instruction, but without looking up, Harry reached for another form and slid it across the table.

“This is just a self-report survey about any feelings you may have. Please answer as truthfully as possible. My colleagues will be gathering the data so I won't know who said what.” He still didn't look up, just spoke like a machine.

Adalyn nodded, not that it mattered or anything. It was just – well, she just hadn't felt that unnoticed in a long time. Harry didn't have to bask in all her beauty or anything, but maybe a little bit of acknowledgment would've been nice.

She went along with it anyway, because the guy clearly needed it and she was already this far into it. All of the 10 questions on the survey pertained to either how she felt at the moment or how she felt in accordance to the experimenter. It was on a 5 point Likert Scale. 1 being negatively, 3 being no feelings at all, 5 being positively.

Half were 5’s. Half were 2’s.

By the time she completed the survey, Harry was finally done setting up whatever he was doing.

“Alright, thanks.” He said, adding her survey to the pile of papers. “You're Adalyn, correct?”

She nodded. “Harry?”

“Yes. Nice to meet you.” He gave his first half-assed, tight-lipped smile.

It was better than nothing.

“Okay, well in this study,” Harry began reading from a sheet of paper. It was standard protocol for a research study. The conductor of the experiment would read from a sheet of paper detailing what the participant would be doing in the study. It was a way to account for variables across participants, making sure that outside factors, such as experimenter delivery, didn't have an effect on the outcome. “You, the participant, will hold eye contact to the best of your ability with the experimenter for five minutes over five sessions. After each session, you will fill out a survey containing the same questions as the one you did previously. Changes in answers will show an effect of eye contact, the dependent variable, on perceived closeness, the independent variable.”

Adalyn listened closely to the formality of it all. The obsessive compulsion of studies always delighted her in some strange way.

“You may blink, and if you need to stop at any time, feel free to tell the experimenter. Your participation is greatly appreciated.” Harry finished up the short paragraph, lifting his eyes. “Any questions?”

“Nope. Five minutes of eye contact. Got it.” Adalyn ran through.

“Okay, then we will begin when I start the clock.” Harry grabbed the small stopwatch, set it for five minutes. “Now.” He said, initiating eye contact and laying the small device on the table.

There was no way around it, it was fucking weird. Eye contact for a long period of time was just unnatural, anyone would agree. But she couldn’t really do anything about it, except for stare into the eyes of this man who would barely look at her a few moments before – not even other parts of his face, just his green eyes.

It felt like forever, like time was standing still and all she'd ever be able to see when she looked away was that shade of emerald. Or maybe they were more forest-y? Perhaps jade? Adalyn wasn't sure, though she was sure it had to have been five minutes already. The timer must not have gone off.

Right as she was about to drop her eyes, unable to do it any longer, it kind of got nice. Tension felt to have faded, and the awkwardness that is one human being staring into the eyes of a complete stranger fizzled. But before she could be sure that actually happened and she wasn't just imagining it, the timer did go off and Harry sunk back in his chair.

Quick enough, he handed her the second survey, and with just a short goodbye she was out of the door, blinking repeatedly to try to erase the one color was stuck in her mind.

---

Harry sat back in his chair for a long while after Adalyn had left the room. It was weird doing that again, after so many months of not. But even still, it never quite felt as intense with the past participants. Something about Adalyn, with the pink hair and icy blue eyes, had him shaken. Right from the start, he noted how beautiful she was, how happy she seemed, and the eye contact only added to it.

As he tried to gather himself, he couldn't help think of how Brennan would be kicking his own ass for the conclusive findings Harry was sure to get with this rarity of a girl.

That is, as long as he didn’t let the data skew.

 session two

 Adalyn saw Harry again after that, in between session one and two, when she was in the cafeteria with a group of her loud, obnoxious, lovable, freaky friends. They were quite an eclectic group, varying in race and status and major. They were breaking the rules of homogony on every front which is probably what thrilled them the most - knowing that just by being friends, they were defying societal pressures.

She was eating with them, or rather stealing celery and apple slices off of her best friend’s plate, and looked around to catch the set of eyes that shouldn’t have been as familiar as they were. She shouldn't have been able to look at a guy she spent maybe ten minutes with in total and know every variation of green his irises shifted from. But she did, so she waved, just like any normal person would, any self-respecting friendly human being would.

Harry seemed to snap out of a trance when Adalyn raised her hand, turning away without an ounce of acknowledgement, nodding to whatever his small group of friends were saying. They all kind of looked alike, but just a tiny bit. All but one had tattoos littering their arms. They all wore skinny jeans and easy smiles and joked with each other. Harry looked the most serious.

It was the cold vegetable hitting Adalyn lightly on the face that snapped her out of her examining of the table across the room. She turned towards the one person she knew as the vegetable thrower, her best friend, and gave her best death stare. As it turned out, Adalyn wasn't good at evil so her friend just ended up laughing.

She sat there for the rest of the meal wondering why the fuck she was so obviously ignored.

That was almost a week ago, and even remembering that couldn't throw her off her mood, because she had just gotten an A on a paper from one of the hardest classes she was taking that semester: Abnormal Psychology in Children. It had her bouncing with every step and cheeks aching from an unrelenting grin when she walked in room 3068.

Harry was already there this time, doing something on his phone, possibly texting those friends of his about how to properly blow off someone.

He didn't look up when Adalyn stepped in the room and the door closed behind her.

A, she thought, I got an A.

“Hello!” She chirped as she pulled her chair out. Even if he completely ignored her again, she wouldn't care, she wouldn't let it bother her. I got an A.

“Hello, are you ready to start?” Harry was nothing but business, hitting the lock button on his phone and throwing it into his open bag he had on the floor.

The thing was, he didn't look like a dick who ignored pretty girls or who never wanted to say hello. His face could be soft, in the second before he put a stern look on. The moment she saw him staring, before he realized it, he looked incredibly soft, like if she were to touch him it would be a euphoric experience. Then the fucker would open his mouth and was robotic.

“Yup!” She smiled. I got an A.

Harry nodded once, maybe let half his lips turn upward just a smidge, and then they were off. Adalyn did her survey – marking nearly all fives on this day – and then Harry got out his stopwatch.

This eye contact was like it was before, kind of awkward, mostly uncomfortable, but then about two minutes in (or what Adalyn guessed was two minutes because again, time was weird when you had no way of marking it) she remembered she was supposed to be in a good mood. She kept her eyes locked with this grumpy man and thought of how she could call her parents later and brag about how well she did, about how grad schools would want her, and those student loans would one day be paid off.

Without even realizing it, she felt her lips turning into a grin, how could they not with such positive vibes running rampant inside. It was awkward to sit in silence, stare at a guy, and smile for no apparent reason. She really tried to contain it, to tuck her lips together and keep them solid like Harry's.

It was an ongoing effort that she was certain would last the whole five minutes when suddenly, out of nowhere, it was like she stepped into an alternate universe where Harry could show emotion. Just barely, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and the green of his irises may have lightened just a little. If she were allowed to look away, Adalyn would’ve checked to see if he were actually smiling and that she wasn't just making assumptions due to her learnings in Social Psych about facial expressions.

It was pretty clear that they both were smiling though, so she didn't try to conceal hers anymore and sat – surely looking ridiculous – until the timer went off. And as soon as it did, Harry slid the second survey in her direction.

She filled it out without a problem. She had to remain objective, had to remember the survey was how she felt about the experimenter and not about life in general. Even then, for every question, the score increased by one point.

Finishing the survey, Adalyn thought what the hell and decided she might as well at least see why Harry totally ignored her the other day.

“So I saw you the other day?” It came out like a question when she could've sworn it was a statement.

Harry didn't show any indication that he actually heard her, not moving his focus from some stack of papers. What did he even have to read right in that moment that couldn't wait?

“Yeah,” she continued. “You completely ignored me even though I know you saw me so I didn't figure you'd say anything today.”

A lot can be said about Adalyn, probably just as much good as bad. But no one could never say that she didn't speak her mind. Adalyn would let people decide if that fell under the good or bad category themselves.

In that moment, it got Harry to look up even if his face was back to its cold, distant normality. She didn't falter under the heavy gaze of someone clearly unamused by her, instead sat like she had the entire time, trying her best at unamused as well.

“Listen, Adalyn,” Harry started, then shook his head back and forth, something about it made her feel like he would rather be a million places other than sitting across from her. And that's fair enough, but she wouldn't just let him make her feel invisible without an explanation. “It's best that we don't talk to each other except for the study.”

“Oh yeah?” She challenged, breathing in.

“Yes. It's best not to skew data. This is a study on human interaction at its very core. If we start chatting it up in the cafeteria, then who's to say why you fill out the surveys the way you do. I need to know it's because of the eye contact.”

“You know that's being fucked right now?”

“Then all I can do is ask you to forget about this and leave. If I see you on campus and don't go out of my way to be friendly, or if I seem cold any other time, please forget about it when you're filling out that survey.” He pointed to the paper Adalyn hadn't yet handed back.

Adalyn got the importance of validity to a research study, she took a whole damn class on the subject, so she couldn't really argue, nor did she want to. Not when Harry seemed like a good guy just trying to publish his findings.

Adalyn nodded her head, grabbed her book bag from the ground and swung it over her shoulder, leaving the survey on the table as she exited the barren study lab.

---

Harry didn't mean to be a dick, not really, not ever. Not to a nice girl he hardly knew.

He just couldn't have the study under question again. If he had to find someone else to fill in for Adalyn, then that was even more time and resources down the drain. All he really wanted was to finish his study, and the many many years he's spent learning the ins and outs of human behavior – at least from the psychological standpoint.

Though, something about Adalyn already had him questioning what was supposed to be - what he had learned years ago in Psych 330: Human and Animal Behavior. People weren't supposed to call you on your shit like she did, so upfront and uncaring. People normally don't go straight for the kill, without even properly knowing each other.

