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sayruq · 8 months ago

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NAHLA AL-ARIAN HAS been living a nightmare for the past seven months, watching from afar as Israel carries out its scorched-earth war against her ancestral homeland in the Gaza Strip. Like many Palestinian Americans, the 63-year-old retired fourth-grade teacher from Tampa Bay, Florida, has endured seven months of a steady trickle of WhatsApp messages about the deaths of her relatives. “You see, my father’s family is originally from Gaza, so they are a big family. And they are not only in Gaza City, but also in Deir al Balah and Khan Younis, other parts,” Al-Arian told me. Recently, the trickle of horrors became a flood: “It started with like 27, and then we lost count until I received this message from my relative who said at least 200 had died.” The catastrophe was the backdrop for Al-Arian’s visit last week to Columbia University in New York City. Al-Arian has five children, four of whom are journalists or filmmakers. On April 25, two of her daughters, Laila and Lama, both award-winning TV journalists, visited the encampment established by Columbia students to oppose the war in Gaza. Laila, an executive producer at Al Jazeera English with Emmys and a George Polk Award to her name, is a graduate of Columbia’s journalism school. Lama was the recipient of the prestigious 2021 Alfred I. duPont–Columbia Award for her reporting for Vice News on the 2020 explosion at the port of Beirut. The two sisters traveled to Columbia as journalists to see the campus, and Nahla joined them. “Of course, I tagged along. You know, why would I sit at the hotel by myself? And I wanted to really see those kids. I felt so down,” she said. “I was crying every day for Gaza, for the children being killed, for the women, the destruction of my father’s city, so I wanted to feel better, you know, to see those kids. I heard a lot about them, how smart they are, how organized, you know? So I said, let’s go along with you. So I went.” Nahla Al-Arian was on the campus for less than an hour. She sat and listened to part of a teach-in, and shared some hummus with her daughters and some students. Then she left, feeling a glimmer of hope that people — at least these students — actually cared about the suffering and deaths being inflicted on her family in Gaza. “I didn’t teach them anything. They are the ones who taught me. They are the ones who gave me hope,” she recalled. “I felt much better when I went there because I felt those kids are really very well informed, very well educated. They are the conscience of America. They care about the Palestinian people who they never saw or got to meet.” Her husband posted a picture of Nahla, sitting on the lawn at the tent city erected by the student protesters, on his Twitter feed. “My wife Nahla in solidarity with the brave and very determined Columbia University students,” he wrote. Nahla left New York, inspired by her visit to Columbia, and returned to Virginia to spend time with her grandchildren. A few days later, that one tweet by her husband would thrust Nahla Al-Arian into the center of a spurious narrative promoted by the mayor of New York City and major media outlets. She became the exemplar of the dangerous “outside agitator” who was training the students at Columbia. It was Nahla’s presence, according to Mayor Eric Adams, that was the “tipping point” in his decision to authorize the military-style raids on the campus.

On February 20, 2003, Nahla’s husband, Sami Al-Arian, a professor at the University of South Florida, was arrested and indicted on 53 counts of supporting the armed resistance group Palestinian Islamic Jihad. The PIJ had been designated by the U.S. government as a terrorist organization, and the charges against Al-Arian could have put him in prison for multiple life sentences, plus 225 years. It was a centerpiece case of the George W. Bush administration’s domestic “war on terror.” When John Ashcroft, Bush’s notorious attorney general, announced the indictment, he described the Florida-based scholar as “the North American leader of the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Sami Al-Arian.” Among the charges against him was conspiracy to kill or maim persons abroad, specifically in Israel, yet the prosecutors openly admitted Al-Arian had no connection to any violence. He was a well-known and deeply respected figure in the Tampa community, where he and Nahla raised their family. He was also, like many fellow Palestinians, a tenacious critic of U.S. support for Israel and of the burgeoning “global war on terror.” His arrest came just days before the U.S. invaded Iraq, a war Al-Arian was publicly opposed to. The Al-Arian case was, at its core, a political attack waged by Bush’s Justice Department as part of a wider assault on the rights of Muslims in the U.S. The government launched a campaign, echoed in media outlets, to portray Al-Arian as a terror leader at a time when the Bush administration was ratcheting up its so-called global war on terror abroad, and when Muslims in the U.S. were being subjected to harassment, surveillance, and abuse. The legal case against Al-Arian was flimsy, and prosecutors largely sought to portray his protected First Amendment speech and charitable activities as terrorism. The trial against Al-Arian, a legal permanent resident in the U.S., did not go well for federal prosecutors. In December 2005, following a six-month trial, a jury acquitted him on eight of the most serious counts and deadlocked 10-2 in favor of acquittal on the other nine. The judge made clear he was not pleased with this outcome, and the prosecutors were intent on relitigating the case. Al-Arian had spent two years in jail already without any conviction and was staring down the prospect of years more. In the face of this reality and the toll the trial against him had taken on his family, Al-Arian agreed to take a plea deal. In 2006, he pleaded guilty to one count of providing nonviolent support to people the government alleged were affiliated with the PIJ. As part of the deal, Al-Arian would serve a short sentence and, with his residency revoked, get an expedited deportation. At no point during the government’s trial against Al-Arian did the prosecution provide evidence he was connected to any acts of violence. For the next eight years following his release from prison in 2008, Al-Arian was kept under house arrest and effectively subjected to prosecutorial harassment as the government sought to place him in what his lawyers characterized as a judicial trap by compelling him to testify in a separate case. His defense lawyers alleged the federal prosecutor in the case, who had a penchant for pursuing high-profile, political cases, held an anti-Palestinian bias. Amnesty International raised concerns that Al-Arian had been abused in prison and he faced the prospect of yet another lengthy, costly court battle. The saga would stretch on for several more years before prosecutors ended the case and Al-Arian was deported from the United States.