That's why, when Adalyn left session two, he went to his old Social Psychology professor and had a nonspecific talk about confrontation theories. And when his professor laughed at him due to his “clear girl trouble”, Harry snorted and cracked a joke instead.

 session three

 Harry was different at their third session – less grumpy, more easy going. And it wasn't even like he was smiling or making jokes, it just felt like he was less angry when Adalyn met him in that same room. Which was pretty fucking weird, if she did say so. Out of nowhere, he wasn't ignoring her when she showed up, or when she tripped just a tiny bit while sliding into the metal chair. He even smirked at her clumsiness, raised an eyebrow in question of how she could possibly do what she just had. Adalyn was in such shock at his acknowledgement that she couldn't make a sound.

She filled out the survey and all the while felt his eyes on her. It was beginning to make her feel like she had something on her face, or maybe she had forgotten a few buttons on her blouse, showing off her lace bralette that left little to the imagination. After subtlety feeling around her face and looking down at her own chest, she knew neither of those were the reason why.

“Okay, you ready?” Harry accepted the survey she passed to him, almost sounding happy and excited to be doing this.

The shock wasn't wearing off so a confused Adalyn nodded and pulled her seat closer to the table, getting ready.

She couldn't stop herself from watching every movement Harry made, trying to find the exact difference in him, as if it could be seen on his flesh why he was acting decent. It couldn't really, not by the way he reached over for his stopwatch then ran his hand through his long brown locks, tossing it so it fell just in place. That just seemed kind of… Well… Hot.

It was most likely due to his acknowledgement in addition to his obvious attractiveness that had Adalyn noticing how Harry did everything just slow enough to make it seem like a tease, like he was doing it so people would watch him, wait for him, to keep their attention to see what the end result would be.

“Alright.” He broke her out of her head with the word, bringing her to the task at hand. He moved his head in such a way that she knew he was going to start the timer.

Staring in the eyes of someone who could barely say hi to you was a lot different than someone who might possibly think you're alright, Adalyn learned. Because that time, it didn't take the constant reminder of a good grade, or a stroke of magic to make the situation less awkward. It just was.

The tension was still palpable, the air still thick, but it wasn't the same as before. It was easier. She just sat and stared at that same pair of green eyes - even though they might've seemed more vibrant.

Whatever was different about Harry, whatever was making him laugh at her tripping and smirking a hello, also had him bringing so much intensity into the room. Yeah, it was easy to stare at him when he was that way, and yeah, she liked it better, but also, it made her body feel stiff. Like she had to move just to shake off his gaze or else he'd figure out everything about her – every mannerism and quirk, every secret she had kept and lies she had told.

It was both a good and a bad feeling.

Her body was almost aching to move, when for the third time, she was saved by the bell in the form of four little beeps from a stopwatch.

At the sound, both fell back into their chairs, almost in complete sync with one another. A moment went by when the room stood still, and Adalyn felt like what they had just experienced was a moment, a spark in some weird way.

The sliding of a survey in her direction had her forgetting those thoughts. It was the experiment. Not a moment. Not a spark. Harry wasn't light or happy, he was angry. He was just having an off day. Maybe he had gotten a good grade back too, skewing his usual demeanor.

Adalyn stuck to answering the questions as truthfully as possible, getting out of her head about what it felt like to be looked at by Harry and instead only thinking of how she felt towards the experimenter - the random guy who held eye contact with her.

Each question raised one point.

---

Whatever was up with Adalyn that day wouldn't bother Harry, he wouldn't let it. She barely said anything, just nodded the whole time, and still, he wasn't going to let himself think about it as he put SPSS data into the program. He'd run his t-tests, check the p-value, and decide if the results were significant.

After he found out that he got that job at his Social Psychology professors research lab, the stress slid right off his shoulders, just like the bad mood he had been carrying around for weeks. And he wouldn't let some random participant in his study mess that up. No matter how much he enjoyed her hair that matched the color of her lips, or her eyes that could wear down anyone's resolve. She wouldn't ruin his good day. Not one bit.

 session four

 The weather outside was hot, people were sweaty, hair was frizzing. In psychology, you learn that crime rates go up during the summer for various reasons, one major reason being the fact that heat makes people angry. Adalyn wasn't one of those people, and apparently neither was Harry.

When Adalyn found him in the lab, he was relaxing in his chair, nearly giggling as he typed out some kind of message on his phone. The sight alone had Adalyn checking the sign outside of the door so she was sure she hadn't walked into the wrong room and found Harry's happy twin brother.

3068 the door read. She was in the right place.

Cautiously, and mainly uncertain, she stepped through the doorway, pulling Harry out of his own little world. Almost immediately she felt under pressure. Not only was it so hot outside that she had to wear a tank top and her favorite pair of jean shorts, but now Harry was gazing off at her like he liked what he saw. She could feel the sweat gather at her hairline.

Harry wasn't dressed that much different than normal – black jeans and a button up shirt. Except this time, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing a scattering of tattoos, and the first few buttons were undone, showing a bit of his collarbone and possibly more ink.

“Hi.” Adalyn greeted, because she wasn't sure what else to do, what else would get Harry to move and hand her the survey.

“Hi.” He snapped back, but not like he was angry like before, but more so like he was caught doing something and needed to distract from it.

Adalyn, of course, didn't miss his eyes move away from her body slowly, almost hesitantly.

She took a seat in the chair – her chair – and for once, she thanked God for the seats being metal due to them cooling her exponentially. She let every part of her body slouch into the cool metal, feeling no shame when Harry eyed her like she was insane.

Adalyn just wanted this to go as quick as possible so she could get back to her Arctic room and ice cream she had waiting for her. Without much thought at all, she filled out the survey as honestly as possible.

She handed it back to Harry with him asking if she were ready. Like always, she was and he set the timer.

Adalyn pretty much knew what was going to happen by the fourth time she locked eyes with the ex-grumpy man who sat across from her for five minutes. It would be slightly awkward, but with Harry's new found cheer and can do attitude, it wouldn't be so bad.

She tried not to overthink why, out of nowhere, he didn't scowl when she entered the room or why he started greeting her with a smile on his face. She didn't need to know really. It was just a better scenery she'd gladly accept.

They were halfway through the process and the chair Adalyn was sitting in wasn't so cool anymore, it wasn't hot exactly, but all that relief she got from it had worn away. Now she was getting hot again. The room was feeling stuffy, and she felt like she just had to move. So, she did. She inched forward in the chair, leaning her elbows on the table and shaking her hair off of her shoulder, being sure to keep eye contact at all times.

Even that didn't do much to make the heat feel less, causing her to question if maybe the room wasn't actually as warm as she thought it was. Maybe it was just the intent Harry had in his eyes that had her skin feeling on fire and shining from the tiniest bit of sweat.

Adalyn kind of liked that idea.

The idea of Harry looking into her eyes so hungrily that her body had a physical reaction. It had her tingling in that good way she never got enough of, so much so that she'd often egg it on.

So basically, she couldn't help that she leaned forward that little bit more, enough to make her small tank top cover even less skin.

It was like she could feel it in his green eyes – how irritating she was being to his study. Nothing else about Harry gave her any indication that he was enjoying her little show, but all it took was the eyes.

And if he let his slip down her neck for just a split second before they met hers once again, she pretended not to notice.

She pretended not to notice while she was filling out the survey, while she was grabbing her things and smiling a good bye to him.

She walked out proud of herself, thinking that the next session would be fun – the last session.

 session five

 They were staring into each other's eyes for the last time. And it finally felt completely normal, not even awkward at all. Just like two friends. Which Adalyn knew they weren't, she had no delusion of that. But now she thought maybe the next time she waved at him,he'd return a small one at the very least.

Or possibly a big one.

Because Harry was staring at her again, like he wouldn't be able to look away even if this wasn't all for a study, and Adalyn couldn't help but tease him. She couldn't help but slide off the light cardigan she wore in and move her hair to one shoulder - the weather had dropped again, just like usual for this part of the US. Now Harry had a perfect view of an expansive amount of skin, from the V-neck of her t-shirt all the way up her neck.

He was good though, not playing into her efforts, locking even more ferociously with her eyes. That was enough to get Adalyn to lose some of the upper hand, because one can't just stare at someone like that – so kind and wanting – without having the recipient feel something.

This time, Adalyn needed to shift, not because she was feeling stiff or pressure, but because she just had to. Warmth was wrapping around her again but this time it had to be because of Harry and Harry alone. It was on her neck and up her legs and she just had to.

Once she did, momentarily she was feeling a lot better, like she could contain herself and keep her eyes looking into those green fiery ones.

Harry, though, then moved himself, scooting to the edge of his chair and extending his legs under the table enough to bump into Adalyn's. She moved hers out of the way just barely, not so much that they weren’t still nearly touching.

And then the beeps went off, just four small ones. They should've been louder for the moment that it was – the end of the study. But they weren't, they were the same as all the other times.

Adalyn and Harry didn't react much to the noise, fixed on each other. Until Adalyn was moving, surging forward across the table to connect her mouth with Harry's. Harry had no problems responding to that, standing up so the effort wasn't solely left on her, and wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Whoa.” Harry backed up, breaking the kiss and all body contact they had with each other. “Fuck!” He exclaimed, wiping all the evidence of the kiss from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What?” Adalyn wasn't sure what was so wrong with what she had just done. It was clear that Harry wanted her, he kissed her back so fully that there was no mistaking it. And she waited until the end of the sessions instead of doing it sooner even though she knew she could've. His reaction seemed a bit too much to her.

Instead of replying right away, Harry began pacing the small room, going back and forth in a single line.

“What did I do wrong?” Adalyn repeated. If she were someone different, this would've done a lot to hurt her ego – to see someone react so horribly to a kiss – and even though her ego wasn't hurt, her voice was.

Harry stopped his pacing at once, rushing to the stack of papers on the table. And that's when it hit her. She forgot the last survey – the last survey that could pretty much define his entire research study.

“Fuck!” She stomped her foot, mad at herself for letting desire do something so idiotic.

“Just fill it out truthfully and it'll be okay.” Harry spoke like he was convincing himself, like he needed to hear it so he didn't have to worry.

“Of course I will.” She grabbed the paper from his hands.

Obviously she would fill it out with as much honesty as all the others, because in all honesty, it was a no brainier. Clearly the eye contact had worked. Clearly her perceived closeness was at a five in every way – especially in the way where Harry's mouth tasted like the sweetest honey against hers and his big hand warmed her body.