“This case remains one of the most troubling chapters in this nation’s crackdown after 9-11,” Al-Arian’s lawyer, Jonathan Turley, wrote in 2014 when the case was officially dropped. “Despite the jury verdict and the agreement reached to allow Dr. Al-Arian to leave the country, the Justice Department continued to fight for his incarceration and for a trial in this case. It will remain one of the most disturbing cases of my career in terms of the actions taken by our government.” That federal prosecutors approved Al-Arian’s plea deal gave a clear indication that the U.S. government knew Al-Arian was not an actual terrorist, terrorist facilitator, or any kind of threat; the Bush administration, after all, was not in the habit of letting suspected terrorists walk. Al-Arian and his family have always maintained his innocence and say that he was being targeted for his political beliefs and activism on behalf of Palestinians. He resisted the deal, Nahla Al-Arian said. “He didn’t even want to accept it. He wanted to move on with another trial,” Nahla said. “But because of our pressure on him, let’s just get done with it [because] in the end, we’re going leave anyway. So that’s why.” Sami and Nahla Al-Arian now live in Turkey. Sami is not allowed to visit his children and grandchildren stateside, but Nahla visits often.

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the-garbanzo-annex-jr · 2 months ago

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by Dion J. Pierre

The campus group National Students for Justice in Palestine (NSJP) is waging a campaign to gut Jewish life in academia, calling for the abolition of Hillel International campus chapters, the largest collegiate organization for Jewish students in the world.

“Over the past several decades, Hillel has monopolized for Jewish campus life into a pipeline for pro-Israel indoctrination, genocide-apologia, and material support to the Zionist project and its crimes,” a social media account operating the campaign, titled #DropHillel, said in a manifesto published last week. “Across the country, Hillel chapters have invited Israeli soldiers to their campuses; promoted propaganda trips such as birthright; and organized charity drives for the Israeli military.”

It continued, “Such actions reveal Hillel’s ideological and material investment in Zionism, despite the organization’s facade as being simply a ‘Jewish cultural space.'”

DropHillel claims to be “Jewish-led,” although only a small minority of Jews oppose Zionism, and the group has been linked to and promoted by Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) chapters.

Hillel International has provided Jewish students a home away from home during the academic year. However, NSJP says it wants to “weaken” it and “dismantle oppression.”

The idea has already been picked up by pro-Hamas student groups at one college, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, according to The Daily Tar Heel, the school’s official student newspaper. On Oct. 9, it reported, a member of Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) unveiled the idea for “no more Hillel” during a rally which, among other things, demanded removing Israel from UNC’s study abroad program and adopting the boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) movement. Addressing the comments to the paper days later, SJP, which has been linked to Islamist terrorist organizations, proclaimed that shuttering Hillel is a coveted goal of the anti-Zionist movement.

“Zionism is a racist supremacist ideology advocating for the creation and sustenance of an ethnostate through the expulsion and annihilation of native people,” the group told the paper. “Therefore, any group that advocates for a supremacist ideology — be it the KKK, the Proud Boys, Hillel, or Heels for Israel — should not be welcome on campus.”

The #DropHillel campaign came amid an unprecedented surge in anti-Israel incidents on college campuses, which, according to a report published last month by the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), have reached crisis levels.

Revealing a “staggering” 477 percent increase in anti-Zionist activity involving assault, vandalism, and other phenomena, the report — titled “Anti-Israel Activism on US Campuses, 2023-2024” — painted a bleak picture of America’s higher education system poisoned by political extremism and hate.

“As the year progressed, Jewish students and Jewish groups on campus came under unrelenting scrutiny for any association, actual or perceived, with Israel or Zionism,” the report said. “This often led to the harassment of Jewish members of campus communities and vandalism of Jewish institutions. In some cases, it led to assault. These developments were underpinned by a steady stream of rhetoric from anti-Israel activists expressing explicit support for US-designated terrorists organizations, such as Hamas, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) and others.”

The report added that 10 campuses accounted for 16 percent of all incidents tracked by ADL researchers, with Columbia University and the University of Michigan combining for 90 anti-Israel incidents — 52 and 38, respectively. Harvard University, the University of California – Los Angeles, Rutgers University New Brunswick, Stanford University, Cornell University, and others filled out the rest of the top 10. Violence, it continued, was most common at universities in the state of California, where anti-Zionist activists punched a Jewish student for filming him at a protest.

#hillel #campus antisemitism #jewish students #national students for justice in palestine #nsjp #antisemitism #zionists #zionism

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badplayerana · 17 days ago

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Current favorite cherik fics - pt6

A bit of a different one this week, quite a few WIP in there that Ive been obsessed with and crave every update like hard drugs. enjoy <3

Best Laid Plans by InterstellarClark (WIP - updated today and ohhh my goddd)

Alpha Erik is tired of waiting for the right person to settle down with, he’s ready to be a father and have a family again. Omega Charles has lost everything, his inheritance, his job at Columbia, and needs a next step. Both of them turn to Stark Surrogacy, hoping they can find a future.

Punnett Squares and Metal Hearts by roseghoul (WIP - slow burn done RIGHT)

Charles Xavier taught biology at Westchester High School and has for the past seven years. If you were to ask his sister, Raven, then she’d say it was a waste of his Ph.D., but he was inclined to disagree. Founder of the Students With Disabilities Club, he’s created a bit of a name for himself at the school, nurturing an environment that encourages learning and acceptance. Erik Lehnsherr has thirty-six years under his belt, yet not a single one has been spent teaching, despite his Industrial Arts degree. Yet he accepted a teaching position, in the United States, of all places. Desperation for a new life would lead many to do rather rash things. After many months and piles of documents and certifications, he’s now a shop teacher at Westchester High School, and his first year is just around the corner. It’s a week before the first day of school when Erik meets Charles, and he’s put off by the optimistic man, yet curious to learn more about him. Charles, ever the kind soul, is eager to bring a new teacher under his wing, but his reasons are far from selfless, enraptured by the handsome, mysterious man with an even more mysterious history.

we recognize each other and call this love by mapofyourstars (so beautiful)

The nine times that Erik and Charles' souls met each other; and the final time their souls vowed to never be apart. A Reincarnation AU with a happy ending.

Lift me from my preconceptions by LimerenceKing (read this once, forgot to bookmark it and spent sooo long trying to find it again bc I couldnt stop thinking about it. go read!)

Online dating is hard enough, but being both mutant and disabled made it much harder for Charles. He thinks he finally finds someone, and sets out to go on a date with her.

Kintsugi by xtinethepirate (another series, perfect if you want a longer read)

When Charles had told Hank there would be a time when they would all be together again, he hadn't meant immediately. In Charles’s mind, that indeterminate time was something more along the lines of “in a few months or a year, once Erik realized what a colossal ass he had been and Charles had stopped wanting to punch him again.”

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #fic rec #cherik fic rec #current favorite #xmen #enjoy!#xmfc #x men #xmen dofp #dofp

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fortheloveofwonderland · 2 years ago

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My Reply | S.R

This one was a request from the lovely @reidsaurora-replies for my milestone celebration which got wildly out of hand. I think I damn near used every lyric of the song in this one. Also, Maeve does not exist in this universe. I felt like his phone calls with her were too similar to the letters with reader and not needed

Summary - Spencer writes his deepest tragedies down on paper for his pen pal. After ten years of exchanging letters and some divine intervention from JJ, the two of you finally come face to face.