It took her maybe seconds to fill out the form before handing it back to him. And somehow, in the time she looked away, Harry had appeared on her side of the table. They were closer than they had ever been before, Adalyn noted to herself.

“Good.” Harry looked at her answers for the first time, not putting them straight into an envelope like he normally did. “Where were we?” He asked in one breathe as he slammed the sheet down on the table and brought Adalyn back to his mouth, those hands back on her like they hadn't left. It was all enough to have her giggling while simultaneously trying to keep the room full of that lust.

Before she could even stop herself, she had her hands running down the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. As more skin was revealed, so was more ink, and the need for her to run her tongue along every line. And she would've, too, if Harry hadn’t reconnected their lips as soon as she had disconnected them.

He was acting like he couldn't get enough of the taste of her, which she really didn't mind, not when he swung her around and had her sitting on the table that had kept them separated for the last five weeks.

It was then, with the cold against her legs, that she realized just what was going on and muttered the words, “This is so fucked.”

“What is?” Harry pulled back to look into her eyes. The two sets of eyes knew each other pretty well by then so if anything were wrong, he'd have known just by that.

Adalyn shook her head and laughed. “Your study.”

“Don't say that, it'll kill the mood.” He went back to kissing along the line of her neck.

“No seriously. I mean, you really proved something here.”

“What's that?”

“Stare at someone long enough and they'll want to have sex with you.”

“I've done this with a few other people, and Adalyn, you're the only person who I've ended the study with this way.”

“Damn, Harry. You have such a way with words.”

“Don't I?” Harry was playful it turned out, smiling against her neck. She had no way of knowing that before, but here he stood, slightly undressed and cracking a few jokes.

And his smirk? Well that was enough to drive anyone crazy, and have Adalyn undoing his belt buckle without a second thought – just knowing she wanted him so viscerally right then was enough for her.

Harry had her shirt off nearly as quick. Then, without warning, he slowed down, taking his time to touch every part of her skin, to kiss where he felt like she deserved and to slip her bottoms off gently.

Adalyn would've done well with a quick fuck, a onetime thing from a hot psych student, but she was finding the slowness pretty okay too. Because when he wrapped her legs around his hips, and slid into her like she was something special, her whole world went fuzzy.

She lulled her head back in pure ecstasy as Harry took his time with her, biting marks into her neck that were sure to show sooner rather than later. She felt herself being useless in his arms, and still she couldn't stop being completely wrecked by him – with every forward motion of his hips, pushing her closer to her end.

It was when she finally decided to look up again, to check that Harry was getting as much out of it as she was, that she met his eyes and reached her climax. It came with a mutter of Harry and then a slump of her body even closer to his. Like any respectable man, Harry followed with a little more coaxing of her mouth on his neck – she was determined to leave a few love bites of her own – and a swirl of her hips.

They were both getting dressed again when the first post-sex words were spoken. And from Harry no less.

“That was fun, huh?” He smiled lightly, testing the waters with his offhand question.

Adalyn pulled on her shirt, surveying the room to see no noticeable differences about it.

“Oh, I definitely have no complaints.” She spoke honestly and freely, living high off her orgasm.

That truth seemed to shock Harry. Probably not that she was satisfied but that she wasn't playing games about it.

“None?” He questioned.

“Nah.” She pretended to think on it, then continued. “And I'm not one for lying.”

“Good to know.”

“Yeah. I figure it might be nice for you to know something about me.” Adalyn stepped closer to Harry, who was fully dressed and grinning contentedly at her from the edge of the table he perched himself on.

“I think so too.” He nodded in agreement, checking his watch. “And so in that case, would you want to have lunch with me?”

[datauthorress]

Ashes of Night [Chapter 4: A Night Out]

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character

Summary: A young college student stumbles upon a man from the past, right in her very apartment. The man doesn't know why he's suddenly 119 years in the future, but maybe this is a second chance at a better life.

Warnings: Mention of past self-harm, canon character death (dream sequence), nonconsensual drug use and ill intentions.

Notes: I could barely write the dream sequence. I kept crying with every word I typed up. @the-darklings , this is for you. I sorry to give you angst.

June and July went by rather quickly, and August was soon upon them, causing Shelby to get ready for her sophomore year of college. She explained to Arthur that she would be gone from 9 AM to 4 PM, Monday through Wednesday and was going to school an hour away, so she would be leaving around 7:30 in the morning for school. And when she had homework, she would be sitting at her desk in the living room and would more than likely have headphones in, listening to music or watching videos for her classes.

Arthur understood, though he was still confused about the whole 'college' thing.

During the two months, Shelby was able to fake an ID and documents for Arthur, through a friend of hers who was an expert at hacking computers, that way he would be able to actually live in the 21st century comfortably. Hell, Shelby even taught him how to drive, as he said “jus' like ridin' a horse”.

Shelby was comfortable enough to leave Arthur at home by himself. On a Friday night, Shelby mentioned to Arthur if he wanted to go to South Bend with her, to have dinner and go out to a bar with some of her friends. He gladly agreed, having been coped up in the apartment for a while now. They rode up to South Bend, stopping at the mall quick so Shelby could pick up some more books to read. She often read at night after finishing a chapter or two, mostly when they were sitting on the couch, watching television. Shelby introduced Arthur to Netflix and Hulu, letting him watch the many shows she had on her playlist. A few times she had fallen asleep on the couch while reading, and Arthur had to carry her to her bed, noting that she was light.

After dinner, they had decided to head over to the bar, as it turned over to be 9 PM. Arthur glanced around at the neon lights, the crowd dancing and shouting. Some people were even sitting in chairs, kissing or grinding against each other, but Shelby paid them no mind. She guided Arthur to the bar, where two men were sitting, both of them sipping out of their own straw from the same drink.

Both men looked to be in their early 30's, and both had colored hair and wore outfits similar to the attire that Shelby wore.

“Hey guys.” she called over, and both men looked over at her.

“Shelby! My sweet darling!” the taller of the two exclaimed and immediately pulled the young woman into a hug, squeezing her tight. “Oh my god, girl, you're so skinny.” he said, releasing her after a few moments.

“I've been pretty busy lately. I start school up in a couple weeks.” Shelby replied. “Guys, this is my friend and roommate, Arthur.”

Arthur shook hands with both men and they began talking as Arthur ordered a beer. He found out that the men, Tripp and Dennis, were both gay and in a married relationship, having been married for two years now. Dennis, the shorter man, briefly asked Arthur a question about Shelby and it made Arthur a little unnerved.

“Has Shelby ever told you about the marks on her wrists?” Dennis asked.

Marks? Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, remembering the last time he had asked Shelby about the silvery marks on her wrists. She had told him that she was born with the marks, and that they were nothing and they didn't hurt.

“She said she was born with them.” the older man replied.

Dennis sighed quietly and shook his head. “That is a total fuckin' lie.”

“Dennis!” Tripp scolded, swatting his husband's arm. “That's not polite! Don't you dare talk about Shelby that way!”

“Arthur deserves to know the truth, babe.”

“And she'll tell him when she's ready. It took her three years for her to tell us the truth.”

Dennis sighed. “Alright, fine. I'm sorry....just...don't say anything to her, Arthur. She'll just avoid the subject entirely.”

Arthur gave a nod, and he glanced over to Shelby, who was dancing with a tall girl in black heels and a leather skirt. She wasn't really smiling, but she looked nervous, to which the girl said something to her, taking her hands in her own and smiling at her. Shelby only seemed to nod, but she still didn't smile. Maybe she wasn't enjoying herself?

When his thoughts cleared, Dennis and Tripp had vanished, leaving Arthur by himself at the bar. He looked around, and found himself in the presence of an absolutely beautiful woman, with long, blonde hair that was curled and deep sea green eyes. She was wearing a slim fitting dress that showed off her curves quite nicely and she had a twinkle in her eye that Arthur couldn't quite place. But he figured, he came here to have fun, might as well talk to some new people.

After about an hour of talking with the woman, and about four beers later, Arthur began to notice that he was warm, very warm, burning up actually. His head felt foggy, blurry and his thoughts were all over the place. He glanced around with groggy eyes, his vision blurring. He felt....confused, and odd. He felt tired. His entire body ached.

What was wrong with him? Had he drank too much? No, he wasn't drunk.....he never felt this way while drunk before. Something was very wrong.

“I gotta.....gotta go find my friend....” he slurred, getting up and immediately swaying a bit, hanging onto the bar.

“Aw, are you not having fun anymore?” the woman's voice echoed, and Arthur felt her manicured hand on his forearm. “I know a place where you can go rest.”

“Get....get off me, woman!” he shouted, or at least tried to, and yanked his arm away from her.

Arthur made his way through the shouting crowd, calling out for Shelby. He called as loud as he could, and within moments, he found himself sitting in a plush chair, his head leaned back against the back of it. He felt so tired...

“...thur?! Arthur?!”

Small hands were on his shoulders, shaking him. He opened his eyes, focusing his vision on the young woman in front of him. There was a worried expression on her beautiful face and he instantly recognized her.

“There ya are....been lookin' all over for ya...” Arthur slurred, trying to sit up, but only groaned and fell back again.

“Arthur, what happened?” Shelby asked, her fingers briefly touching his bearded jaw. “Jesus Christ, you're burning up....”

“I think I drank too much....” he mumbled, closing his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again.

“Maybe, maybe not. We're going home, Arthur. You're gonna have to help me here, I can't carry you to the car.” Shelby said, moving to his side and slinging his arm over her shoulder.

It took a moment for Arthur to move, as it was hard to breathe for him. He coughed harshly, using the arm of the chair to push himself up. Shelby wrapped her other arm around his lower back and guided him out the door, where he had to stop to cough, hacking up whatever had been put into his system. He only felt this terrible when he was starting to suffer from Tuberculosis, except there was a lot more blood and a lot more coughing. Shelby spoke soothing words to him, telling him they were almost to the car and they would be home soon.

“Okay, okay, we're here.” Shelby said, opening the passenger side door and carefully helping him sit in the passenger side. He coughed, thankfully in the other direction and breathed hard, leaning back as Shelby moved the seat belt over him and clicked it into place.

“Hey!”