CW - this one covers most of Spencer’s canon storylines including Tobis Hankel and his drug addiction, his moms illness, his fathers abandonment, getting shot in the knee, his headaches, Emily’s “death”, prison arc, Mr Scratch and Emily’s kidnapping, angst, interfering friends, lots of literary quotes.

WC - 6.3k

Making friends was always something Spencer Reid had been inherently bad at. He was always too young or too smart which always seemed to put people off of forming friendships with him.

When he joined the BAU, his team called themselves his friends. But Spencer knew if he’d met any of them outside of work he would have nothing in common with them.

They were simply friends by proximity, which admittedly was better than having no friends at all. But he couldn’t talk to them about everything, afraid to scare them away with talk of his mothers illness or his fathers abandonment.

And sometimes he just needed to talk to someone.

It was Garcia’s idea that he sign up for a pen pal. When she found out about his mom during the course of the fisher king case, he’d confessed that he didn’t feel comfortable talking to the team about such things.

At first she’d actually suggested talking to someone online, she had many online friends who she talked to in various chat rooms. But after almost an hour of trying to explain that to the technophobe doctor and getting little more than a deep frown in response, she changed tact.

A pen pal appealed to Spencer greatly. He already wrote daily letters to his mom and found it somewhat cathartic, getting his thoughts down on the page, but he never bothered her with the darker stuff.

The idea of a faceless person he’d never meet reading his deepest, darkest thoughts was actually intriguing to him. And so with the help of Penelope he found himself a pen pal.

In his first letter he’d just introduced the basics, his name and age, what he did for a living and that he lived in DC.

He went on to explain how hard he found it to make friends and the difficulties of talking to his already established friends about the darker parts of his life. He ended the letter with a quote from To Kill a Mockingbird.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” - Harper Lee.

He received a reply little over a week later.

Your name was Y/N and you were twenty two, three years younger than him and a grad student at Columbia University. You told him you would be happy to read whatever he sent you, that you were more than willing for him to write to you about the things he didn’t tell his friends.

You signed off with a quote of your own quote from the book Infinite Jest.

“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realise how seldom they do.” - David Foster Wallace.

And so he did just as you said and he wrote another letter.

His second letter to you was five pages long. He went into great detail about his mothers illness, how he’d been left to deal with it alone at ten years old. He wrote about how he’d made the decision at eighteen years old to have her committed to a sanitarium.

He told you about growing up as a child prodigy in Las Vegas and how hard that was. You were the first person he ever told about Alexa Lisbon and being tied naked to a flagpole.

He spoke about the events surrounding Elle leaving the team and how it didn’t feel complete without her.

He ended the letter by apologising profusely that he’d wasted your time with his long winded rambles and said he hoped to hear from you soon and scrawled a quote from The Great Gatsby.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald.

He said he would understand if you didn’t reply. But you did.

The letter took two weeks to arrive and you explained that it was because you wanted to really process his words and give each and every one of them the time they deserved. He read the last few lines of your letter over and over again in a loop even though they were etched into his memory after only one glance.

I wish there was something I could say, to erase each and every page you've been through,

even though it's not my place to save you.

“When I get lonely these days, I think: so be lonely. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.” - Elizabeth Gilbert - Eat, Pray, Love.

He wasn’t familiar with the book and so he’d gone out and brought it and read it cover to cover within an hour.

Reading your letter made Spencer feel understood for the first time in his young life. You didn’t pass judgement on him. Spencer found that between the pages of your letters he found a kindred spirit.

The letters continued back and forth for several months until one day you didn’t receive a reply. His last letter had been penned to you on route to a case in Atlanta, which you’d responded to the day you received it. But there was radio silence from Spencer.

You shouldn’t have been as worried as you were, but you couldn’t help yourself. His letters had become such a huge part of your world, often rereading them hundreds of times just to make sure you didn’t miss any little nuance on the page.

His handwriting was ingrained within you, his scrawly, sometimes barely legible penmanship danced behind your eyelids every time you closed your eyes. His letters had rapidly become the best part of any day. And for over a year you didn’t receive a reply.

After a while you’d stopped holding out hope every time you collected your mail. Eventually you gave up ever expecting to hear from him again. Maybe he didn’t need you anymore. Perhaps he’d made a real life friend, maybe even a girlfriend and you’d been rendered ineffective.

But then little over a year after you sent your last letter, you found an envelope in your mail slot with the familiar handwriting you adored so much and the DC postmark.

Y/N,

I don’t really have any excuses, all I can say is I’m sorry. I have written you fifty three letters over the course of the last year but never mailed a single one. They are piled up on my desk, addressed and even stamped, but I couldn’t bring myself to mail them.

I’ve been struggling, I can’t lie to you. I can’t even lie to you through a letter and tell you I’ve been fine because I haven’t. I think you would see through my prose, know that I wasn’t being truthful. And you’ve never given me a reason to be anything but honest with you.

The case in Atlanta was one of the hardest I’ve ever worked. I’m not going to beat around the bush, I’m just going to tell what happened and hopefully this letter will end up with you and not in the pile on my desk.

I was kidnapped by the man we were hunting down. I spent two days tied to a chair being beaten within an inch of my life but a man with multiple personalities. In fact, that’s not strictly true. I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life; one of the personas killed me.

I’m not entirely sure how long I was technically dead before he revived me but obviously not long enough to cause permanent neurological damage. Irreversible brain damage occurs after four minutes without oxygen so it stands to reason it was less than four minutes.

But during that time, my life flashed before my eyes, including every single word of every single one of your letters.

One of the alter’s drugged me in his own way of trying to save me. Drugging me was supposed to help with the pain, both mental and physical. I fought it at first, desperate for him not to stick that needle in my vein. But after that first hit, I stopped resisting.

I think you can probably already see where this is going. You’re incredibly smart and you seem to know me so well. After I shot Tobias Hankel dead I took three vials of dilaudid from his corpse.

I should have prefaced this by saying I am now ten months sober, and offered up the good news first. But there were several months that I continued using the drug in secret, hoping it would aid in erasing the memories of it all.

It took a case in New Orleans in which I met up with an old friend Ethan and ended up almost destroying my career for me to decide to get sober. I’ve had a lot of difficulties in my life, as you know, but getting clean is the hardest thing I have ever done.

And now for the first time in months I’m craving again. Maybe that’s why I’m writing to you, determined to send this letter this time. I need to know that everything is going to be ok and you are the only one that I will believe it from.

My team tries. Now it's all out in the open, they try to help. But you don’t even need to try. Your help is so effortless, so easy and I’m in real need of that right now.

His letter went on in this vein for another six pages. He also included several pages of handwritten poetry which he had copied out of a book to send you. With each word you consumed you felt your heart breaking for him a piece at a time.

And he signed off with a surprising choice of quote from The Lorax.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” - Dr Seuss.

You spent the next month or so trying to cultivate the perfect reply, but for the first time in your life, words failed you.

It was three days after Spencer received his one year sober chip that your letter arrived.

I got your letter and the poetry you sent me, postmarked in December of last year. I really hope you’re doing better, all your friends close by your side, one step closer to recovery.

I hope by the time you receive this you are close to one year sober, but if you didn’t make it you need to know that’s ok too. Life is full of ups and downs Spencer. If you didn’t make it this time you will the next time. Or the one after that.

If you relapsed I need you to not beat yourself up over it. You will be ok, Spencer Reid, for that I am certain.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” Maya Angelou - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

***

When he got shot in the knee, he wrote to you from the hospital. He told you how hard it was for him to turn down pain medication when he was in so much agony. But he was over two years sober now and he wouldn’t do anything to risk a relapse.

Your reply spoke of how proud of him you were and how you knew it couldn’t have been easy for him but you hoped the fact you were proud went some way to aid him.

He told you it meant more to him than you would ever know.

Then he started having headaches and the letters became sporadic. When he did write he told you how painful it was for him to try to focus on the words in front of him.

I’ve seen so many doctors and no one can tell me what’s wrong with me. It’s like they think I’m making it up, like this pain isn’t real.

On my good days it’s a dull throb but on the bad days it’s nearly paralysing. I’m so scared that this is a precursor for schizophrenia. I'm still young enough for my first break, and it is a genetic illness.

I love my mom but I can’t turn out like her, Y/N, I just can’t. I'm so, so scared.

But your letters are the greatest comfort to me. I don’t think there are words to describe how much they mean - I will try to surmise it with a quote from Charlotte's Web -

"'Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.'" - E.B White.

You could feel his fear through the pages. His handwriting was somehow even harder to read than usual and sentences often tapered off with no ending. There were whole passages scribbled out so violently his pen had ripped the paper in places. There were crude drawings of brains and dark rain clouds in the margins.

Spencer,

I am so sorry you are going through this and that no one can give you the answers you seek. But this isn’t the end for you, even if it is schizophrenia, you can still live a full and normal life.