Shelby glanced over from the top of the door to see a blonde woman wearing a black dress come towards her, looking like someone had taken her cell phone. “Can I help you, miss? I have to get my friend home.”

“You're his friend? Oh....my...god!” the woman shrilled, surprising Shelby. “Look at you! You're an ugly little thing....how'd he get to be friends with such a little bitch like you?”

“You did something to him, didn't you?” Shelby asked.

“I didn't do-”

“You fucking ROOFIED him?!”

When Shelby shouted, people outside went silent and gazed in the direction of the two women, one of them practically shaking with anger.

“So what?” the woman scoffed. “He would've had a fun time with me. He needs a grown woman, not a little girl like you.”

Shelby crossed the distance before the woman even realized, and the woman was knocked backwards when Shelby's curled hand came barreling across her cheek. The woman blinked away the black spots in her vision, before lunging at the younger woman, knocking her to the ground. The blonde clawed at her face and neck, digging her sharp nails into Shelby's exposed skin. Shelby fought back, effectively punching the woman in the nose and feeling the bone crack underneath her knuckles. The woman screamed out in agony and fell backwards, holding her nose as blood gushed from it.

“Serves you right!” a man shouted at the sobbing woman.

Another patron was coming out to help Shelby, but she refused help, and said she needed to get Arthur home. She glared at Dennis and Tripp, both of them who stood on the sidelines, watching the event. She flipped them off, and got in her truck, driving off as fast as she could, while still following the road laws. She trembled the entire drive, knuckles and face bloody, most of it was the other woman's blood. She wiped blood away from her cheek, checking up on Arthur every minute. He was still awake, though not very coherent.

By the time they got home, it was nearing midnight. Shelby used whatever strength she had left to carry Arthur to his bedroom, and set him on his bed, before she went to go wash her hands. Blood ran down the drain and she looked at herself in the mirror, seeing the scratches and cuts on her face and neck, the blood that came from her split lip. She quickly cleaned up and dressed in comfortable pajamas, then went back to Arthur's room. She took his boots off, hearing him mumble every now and then.

After Shelby got him comfortable enough, Arthur reached out for her, his eyes barely open. “Come....come up here....”

“Arthur, I don't-” she began.

“Please....”

Shelby went quiet at his plea, before she gave a slight nod and climbed into the bed. She scooted closer to Arthur, who groaned softly and laid his arm over her. He mumbled something underneath his breath, something that Shelby couldn't make out before he finally went unconscious, his breathing slightly wheezy. She quietly moved under the covers, staying a good comfortable distance from him. She knew he wouldn't remember anything once he woke up, as the drug caused amnesia. Her face stung, her eyes stung with tears, but she couldn't bring herself to shed them. The past two months had allowed them to get closer to each other, becoming more than just....friends. But Arthur was still new, and there were still so many things he needed to learn about this future.

Shelby sighed quietly and settled in next to the older man, her hands curled up near her chest. Her eyes closed and it wasn't long before she dozed off, comforted by soft breathing.

~

“He's....he's a rat, Dutch.”

Shelby's eyes snapped open and she glanced up, startled when she heard Arthur's voice, though much weaker and his breathing was wheezy. It was dark out, and rain was coming down from the sky. She glanced over as male voices spoke to one another, and she covered her mouth in shock as she saw two men standing, and another lying on the ground, clearly weak and in severe pain.

Arthur.

Eventually, both of the men standing left, walking away as if nothing had happened, leaving Arthur on the cold, wet ground. Tears stung her eyes as she watched in mortification as the man rolled himself onto his stomach, crawling towards what looked like a cliff. She could see the colors of the sunrise, beginning to come over the horizon.

Why....?

Shelby rushed forward and knelt down towards Arthur, a hand moving down to touch his shoulder. The man was startled and he coughed as he looked up and over his shoulder, looking up at the young woman before him.

“Let me help you, please...” she whispered.

He only gave her a single nod and Shelby helped him to the edge of the cliff. She sat down with her legs crossed, allowing Arthur to rest his head in her lap. He wheezed and coughed, his breathing becoming more shallow. His blue eyes looked up to her, as a tear rolled down the side of his face. “A...are you....an...an angel?” he whispered.

Tears formed in her eyes and she couldn't help but let them flow freely, her thumb brushing away Arthur's tear. “I...I am. It's okay, Arthur. I know it hurts, just rest....you've fought so hard.....now it's time to rest.”

Shelby watched as the older man blinked slowly and he turned his head towards the sunrise, letting out a deep breath, before he exhaled....

And no more.

His eyes slowly closed, and he relaxed, going limp in her hold. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, and she leaned down, pressing her forehead to his, trembling.

“I'm so sorry this happened to you, Arthur....you deserved better.” she whispered, closing her eyes.

The next time she opened them, she was staring at Arthur's sleeping form, as he had rolled onto his back sometime during the night. It was still dark out, which meant the sun hadn't started to come up yet. She sniffled and sat up, glancing over at Arthur's relaxed expression. She scooted closer, reaching up with a trembling hand, gently placing the hand over his heart, feeling it beat strongly underneath her palm.

He was so real, and yet....

He had died, right there.

She placed her free hand over her mouth, muffling her sobs as she used the other hand to clutch onto his shirt slightly.

I'm so sorry, Arthur. But please...

Don't leave me.

[ageeksnerdyworld]

Demonic Studies

Characters: Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson Bruce Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth

Word Count: 2,440

Trigger Warning: Slight Swearing.

Summary: Unbeknownst to Bruce his youngest son was accepted to a summer study abroad program. Damian, overloaded with work, gives his father the cold shoulder and begins to flat out ignore him. Worried and angry Bruce decides to take matters into his own hands. Inspired by @pentapoda‘s drawing of college-age Damian. Click the Read More if you want.

XXXXX

“He’s studying abroad, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me, Alfred,” he threatened through gritted teeth.

The two men stood in the kitchen; on opposite ends of the room. While his butler was busy cooking an omelet he stood at the kitchen window, in full work attire; white shirt, black dress shoes, and a dark navy suit. He glared out into the bright sun of early morning. Bruce Wayne, billionaire, business mogul, Bat of Gotham, was too old to play these games with his youngest.

Not to mention that his youngest was too old to play these games.

“I would never dream of it, sir,” Alfred said as he plated the omelet.

“You can’t lie to me with one of my own, Alfred,” Bruce continued as he picked up his plate and walked to the table. “I used that exact line on that Carrie Kelly girl years ago.”

“I can assure you I’m not lying to you, sir. Master Damian was accepted to your… Well I can’t necessarily call the Ivy League school your alma mater since you never finished… And well you only went to it’s Gotham City campus and not the actual one.”

“Spit it out, Alfred” Bruce said with a twinge of annoyance.

“Master Damian has been accepted to Yale’s midsummer program at Oxford. I believe he said it was the BADA program. He has been attending for possibly a couple of days, now.”

Bruce’s jaw dropped in surprise and so did the bit of omelet inside his mouth.

“Maybe even a week’s time.”

“Call him.”

Alfred is startled by the request and starts to object to the idea. He tries to say that the boy is most likely in class. Then the aging butler proposes that the long distance call might not work. But his employer won’t hear any of it.

“Call him, Alfred. Now.”

He sighs and takes his phone out of his pocket.

“Phone call or video chat, sir?”

“Video chat.”

XXXXX

Damian loved Oxford. And London. And the entire United Kingdom. There was something about it that he adored but couldn’t quite put his finger on.

But mostly he loved his classes.

Acting appealed to him for many reasons. But the main reason was that he was never himself on stage. Whether he was playing Iago or Puck or Sir John Falstaff one thing was certain. He was never a Robin or a Wayne or an Al-Ghul there and never needed to be. He was nothing even remotely close to who he really was and he loved every second of it.

As he walked from his dorm to Magdalen College, not at all bothered by the crisp night air, his phone vibrated in his pants pocket.

A video chat from Pennyworth?

When he saw the caller ID cocked an eyebrow in confusion. Not because the elderly butler was calling him but because he was calling him at this time of night. The lateness of the hour meant it was rather early back home. Which could only mean that the decision for this impromptu video chat wasn’t made by Pennyworth.

Unless, Pennyworth was just feeling sentimental. Damian thought as he clicked the phone’s green answer button.

“Pennyworth.”

The old butler smiled at him from the phone’s screen. “Master Damian how are you this evening?”

Damian smiled back; “I am well, Pennyworth. Currently on my way to an evening class.”

“That’s wonder…”

The phone quickly moves and Alfred’s face is no longer in view. Worried that the butler might be in danger Damian yells into the receiver; threatening whomever might be bringing harm to the man. But when a face fills the screen Damian’s worry changes to fear in a heartbeat.

“!خدى”

“Son, don’t use that kind of language. I raised you better than that.“

His father wore an expression of angry calm and despite seeing it on many occasions it still sent a chill down the young man’s spine. It was all in the eyes; the anger. The rest of his father’s face remained entirely poised and unwrinkled. But his dark blue eyes were filled with fury and a mix of disappointment. It was an expression his father usually saved for the scum that ran the streets of Gotham. But that didn’t stop the Bat from using it on his children.

“I apologize, Father. You startled me. It won’t happen again; I promise.”

Bruce nods and the cold anger deflates from his face just a bit. In its place is a stern calmness. “Now… When were you planning on telling me you were accepted to the summer program?”

“After I finished.” Damian replies coldly.

“Father, I apologize for being rude but, I must get to class. I cannot be late as my professor is almost as strict as Grandfather and will surely have my head. But I will call you later. Goodbye.”

Damian ends the call before Bruce can respond and returns his phone to the front pocket of his jeans. He stands on the sidewalk for a bit staring at the night sky. Not a single star was shining yet and so the sky looked like calligraphy ink; an endless void of pure black. Despite everything the call made him miss his father, Pennyworth, and Gotham City itself. He sighs forlornly but straightens his backpack and continues his walk to class.

XXXX

They landed at the London airport around midday a couple of days after Bruce spoke to Damian. Despite their multiple refusals he insisted that the two of them fly out and check on the boy. He even gave them an entire speech to convince them to go. And now they were exiting one of the many Wayne Enterprises private jets.

“B usually saves those lines for the big boss battles, you know?” Jason said as he stretched trying to remove the tension in his body from the lengthy plane ride.

Jason wore his usual attire; dark blue jeans, a black shirt, brown leather jacket and black combat boots. Dick strode up beside him and handed over a black duffle. They both brought their uniforms just in case anything happened while they attended to this family matter. Dick wore gray lace-less slip-on sneakers, black skinny jeans, a plaid navy shirt and a black double-breasted peacoat.

“You look like you popped right out of a Nordstorm ad, Dickie-Boy.”

“Very funny.”

Even though they did not fly through any airline they still needed to walk through the busy London airport. Besides it would hard to travel in any normal way being two people who were legally dead. The only difference was that one of them actually did die. They walked through the airport in silence talking only when they walked down a somewhat busy London sidewalk a block or two away from the airport.

“So, I know B is crazy worried about Damian, but, he’s probably fine. I mean the kid’s what? Eighteen? Twenty? Twenty-three? Point is…”

“He’s not a kid, anymore. I know, Jay, I know.”

Dick shook his head and sighed. In the short silence that followed he took out his phone and sent a confirmation text to their father. He would much rather rely the information to Alfred but Bruce was treating Damian’s cold shoulder like an ice blast from Freeze. Dick sighed again and hoped that short text didn’t come off as rude. But then again there wasn’t much more to say.

Just landed. On our way.

Bruce texted back immediately: Inform me of any changes in directive.

Dick shook his head at how easily Bruce could switch to mission mode. Sometimes it seemed as if there was no end to Batman and no start to Bruce Wayne; that the two sides of his double life had swirled together over the years. That or the night-life serving as Gotham City’s protector turned Bruce’s hard edges into something even harder.

Or he could just be helicopter-parenting to the extreme, he thought with a slight chuckle.

Jason was busy trying to hail a taxi but was having no such luck. Rain drops began to fall in a very slight drizzle which annoyed the both of them. London, being famously rainy, tended to have long and hard rainstorms. And that was something they needed to avoid if they wanted to get this done quickly. Finally, a black cab pulled to the curb and stopped. Jason angrily climbed in and Dick followed suit. They told the driver where they going and the middle-aged man nodded before he eased back into traffic.

“We need to do this for Bruce.” Dick said as they settled into the rear seats of the taxi.

“I just don’t understand why it has to be us.”

“Because we promised, Jay”

“Only after he threatened us,” Jason replied with a slight smirk.

XXXX

Damian sat in his dorm; alone. Using his wealth and status as a Wayne he convinced the admissions office to let him have a dorm to himself. He sat the cheaply made wooden desk writing an essay on how Shakespeare’s plays appealed to all audiences of the time through his use of higher language as well as crude humor.

He was also ignoring the fact that he needed sleep.

His eyes closed and his head drooped as he began to unconsciously nod off. But then a series of loud knocks on his door jolted him awake. Rising from his seat he marked the passage of Othello he was using for his essay with a yellow flag sticky note. As he crossed the room he grumbled threats in his native tongue under his breath aimed at whoever stood behind his door.

“ساقتل بحذف عاكاتك ناماها”

"سخيف الكلب انا سوف يقتاك ”

“ابن لا تصلح للتنفس”

But to his surprise the two people standing in his doorway were the last two people he’d been expecting. Upon seeing the two figures in his doorway his jaw dropped and his eyes went wide and then in the moment his face scrunched in anger. He grit his teeth angrily but allowed the two men to enter his dorm room.

“Grayson. Todd.”

“Hey, buddy,” Dick said with a smile as he looked around the room. “Nice place you get here.”

Damian crossed his arms over his chest and scoffed. “Cut the pleasantries, Grayson. I know Father sent the two of you to spy on me.”

Dick had sat down on Damian’s small, almost military cot-like, bed while Jason rifled through the young man’s miniature fridge. Then Dick rose and crossed to Damian’s desk and looked over his essay. Jason grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and a pack of trail mix. Meanwhile Damian stood near the doorway leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face.

“Don’t you have any real food, Short Stop?” Jason asked he sat Indian-style on the middle of the floor and began to eat.

“You cannot make fun of my height any longer, Todd. We’re the exact same height. Tell me why Father has you two spying on me. Now!” Damian said through grit teeth.

Dick spun around in the chair and crossed his arms over the back. “Bruce is worried about you. He sent us because you’ve been ignoring him, kiddo. Hey, wait, are you wearing a Nightwing shirt?”

Damian’s tan cheeks turned a dark red in embarrassment and he looked away. He had completely forgotten that he was wearing the shirt. He had even forgotten that he had bought it until he put it on that morning before his 6AM stage fighting class. That early morning class was also the reason he wore clothing he would normally never wear in public; sweatpants and sandals.

“What of it, Grayson?”

“Nothing,” Dick replied with a proud smile.

“Why don’t you sit here by me, Shorty?” Jason said giving Damian a worried look.

“Oh. Sorry. Force of habit. But you look like you’re one foot in the grave. Sit down.”

Damian scoffed but sat. “You don’t understand what college is like, Todd. You never went.”

“One of the advantages of being dead, I guess,” Jason said with a slight chuckle. “I haven’t written an essay in years and besides I don’t think any of us needs to go to college. Especially you.”

“You are a disgrace, Todd,” Damian said through a mouthful of trail mix.

The three of them soon fell into conversation about their other lives. Much to their surprise Damian was dying to know about everything that was going on in Gotham. And he really meant everything from what was going on with the family to what the GCPD was doing to the adventures of Arkham’s current inmates. As Jason told a story of how he and The Outlaws took down Killer Croc one time Damian snuggled closer to him, but, Jason took no notice.

“Jason...” Dick whispered.

“What? I was in the middle of the best part.”

“Look,” he said as he pointed to the spot next to Jason.

Jason turned to see that the young adult had fallen asleep against him. His face contorted in a mix of anger and surprise. “Seriously, Dami?”

“Wait a minute, Jay. Don’t move.”

Dick walked over and bent down on the other side of the sleeping youngster. He pulled his phone out and when Jason started to object Dick shushed him. Reaching out Dick snapped a photo of the three of them. Looking at the photo he chuckled to himself. The only time that the young man had ever looked peaceful and calm was when he was sound asleep. Then he sent the photo to Bruce with a caption.

Mission’s going well. Enemy has been subdued.

When Bruce received the text from Dick all the worry left him and he smiled wider than he had in long time.

[coppicefics]

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR ‘MASKED OMENS’, PLEASE DON’T REBLOG!

[Image Description: Image 1 - A simple rendition of the Masked Singer UK logo, a golden mask with colourful fragments flying off of it. The mask has a golden halo and a golden devil tail protruding from either side. Below, gold text reads ‘Masked Omens’. Overlaid on top of all this are the words ‘MAJOR SPOILERS’ in large white capitals.

Image 2 & 3 - A double-page spread from the ‘Feature’ section of the Capital Herald, dated Saturday, 15th May 2021. The information is arranged in boxes with pale peach coloured backgrounds. Each box also contains a picture of the character or characters described therein - two of these characters are symbolised by random background characters from Good Omens. Full transcript below the cut. End ID.]

The Capital Herald, Saturday 15th May, 2021 Feature, page 8-9

Where are they now? The Celebrities behind the masks of The Masked Singer UK’s first live series, three months later They sang, danced, and were unmasked live in front of the nation. But what do their lives look like beyond the mask? We caught up with 2021′s Masked Singers to find out what’s changed MARY HODGES with additional contributions by EDWARD BIGGS & SCUZZ FISHER

Page 8

Top left: Dr. Raven Sable - APPLE Dr. Sable is awaiting the dates of an inquiry into the hospitalisations of Adam Mann and Lilith Root, former ambassadors for his CHOW brand, who allege that their conditions were the direct result of their employment with him. If the allegations are upheld, it's likely that Sable will be struck off and will no longer be permitted to practice medicine. Already, sales of his CHOW lifestyle products and books are down and stocks in his company are plummeting. Sable maintains his innocence on all counts.

Top right: Newton Pulsifer - AXOLOTL Anathema Device - BLACK CAT The unexpected it-couple of the year were spotted having a cosy picnic just last week. It seems love's young dream still has its hold on this adorable pair, who obliged passing reporters with a few posed photographs before asking for privacy for the rest of their date.The two made their relationship public at the beginning of April, and so far they show no signs of tiring of one another. Pulsifer is preparing to provide commentary on the Premier League starting in August, and Device is scheduled to set off on a UK tour in October.

Centre left: Carmine Zugiber - WAR Zugiber recently returned to Celestan, just in time to report on its division into Lestern and Fernor. While the fighting has now largely died down, Carmine intends to stay on in the country to report on the political situation as it develops. While some of her reports will be published through News World Weekly, she's also established a new website of her own where she can, as she says in the introductory post, “dig deeper into the underlying factors beneath the headlines”.

Centre right: Esther James - NINJA After leading the Red Roses to Six Nations victory in March, James began work – alongside her girlfriend, Jane Adams – on setting up a charitable foundation to encourage LGBT+ youngsters to pursue their sporting dreams. Officially set to launch in June this year, Off The Pridelines will offer scholarships, help connect youngsters with teams, and run various support services, as well as a training and accreditation scheme for teams and venues to become more supportive. “A lot of gay and trans kids have a lot of fear tied up with school PE lessons, changing rooms, and sports. Many don't know where they can safely train or play,” James states in the foundation's pre-launch press pack. “Off The Pridelines aims to fix that and help them become more confident and active without having to hide who they are.”

Bottom left: Sergeant Shadwell - BELL As well as forming an unlikely duo with Marjorie Potts – the two have been spotted together in tea shops, at antiques fairs, and even admiring the properties in the window of an estate agent's – Shadwell has been making frequent trips to the town of Little Dyvyn, where work on the restoration of Godleigh Manor has recently been allowed to begin. “Lucy [Godleigh, the owner] is really keen to keep the Wytchfynder Army informed and involved in the process, and I think it's really interesting to get to see inside the walls of the place,” Shadwell told viewers in a recent YouTube video, “so I reckon I'll pop in every so often, have a look around and report anything interesting I find out. For example, that rattling noise from the first video? Turns out there are wooden window shutters inside a hollow wall, and a draft was blowing through them. Something to keep in mind in future 'haunting' cases.”