If you'll just hold on for one more second, if you just hold on to what you have, you will wake up tomorrow. Behind every rain cloud lies the sun. As Victor Hugo said in Les Miserables -

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”

In his next few letters he seemed to be getting better, his headaches slowly dissipating until they only hassled him every once in a while. Things seemed to be looking up for him.

But then one of his best friends died.

His detailed letter told you all about Ian Doyle and Emily’s history with him and went on to conclude how she died on the operating table.

I’ve been through a lot of trauma in my life, lost a lot of people close to me but never like this. I’ve never had to bury someone I love and honestly I don’t know how to move past this.

My initial reaction has been dilaudid. It's the only thing I can think of to take the pain away.

Tell me not to do it, Y/N, please. Please tell me that this grief will get better and that using drugs again is not the answer. Please help me stay clean.

"When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time — the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers.” John Irving - A Prayer for Owen Meany

It took you longer than it should have done to formulate a reply. You felt pressured, like his sobriety hung in your hands. You hated that his friend had died but you didn’t think it was fair of him to put this on you. And you told him such.

Spencer,

I am sorry to hear about Emily, I know how close the two of you were. I’m no expert on grief, I can’t tell you how to deal with this.

You know full well that using dilaudid again is a bad idea, you really don’t need me to tell you that. Honestly, I’m a little frustrated at you for putting this on my shoulders.

I am always here to help Spencer, in any way I can but sometimes I think you expect too much from me. We’ve been trading letters back and forth for the better part of five years and I don’t think you’ve ever really asked me about myself aside from those first initial letters.

And it’s fine, you needed this friendship more than I did. But over time this has started to feel so one sided and I don’t always look forward to your letters as much as I once did.

I realise this is not the best time for me to be saying these things but I can’t hold back any longer. I’m glad I can be someone you can turn to but I have my own life, my own issues and I have no one to talk to about them.

You put too much pressure on me Spencer and it’s a lot to take. I’ve tried to help shoulder your misery all these years but it’s starting to bring me down. All I can say is you need to wake up, you've gotta believe; you can't give up. Time keeps going on without us, long after we're dead and gone.

And you finished it with a simple quote from After You by Jojo Moyes.

“No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days.”

It was no surprise to you that you didn’t receive a reply.

***

Y/N,

It’s been two years and I’m sorry for that. Two years, one month and eleven days. The truth is your last letter was hard for me to read as you can probably understand.

The hardest part of reading it was the fact that I knew you were right. I’ve been selfish all these years. I’ve treated you like a sounding board for my problems and never once asked how you were.

It's taken me time to write this because I wanted to get to a better place before I responded. I was angry at first, I felt like I was being abandoned again and my anger would not have been conducive.

Then I was hurt, hurt that the one person I thought would always be there for me had turned their back on me. I displaced my grief over Emily’s death onto you and anything I would have written in that time would have only been the rage fuelled epitaph of a grieving man.

And then once I dealt with those emotions, life simply got away from me. Emily was alive and well, her death was faked to get Doyle off of her back. Again I was angry about being lied to by my friends but eventually I was just happy she was alive.

Then I turned thirty and had a crisis of faith I suppose. I guess with my intellect I always assumed I would be doing something more with my life and turning thirty kind of threw me through a loop.

We had some changes to the team, new agents coming and going. All in all things have been somewhat hectic.

But that’s not why I’m writing.

I am writing because I really do want to know everything about you. I want you to be able to open up to me the way I always have to you. I want to be your shoulder, your repreve. I really hope I haven’t completely blown our friendship and I hope to be the kind of person who you can talk to.

These arms remain stretched out to you and maybe someday you'll accept them. Maybe it's too late to save a young girl's heart that's long stopped beating. But I hope that it isn’t.

“You have been in every way all that anyone could be…if anybody could have saved me it would have been you.” Jennifer Niven - All the Bright Places.

You wanted to tell him it was too little too late, that after two years of silence you weren’t interested anymore.

You wanted to simply not reply, ignore him entirely like he’d done to you.

But you couldn’t. And so you replied.

It was your longest letter to date, depicting in great detail how he’d made you feel over the years and all the hardships you’d faced without having someone to vent to.

But getting to write it all down had been purifying, and by the time you were finished you weren’t mad anymore.

I am willing to give this another shot, but things have to be different. If we’re to continue this friendship then it has to be a two way street.

But I can’t pretend that I haven’t missed your letters because I have. I see pieces of you between the words, parts of yourself I’m not sure you realise you leave on the page.