Bottom Right:

Agnes Nutter - BONFIRE “Some stories wait for no-one,” as Nutter tweeted a couple of weeks ago, and that certainly seems to have been true of her latest book. Just a month after she first mentioned that she'd begun writing a new novel, Nutter has already reported that the first draft is almost finished, and she appears to be planning for a September release date. “I'm going to dedicate this one to my new friend Marjorie,” she told Twitter, “she's been a font of fascinating anecdotes and very generous in allowing me to draw inspiration from them.”

Page 9

Top left: Pat Maputi - SQUID P-White's Chalkdust tour is in full swing, with packed crowds selling out arenas across the UK and Europe. Tickets are currently on sale for the American stretch of the tour, which should keep Pat busy until next spring. After that, Maputi plans to “sleep for about a month and then start writing a new album”, they told the Capital Herald – although they will be making time to attend the Blue Peter garden party. For now, though, it's life on the road for Maputi as they wrap up this leg of the tour.

Top centre: Aziraphale Fell - GOOSE Anthony Crowley - SNAKE The Amazing Mr. Fell's magic show has been sold out for three solid months, ever since his appearance on The Masked Singer, and even adding extra shows on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons doesn't seem to have entirely sated the public's demand. Fell himself seems to be spending most of his time off in the company of Anthony Crowley, predominantly in various London restaurant establishments. Most recently, the two were spotted enjoying a late lunch at the Ritz to celebrate the announcement that Crowley has been cast as Rafferty in the new TV adaptation of Sir Thomas Parsett's The Grasswater Affair. “Yeah, thrilled to get another go at Grasswater,” Crowley told the Capital Herald, “and with the support of Noel [Garmin, showrunner] and all the people who've helped me reach the point where this is possible.” Asked about the nature of his friendship with Fell, Crowley seemed lost for words, but Fell stepped in with a brief statement. “I'm afraid it's quite ineffable. And, if you don't mind, I believe those are our desserts.” So it seems The Masked Singer's contestants still have some mysteries for us!

Bottom left: Marjorie Potts - TEAPOT Madame Tracy has been a very busy woman – as well as returning to TV with her show Drawing Back the Veil on Saturday nights, she's also still writing for the New Aquarian and overseeing her increasingly popular Psychic Hotline. But despite all this, she's also found time to be seen at the forefront of a couple of protests, notably against proposed changes to the Freedom Pass system, alongside fellow Masked Singer contestants Agnes Nutter and Sergeant Shadwell. The latter has also been seen making frequent calls to Potts' Camden address – but she's tight-lipped on the subject. “I don't kiss and tell, dear,” she told our reporter – and perhaps you can draw your own conclusions from that.

Bottom centre: Lawrence Richmond - PONY Last week's General Election - the third in four years - saw Richmond lose the Toffley South seat he'd occupied since 2005. In a speech to his supporters immediately after the result was declared, he announced his intention to take a brief break from politics in order to spend more time with his family, and is currently holidaying with wife Victoria and son Horace in the South of France.

Right-hand column: AND THE REST... Jeremy Wensleydale While Wensleydale is currently in rehearsals for a production of Turandot at Glyndebourne this summer, he has also found time to announce that he will be spending the autumn recording an album of some of his favourite operatic and choral numbers, along with a number of famous voices. This will be Wensleydale's first full album since 2018, and is already eagerly anticipated by his many fans. Brian Thames Thames is now coming to the end of his latest tour, The British Inquisition, and has recently found time to appear on several comedy panel shows and chat shows. He's then scheduled to run an online comedy masterclass, which he'll be recording immediately after his tour ends. “I had a teacher at school who told me I had a real talent for helping people remember things. I think usually it was just because they remembered the jokes. So I could hardly pass up this opportunity - this one's for you, Miss Tyler.” Pepper Moonchild Moonchild is currently filling in as a presenter on The One Show, and recently announced that she hopes to publish a detective novel next year. “I've been getting loads of advice from my literary hero, Agnes Nutter – it's something I've always wanted to do, but my agent at the time advised against diversifying too much. My new agent has been nothing but supportive - they even put me in touch with a good literary agent, so now all I have to do is write the best book I can and see how it goes!” Adam Young and Warlock Dowling After years of rumours and speculation about their relationship, presenters Adam Young and Warlock Dowling eloped to tie the knot in New York last weekend.“We didn't tell anyone we were getting married,” Dowling said, after breaking the news on Pam and Sam AM earlier this week. “Our families were a bit surprised! But we just wanted it to be really low key, a day just for us.” “Yeah, some glares were exchanged when people realised they'd missed out on a wedding,” Young confirmed. “But we're going to plan a big party soon! Besides, we didn't do anything in the Big Apple that wasn't worth the trouble we got in for doing it.”

[End Transcript]

[cooltyrantface]

Hit me below the belt

One of the rules of the Gentleman club is: Find you a girl that is a Times Roman in the streets and a verdana in the sheets.

That girl was (supposedly) Nelly (like the rapper). [there was quite some resemblance between her and Nelly the Rapper, otherwise my brain was playing tricks on me(again) on some cause-relate bias]

We met at Rotaract, but I initially saw her at AIESEC. It was her first time, and probably her last time. She told me: “I found it boring”, which personally was kind of ironic considering how actually boring I think Rotaract is, and as a former AIESECer, id say those were the good times. It was lit.

These things are relative, and had she stuck around the MSS, her experience might have been different. She was also the VP of Rotaract so brand loyalty? She had to root for her team and disparage the other (competing) team.

We saw each shortly after that during the Journey meeting. The one that had an African theme. The Thursday Jeremy had come around for a sleepover, and I had either deliberately or circumstancially (I don't know) showed up anyways in the Leopard print coat, the grey shirt and the SONY headphones.

It was chance. I was dressed up for the party. I was oozing in confidence and totally had a time of my life. I cheered, rather too loud for my norm. I sat on the writing board on those JKUAT seats with this girl, appraising the models, judging the performances, watching everything.

After the event, there was a small sort of after-party. There was a DJ turning tables, then the rest of us on the dance floor (the cleared center stage of CLB 00-something) were in two crews, facing each other like a dance-off, though it wasn't a competition. We were just having fun, from the hype guys on the front row showing the rest of us the dance styles to move to the songs. I was on the front row but more like a cheerleader.

We danced like crazy, and I especially, with my two left feet and sedentary lifestyle was making a fool of myself and sweating through every pore and every hole. Nobody seemed to care, especially me. I was watching her on the other side and she was sweating too. She was smiling too, with those demonic eyes that make me want to do some very bad things to her. (Cue in MGK and Camilla Cabello).

Since then I had seen her around, on various occasions, around my place in Gate A. She lived nearby. We passed each other on the streets, barely a word being said between us, only exchanging looks that hinted recognition. That went on for months, until a few weeks ago…

It was a Monday evening. I had been invited for the Rotaract meeting by Fatuma (more about her later) who was also an official at the club. I accepted the invitation.

I entered the room half an hour past seven; a little tardy by all standards; a little drunk after a drinking session with my bud Ron. I sauntered into the room like a Russian spy and sat quitly on the closest a available seat. I sat for close to an hour and a half, listening to this guy talk about his fashion business, then through a Q & A session (I asked him the current state of the fashion industry and how it can be improved, but my brain was too intoxicated to absorb anything close to unrehearsed mumble-jumble of a reply. He was a cool guy though, and his outfits were terrific!), then followed the procedures to the conclusion. I ended the matter in a style and a fashion, a little sobered up, contrary to my late entrance.

After the meeting was over, I tapped this girl on her shoulder and began making a conversation.

“Hi”

“Hi”

“ You had a question for the presenter of the day? I saw you raise your hand but he didn't pick you out. What was that question?” I went on.

She told me, though I can't quite remember. Something generic.

The idea was to take her hand and take her to the Fashion guy, and after she asked away, I'd add some some smart talk and impress her, then take her home. No. Take her number and ask her to come and see me sometime. My mind was on some other girl.

The Fashion Guy had disappeared.

“My name is KK, what's yours?”

“Christine”

“That's a beautiful name…

[“Thank you”].

[We exchanged contacts].

Let's get out of here. It's kind of noisy.”

“ I'm sorry. I have something I have to do before I leave.” She declined.

“Are you an official here? Like do you have club responsibilities?”

“ No, actually. I just help serve the coffee.”

“ I want some…” I blurted out.

She sold me coffee, then a few seconds later announced that it was on-house. The fuck! “You sold me free coffee!” I didn't really mind though, it was just ten-shillings for some shitty tasting coffee in a miniscule plastic cup. A coffee tot.

The girl that was on my mind had been at the center of the room posing for pictures all this while. Then next thing I knew, she was gone. It was time to go. I was outta there.

I got out of the room into the cold air of the night, stepped onto the veranda and circled around the staircase to the other side of the complex and then I saw her! I hopped. I flagged her and her friend.

“Hey. It's you that I wanted to talk to.”

She turned her head ever so gently and gave me the most lady-like smile I have ever received in my life.

She stopped walking and I stood in front of her, looking into her eyes. Then,

“This is going to sound like the corniest thing you have ever had, but you look very familiar. Have I seen you somewhere? I just want to get you out of my mind.”

That smile. That damn smile. We started walking again, talking. I told her my name. She asked, “KK stands for?”

“Kennedy Karanja,” I answered, putting the accent in the right place, like a true son of Mumbi.

“Shee.”

“Haha. Like S-H-E? She?”

“S-H-E-E!”

“yeah, right. Is that your real name or your stage name?” I teased.

“My name is Magdalene Wanjiku(no accent), but my friends call me Shee”

I asked her what she did for fun. Apparently, Netflix and Chill is the most fun she has for days, semester in, semester out. I had other ideas, so I put my arms around her to drive a point. Touching.

She backed away slightly, but then kept coming back. I told her I was a rapper. She was impressed. She asked for a sample, which I had to produce. We had to stand as I scrolled through my Twitter for my SoundCloud. Umm...tweets from last year...mostly rants. Tweets from some past I was depressed. Tweets from a remote history when I didn't have an idea what Twitter was for...then I found it! CABBAGES!