I’ve painted a picture of you in my mind's eye and even after two years with no letters, I’ve carried that picture with me wherever I go.

I feel like I somehow know you better than I know myself and I hope going forward you can start to know me the same way. Charlotte Bronte once said -

“Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.” - Jane Eyre.

***

Spencer didn’t know how it happened, he only knew that it had happened. Over the course of all the years writing to you it was almost a surprise it hadn’t happened sooner. Or maybe it had and he just didn’t realise until now.

Spencer Reid had fallen in love with the woman who wrote her prose to him.

It had been ten years of letters, every single one of which he kept in their envelopes in date order in the bottom drawer of his desk at home.

Those letters were his lifelines on bad days, the one thing that kept him tethered. He didn’t even know what you looked like, even what you sounded like but he loved you. He loved you with every fibre of his being.

And he couldn’t stop himself from telling you exactly what you meant to him. Even if it inevitably destroyed what the two of you had, he couldn’t stop the words from flying across the page.

So that’s pretty much everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Mom’s doing ok but obviously it's a huge adjustment for her and I’m not entirely sure how long I can keep her living with me but for now it works.

How did the interview go? I have absolutely no doubts that you blew them all away with your presentation, you’re a hard person not to fall in love with.

Your presence in my life has brightened my every waking minute. You once told me that behind every rain cloud lies the sun; you are the sun behind my clouds. Your letters bring me back to life, your handwriting penned onto my soul.

Is it foolish of me to be in love with someone I have never laid eyes on? William Makepeace Thackery said in Vanity Fair -

“It is better to have loved wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.”

I suppose that’s as good of an answer as any.

***

Five days after he penned his love confession, he was arrested in Mexico. Once all the drugs had left his system, only after he was extradited and arraigned and placed at Milburn was he able to dwell on the fact he never received your reply.

And being trapped in a cell gave him way too much time to think about that.

It was possible you had replied, maybe even just to tell him he was crazy to even think he could be in love with someone he had never met. But he was sure you wouldn’t have even bothered to respond, thinking him a lunatic you needed to cut ties with.

After a month in prison on one of JJ’s visits she brought a letter with her which she had found in his apartment. She recognised the handwriting on the envelope from several she’d seen him reading over the years.

She wasn’t allowed to give him the letter but she offered to read it to him. At first he’d declined because he had no idea what to expect from your reply but after several long minutes he’d decided to let JJ read it to him.

Spencer,

I am pleased to hear your mom is doing well but I do think you know that this solution won’t work in the long run. You say you live in a one bedroom apartment? You and I both know that you can’t sustain having your mother live there permanently. But I know you and I know you will figure out what’s best for you both.

The interview was amazing and they offered me the job on the spot. If it wasn’t for all your help with the presentation there is no way I would have gotten it, so thank you so much for that.

As for the other thing…

For some time now I have been wondering about feelings I didn’t understand. You’ve been such a large part of my life for so long and even though we’ve never met I feel like we have, if that makes sense? I feel like in my heart I know you. My heart knows your heart.

Falling for you was as inevitable as the sun rising each morning. Perhaps it is foolish but I believe Thackeray knew what he was talking about. And I also believe Emily Bronte was talking about me and you when she said, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Spencer had interrupted JJ then, when she was smiling from ear to ear as she read your words out loud.

“That’s enough.” He cut her off, burying his head in his hands.

“Wow, Spence, I had no idea you’d met someone.”

“I haven’t met anyone. She is simply a woman at the other end of a series of letters.”

“How long?” JJ placed the pages down in front of her.

Spencer looked up at her, a small blush on his cheeks. He didn't want to be talking about this, least of all on the other side of a plexiglass screen with his other inmates nearby but he responded all the same.

“Ten years.” He shrugged.

“Ten years?” JJ sounded incredulous. “Ten years of letters and you’ve never met? Why?”

“I, uh, it never really came up.” It wasn’t a lie, you’d never once discussed meeting in all those years.

“Is it like a distance thing? Does she live far away?”

“No,” He sighed with a shake of his head. “She’s in New York.”

“New York!” She huffed. “New York is a five hour train journey, Spence!”

“Jennifer, now is really not the time for this.” He lowered his voice as JJ’s had garnered eyes in their direction. “There is really no point in discussing this as we have no idea when or even if I’m going to get out of here.”

“Don’t say that.” She shook her head.

“It’s true.” He shrugged sadly. “I really can’t think about all this right now, ok? Just take the letter back to my apartment and pretend you didn’t see it. Please?”