That was a banger. By Kenyan standards. If it was well mastered and mixed and promoted, by all standards.

That's how I got my number one fan. She complemented my voice and I saw in her eyes she was falling for me. She was tripping for me. She said she could sing too.

“Well then, try this:

1-2-5 tuko 4-2-0,

Juja-maica tuko maji tuko H-2-0.”

“125 tuko 5-2-oh!

Juja-maica tuko maji tuko H-2-O”

Impressive!

That's was just her first take. I imagine the future would lit for this gyal should she decide to pick music as a career. But she sings in the choir.

“I was choir-one in high school” she chimes in just as I am about to blah-blah-blah my complements.

We were so long lost in conversing that realizing we had finally reached Gate C came as a rude shocker.

“This is where we say goodbye. But before you go there is something I'd like to say”

I took a breath and gave the conversation a breather.

Then I said the most absurd words she has ever heard come out of a human mouth. I spoke like a dragon of a human,

“ I want to fuck you and make you my bitch.”

She stepped back in shock. I had lifted some rapper's lyrics and quoted them verbatim. I said those words so casually, in the midst of witnesses and eavesdropping passers-by. She retreated back to her shell; no longer smiling; no more of those eyes. Those damn eyes!

I was left to my own mental space, finally realizing the gravity of my stupidity yet ambivalently confident in my aggressive approach. Little did I know that this woman that I was prospecting to fuck and do bad things to was born-again. Jesus Christ, who is the freak now?

I had to hastily say my goodbyes and leave with my tail wagging between my legs, the defeated dog that I had turned into. Back into school, back to CLB - I had to claim my prize. My final option. It was her.

Remember how I implied that she was a Times News Roman in the streets but a Verdana in the sheets? I had to find out. I trekked at a marcher's pace and trotted at a runner's pace.

When I made my re-entry, I was lucky she was one of the few people that had been left, and had I been a few seconds later she would have vanished. I went straight to her and we hit it off.

“i wanted to nominate you for the Fashion adjudicator's award. You're minimalist, but you still look stylish. Real stylish.”

She looked down, half inspecting her outfit, half blushing at this stranger’s kind words, then rebuffed with a “ ah! I dont know.”

[vitalmindandbody]

‘It was quasi-religious’: the great self-esteem con

In the 1980 s, Californian legislator John Vasconcellos set up a task force that promoted high-pitched self-esteem as the answer to social ailments. But was his science based on a lie?

In 2014, a heartwarming character sent to year 6 students at Barrowford primary school in Lancashire exited viral. Handed out with their Key Stage 2 exam upshots, it reassured them: These research do not ever assess all of what it is that realize each of you special and unique They do not know that your best friend count on you to be there for them or that your laugh can brighten the dreariest era. They do not know that you write poetry or songs, participate boasts, wonder about the future, or that sometimes you take care of your fucking brother or sister.

At Barrowford, parties learned, teaches were deterred from questioning beatings, characterizing small children as naughty and promoting their voices. The institutions guiding logic, said headteacher Rachel Tomlinson, was that kids were to be treated with unconditional positive regard.

A little more than a year later, Barrowford obtained itself in the news again. Ofsted had given the school one of its lowest possible ratings, find the quality of education and exam outcomes insufficient. The institution, their report spoke, emphasised developing pupils emotional and social wellbeing more than the achievements of quality standards. Somehow, it seemed, the nurturing of self-esteem had not be converted into higher achievement.

The shortcoming hitherto virulent notion that, in order to thrive, people need to be treated with unconditional positivity first gained traction in the late 80 s. Since then, the self-esteem crusade has helped transform the behavior we parent our children prioritising their appears of self-worth, telling them they are special and amazing, and cocooning them from everyday consequences.

One manifestation of this has been grade inflation. In 2012, the chief executive of British exams regulator Ofqual admitted the value of GCSEs and -Alevels had been gnawn by years of prolonged point inflation. In the US, between the late 60 s and 2004, the proportion of first time university students claiming an A median in high school has increased from 18% to 48%, despite the fact that SAT scores had actually fallen. Nothing of this, alleges Keith Campbell, prof of psychology at the University of Georgia and expert on narcissism, provides our children well. Burning yourself on a stave is really useful in telling you where you stand, he speaks, but we live in a world-wide of accolades for everyone. Fourteenth region ribbon. I am not making this substance up. My daughter got one.

Campbell, with his colleague Jean Twenge at San Diego State University, has argued that this kind of parenting and teaching have led to a discernible rise in narcissism: witness the selfie-snapping millennials. Although their findings are disputed, Twenge points to other investigate done in the US and beyond twenty-two contemplates or tests[ that] demonstrate a generational increase in positive self-views, including narcissism, and merely two[ that] do not.

How did we get here? To answer that, you have to go back to 1986 and the work of an eccentric and powerful California politician, John Vasco Vasconcellos. That time, the Democrat Vasconcellos managed to persuade a deeply sceptical Republican state governor to money a three-year task force to explore the value of self-esteem. Vasco remained convinced that low self-esteem was different sources of a huge array of social issues, including unemployment, educational downfall, child abuse, domestic violence cases, homelessness and mob warfare. He became remain convinced that causing specific populations self-esteem would act as a social inoculation, saving the state billions.

But Vascos plan backfired spectacularly, with the fallout lasting to this day. I wasted a year trying to find out why and discovered that there was, at the very heart of his job, a lie.

***

John Vasconcellos grew up an submissive Catholic, an altar boy, the smartest boy in his class, whose mom blaspheme that he never misbehaved. But, being such a ardent Catholic, he knew that no matter how good he was, he could only ever be a sinner. At primary school, he flowed for class chairwoman. I lost by one vote. Mine, he eventually replied. He didnt vote for himself because Id been drilled never to use the word I, never to visualize or speak well of myself.

After a charm as a lawyer, Vasco participated politics. In 1966, aged 33, he was elected to the California state assembly. But “theres a problem”: his professional success was at odds with how he thought of himself; he felt he didnt deserves it. At 6ft 3in and over 200 lb, he would stalk the Capitol building in Sacramento, glowering and agitated in his smart black clothing, perfect white shirt and arrow-straight tie, his whisker cultivated with armed precision. I learnt my identity and my life starting utterly apart, he eventually enunciated. I had to go and seek help.

That help came from an uncommon Catholic priest: Father Leo Rock was a psychologist who had studied under the innovator of humanistic psychology, Carl Rogers, a soldier who believed that the Catholic had it absolutely wrong. At their core, he fantasized, humans werent bad; they were good. And in order to thrive, people needed to be treated with unconditional positive thought( Rogers coined the phrase ). Vasco began contemplating under Rogers himself, a soldier he afterwards described as virtually my second father. Through intense group therapy workshops at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Vasco became a adherent of the human potential shift, based partly on the Rogerian idea that all you need to do to live well is discover your authentic inner self.

Portrait: Franck Allais for the Guardian

Around the state capitol, Vascos colleagues began to notice the buttoned-up Catholic was unbuttoning. He flourished his mane and wear half-open Hawaiian shirts on the floor of the senate, a gold series nuzzled in his chest “hairs-breadth”. One reporter described him as looks a lot like a cross between a boulder starring and anti-retroviral drugs smuggler. He became a human potential evangelist, urging the innate goodness in human beings and handing long notebook directories to peers. His self-hating Catholic self had washed away, and in its neighbourhood is a major, glowing note I.

Vasco knew he was in a unique slot. As a legislator, he could take everything hed learned about human potential and transform it into programme that would have a real effect on thousands, perhaps millions, of lives. He decided to campaign for a state-financed task force to promote self-esteem: this would give the movement official affirmation and allow legislators to fashion legislation around it. Best of all, they could recruit “the worlds” finest researchers to prove, scientifically, that it worked.

In the mid-8 0s, the notion that feeling good about yourself was the answer to all your problems seemed to many like a silly Californian cult. But it was also a age when Thatcher and Reagan were busily redesigning western culture around their projection of neoliberalism. By interrupting the unions, flogging shields for workers and trade deregulating bank and business, they wanted to turn as much of human life as possible into a competition of self versus soul. To get along and get ahead in this new competitive age, you had to be ambitious, ruthless, relentless. You had to believe in yourself. What Vasco was offering was a simple hack that would draw you a more winning contestant.

Vascos first try at having his task force mandated into principle has now come to a halt in 1984, when he suffered material heart attack. His belief in positive think was such that, by seeking to remedy himself, he wrote to his ingredients requesting them to envision themselves with minuscule cleans swimming through his arteries, rubbing at the cholesterol, while singing, to the sing of Row, Row, Row Your Barge: Now tells swim ourselves/ up and down my flows/ Touch and rub and heated and thaw/ the plaque that stymie my streams. It didnt piece. As the senate “vote yes ” its own proposal, Vasco was retrieving from seven-way coronary bypass surgery.

After a second attempt was vetoed by the state minister, Vasco decided to enhance the name of his job, modernizing it to the Task Force to Promote Self-Esteem and Personal and Social Responsibility. He reduced the proposed budget from $750,000 a year to $735,000 over three, to be spent on academic the investigations and the roundup of sign in the form of public testament. On 23 September 1986, Assembly Bill 3659 was signed into law.

The response from the California media was immediate and barbarian. One editorial, in the San Francisco Chronicle, called Vascos task force naive and outrageous. Nothing established Vasco more enraged than his ideas not being taken seriously, but he was about to become the prank of America.

***

Until Monday 9 February 1987, Vascos task force had was widely regime report. But on that morning, the cartoonist Garry Trudeau, who had been tickled by the legislators crusade, inaugurated an extraordinary two-week lope of his favourite Doonesbury strip to be given to it. By the end of that day, reporters were mobbing Vasco on the floor of the assembly enclosure. Rival politicians devoted dismissive briefings You could buy the Bible for $2.50 and work better while the Wall Street Journals story endured the headline Maybe Folks Would Feel Better If They Get To Split The $735,000.

Vasco was pallid. The media, he grumbled, were ghastly, cynical, sceptical and inexpensive. Their problem? Low self-esteem.

Meanwhile, something impressive seemed to be happening. The response from the people of California had been great. Between its notice and the task forces firstly public gather in March 1987, the role received more than 2,000 calls and letters, and almost 400 applications to volunteer. More than 300 parties came forward to speak in support of self-esteem at public hearings in the various regions of the nation. And even if the medias tone wasnt always respectful, Vasco himself was now their own nationals anatomy. He seemed everywhere from Newsweek to the CBS Morning Show to the BBC. This, he felt, could be a major opportunity.

But firstly he needed to find a way to wrench the national media gossip upwards. And situations, on that front, were going from unfortunate to foolish. It began with the announcement of the task forces 25 members. On the upside, it was a diverse group, including women, gentlemen, people of colour, lesbian beings, straight beings, Republican, Democrat, a former police officer and Vietnam veteran whod been awarded two Purple Middle. On the downside, it also included a white man in a turban who predicted the work of the working group would be so powerful, it would cause the sunlight to increase in the west. A delighted Los Angeles Herald told how, in front of the press, one member of the task force had asked others to close their eyes and thoughts a self-esteem maintenance gear of sorcery hats, twigs and amulets.

Vascos team embarked sounding information from people up and down California. They sounded from an LA deputy sheriff who toured academies, attempting to reduce drug use by telling students, You are special. You are a wonderful individual. They sounded from masked members of the Crips, who accused their murderous criminality on low-pitched self-esteem. One school principal recommended having elementary pupils increase their self-importance by doing evaluations on their teachers. A wife called Helice Bridges explained how shed dedicated her life to assigning hundreds of thousands of blue ribbon that read Who I Am Makes A Difference.

With the national media held so much to snigger over, it was beginning to look as if Vascos mission was a bust. But there had been some good word: the University of California had agreed to recruit seven profs to research the connection between low-grade self-esteem and societal maladies. They would report back in two years hour. For Vasco, their findings would be personal. If the professors decided he was wrong, it was all over.

***

Me, myself and I: a selfie-snapping millennial. Picture: Francois Lenoir/ Reuters

At 7.30 pm on 8 September 1988, Vasco fulfilled the scientists at El Rancho Inn in Millbrae, just outside San Francisco, to hear research results. Everything hinged on Dr Neil Smelser, an emeritus professor of sociology who had coordinated the design, resulting a crew who reviewed all the existing experiment on self-esteem. And the bulletin was good: four months later, in January, the task force questioned a newsletter: In the words of Smelser, The correlational discovers are very positive and compelling.

The headlines rapidly piled up: Self-Esteem Panel Finally Being Taken Seriously; Commission On Self-Esteem Finally Getting Some Respect. The nation minister mailed the professors experiment to his fellow ministers, suggesting, Im convinced that these studies build the foundations for a new period in American problem solving.

Vascos task force was almost done: all they had to supposed to do now was build upon this positive tint with the publication of their final report, Toward A State Of Esteem, in January 1990. That report turned out to be a win beyond the reasonable hopes of anyone who had witnessed its humiliating descents. The minister of Arkansas, Bill Clinton, whod privately taunted Vasco and his projection , now publicly endorsed it, as did illustrations including Barbara Bush and Colin Powell. Time magazine ran with the headline, The gibes are turning to cheers.

The man they were calling the Johnny Appleseed of Self-Esteem is available on the Today Show and Nightline, on the BBC and Australias ABC. The report went into reprinting in its debut week and went on to sell an extraordinary 60,000 copies. Vascos publicists approached Oprah Winfrey, who extended a prime-time special probing why she speculated self-esteem was going to be one of the catch-all words for the 1990 s. Interviewed were Maya Angelou, Drew Barrymore and John Vasconcellos.

Four months after the launch of Toward A State Of Esteem, the papers were reporting that self-esteem was broom through Californias public academies, with 86% of the states elementary school territories and 83% of high school regions enforcing self-esteem programmes. In Sacramento, students began matching twice a few weeks to decide how to discipline other students; in Simi Valley, children were taught, It doesnt matter what you do, but who you are. Political chairmen from Arkansas to Hawaii to Mississippi embarked considering their own task forces.

As the months became times, the self-love action spread. Accuseds in narcotic visitations were reinforced with special key chains for be contained in court, while those who completed medication were given applause and doughnuts. Children were gifted plays accolades just for swerving up; a Massachusetts school district prescribed children in gym classes to skip without actual ropes lest they abide the self-esteem calamity of tripping. Meanwhile, police in Michigan trying a serial rapist taught the public to look out for a thirtysomething male with medium build and low-grade self-esteem.

The credibility of Vascos task force turned predominantly on a single knowledge: that, in 1988, the esteemed professors of the University of California had analysed the data and approved his impression. The only question was, they hadnt. When I tracked down one renegade task force member, he described what happened as a fucking lie. And Vasco was behind it.

***

In an attempt to discover how America, and then “the worlds”, went conned so spectacularly, I travelled to Del Mar, California, to assemble the task force member whod prophesied their work would cause the sunlight to increase in the west. David Shannahoff-Khalsa greeted me into his bungalow, examining little changed from the old-time image Id learnt: appearance constrict, attentions sharp-witted, turban blue. A kundalini yoga practitioner who guessed meditation to be an ancient engineering of the head, Shannahoff-Khalsa had been so disillusioned by the final report, hed refused to sign it.

Portrait: Franck Allais for the Guardian

As we sat and nibbled cheese, he picked up a dense notebook with a glossy red-faced handle: The Social Importance Of Self-Esteem. This was the obtained work of the University of California professors. He flicked through its sheets, ending eventually on Smelsers summary of the findings. The information most consistently reported, he read out loud, is that the association between self-esteem and its expected importances are mixed, insignificant or absent.

This was a radically different conclusion from that fed to the public. Shannahoff-Khalsa told me he was present when Vasco first met preliminary enlists of the professors make. I remember him going through them and he ogles up and enunciates, You know, if members of the legislative council finds out whats in these reports, we are able to cut the funding to the task force. And then all of that nonsense started to get brushed for the purposes of the table.

How did they do that?

They tried to hide it. They wrote a[ positive] report before this one, he alleged, tapping the ruby-red notebook, which deliberately dismissed and considered up the science.

It was hard to believe that Vascos task force had been so rash as simply to develop the mention, the one that territory the findings and conclusions were positive and compelling. What had really happened at that see in September 1988? I knew the answer on an old-time audio cassette in the California state archives.

The sound was hissy and swooning. What I sounded, though, was clear enough. It was a recording of Smelsers presentation to Vascos task force at that meet in El Rancho Inn, and it was nowhere near as upbeat as the task force had claimed. I listened as he announced the professors work to be complete but worryingly mixed. He talked through a few domains, such as academic achievement, and remarked: These correlational findings are really pretty positive, reasonably compelling. This, then, was the mention the task force employed. Theyd sexed it up a bit for the public. But they had wholly omitted what he enunciated next: In other areas, the connects dont seem to be so great, and were not quite sure why. And were not sure, once we have connects, what the causes might be.

Smelser then leaved the task force a tell. The data was not going to give them something we are able to hand on a dish to the legislature and do, This is what youve got to do and youre going to expect the following kind of results. That is another sin, he said. Its the sin of overselling. And no one can wishes to do that.

I wondered whether Smelser was angry about the mention that got used. So I announced him. He told me the university got involved in the first place only because Vasco was in charge of its budget. The influence[ from Vasco] was indirect. He didnt speak, Im going to cut your budget if you dont do it. But, Wouldnt it be a good idea if the university could dedicate some of its resources to this question? It turned out that Smelser wasnt at all stunned about their dubious medicine of the data. The task force would welcome different forms of good word and either reject or disclaim bad news, he replied. I knew this was a quasi-religious crusade, and thats the kind of happen that happens in those dynamics.

Vasco passed away, aged 82, in 2014, but I find his right-hand guy, task force chairman and veteran legislator Andrew Mecca. When we finally communicated, he confirmed that it was the prestige of the University of California that had passed occasions around for Vasco. That gave us some credibility stripes, he replied. Like Smelser, he felt that the university became involved simply out of anxiety of Vasco. John chaired their lifeblood. Their plan! he chuckled.

How did he frequency the professors investigate? As you read the book, he mentioned, its a cluster of scholarly gobbledegook.

What was Meccas response when the data didnt say what he craved?

I didnt care, he did. I thought it was beyond discipline. It was a leap of faith. And I reckon simply a blind stupid wouldnt believe that self-esteem isnt center to ones persona and health and vitality.

Was Vasconcellos furious where reference is read the professors reports?

The thing is, John was an incredible politician. He was pragmatic enough that he felt he had what he necessary, and that was a scholarly report that pretty much supposed, Self-esteems important. At least, thats the spin we got in the media.

Mecca told me that, prior to the final reports publication, he and Vasco visited editors and television services and facilities producers up and down the two countries, in a deliberate attempt to construct the fib before it was possible to subverted. An extraordinary $30,000 was spent on their PR campaign: at its meridian, five publicists were working full time. We decided to make sure we got out there to tell our fib and not let them interpret it from the stuff that was being written by Smelser. We cultivated the letter. And that positiveness prevailed.

So nobody listened to what Smelser and Shannahoff-Khalsa were saying?

Im not sure anybody attended, Mecca added. Who recollects Neil Smelser or Shannahoff-Khalsa? Nothing! They were minuscule ripples in a big tsunami of positive change.

***

More than 20 years on, the effects of Vascos mission linger. Whether the tsunami of change he brought about was utterly positive continues dubious. I spoke to educational psychologist Dr Laura Warren, who taught in British academies in the 90 s, and remembers her schools edict that staff utilize mauve writes to differentiate wrongdoings, in place of the negative red. It was a policy of wage everything that they do, she told me. That turned out to be a atrociously bad idea.

The Ofsted inspectors detected as much when they saw Barrowford primary school in 2015. But after their critical report became public, the headteacher, Rachel Tomlinson, defended herself in her local newspaper. When we introduced the policy, it was after an horrid heap of research and deliberation, she read. And I think it has been a success.

Accommodated from Selfie: How We Became So Self-Obsessed And What Its Doing To Us by Will Storr, published by Picador on 15 June at 18.99. To tell a emulate for 16.14, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846

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