If it weren’t for the desperation in his eyes she might have argued it. But she didn’t want to waste what little time she got to spend with Spencer fighting.

“Ok.” She relented with a small roll of her eyes.

“Thank you, JJ.” He offered a tight lipped smile. “How are the boys?”

JJ filled him in but she wasn’t really focused anymore. In her head, she was already penning a letter of her own…

Y/N,

My name is Jennifer Jareau, JJ, and I work with Spencer at the BAU. I’m not sure if he’s mentioned me to you or not. He hasn’t really told me too much about you if I’m honest. But I have learned that he has strong feelings for you and you for him. I’m wondering if I can make a suggestion…

***

When you received the strange letter from Spencer’s friend JJ in response to yours, you’d been initially extremely confused as to why he was letting his teammates read your secret correspondence.

But when she’d gone on to tell you that Spencer had been arrested along with all the details surrounding his incarceration and how she’d read your letter to him during their visitation, you started to understand.

But then a few days later, before you had a chance to reply to her, you received another letter from Spencer with a postmark from Milburn Correctional Facility.

Y/N,

Maybe Thackeray and Bronte were right or maybe they were wrong, I can’t say for sure. What I can say with certainty is that I can’t carry on like this a moment longer.

Something has happened to me, it won’t be hard for you to figure out what as soon as you see the postmark. I am not willing to get into it or explain how I ended up here. But I have no idea how long I am going to be inside and I don’t want the rest of our communication to be sent through a string of guards who will pick apart each tormented sentence.

I ask you not to write me back. This has to be the end of the road my dear. This letter has to be our last. I don’t know how much longer I will continue to be able to live like this. Each day my hope dies a little more and I’m sure I won’t make it out of here alive.

I am writing simply to say thank you. Thank you for all your years of listening, for all your patience and kind words and your hopeful prose. In my darkest hours you have shown me the light, dragged me out of the shadows of my own creation.

I love you for all that you are and all that you have done but even you can’t save me this time. This really might be the end for me and I don’t want you to blame yourself. You are the only reason I made it this far in this treacherous game we call life.

Take care of yourself, continue to live your absolute best life. And in time I pray that you forget me and are able to love someone far more tangible.

All that is left to say can be summed up by a quote from The Miniaturist -

“You are the sunlight through a window, which I stand in, warmed. My darling.” Jessie Burton.

You replied firstly to Spencer, his heartbreaking words more pressing than JJ’s letter. You kept it short and to the point, knowing that various other prison guards would read it before it even made it to his hands.

I appreciate but can't accept this thank you note that's sealed with your last breath and I won't stand aside and listen to you give up.

You are stronger than that Spencer Reid and if I know anything about your team from all the years of hearing you speak of them it’s that they are the best at what they do and they will prove your innocence.

Just remember what Ernest Hemmingway said in A Farewell to Arms -

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.”

You will be stronger at those broken places, Spencer, I have no doubt about it.

And besides, if you don’t make it out of there, how do you propose to ever meet me?

Whilst on a role, you grabbed a clean sheet of paper and started scrawling again.

Jennifer,

Thank you for your letter. I have spent some time musing on your suggestion and I think you might be right.

I think it's time for me to take a trip to DC…

***

Spencer never opened your last letter because he had no intention of replying to it. If he didn’t read it, he could pretend you had never sent it and he wouldn’t be tempted to write a response.

Instead he stuffed it between the pages of his book and tried not to think about it.

After two and half months his team proved his innocence and he was released but he was thrown into the deep end of trying to find his mother.

And even once he found her unscathed, he was rapidly thrust right into Scratch’s web after he kidnapped Emily.

Taking the elevator back up to the BAU alongside JJ after they’d escorted Emily to the hospital it already felt like a lifetime had passed since he left prison. And all he wanted to do was chronicle all of it to you.

Maybe once the dust settled, once he’d wrapped his head around everything that happened he would open your letter and send you a reply.

But for the first time in ten years, Spencer didn’t want to drag you into his mess.

JJ was strangely quiet as the elevator made its ascent. He didn’t even want to be here, he’d planned on going straight home after leaving the hospital. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for two and a half months and he couldn’t wait to collapse into it.

But JJ had insisted that instead of him getting the metro home, if he popped back to the BAU with her to collect some paperwork, she would drive him home.

And honestly he was just too exhausted to decline.

JJ’s eyes were hyper focused on the digital floor numbers as they got higher. A few seconds after it displayed number five, one floor below the BAU, she turned and looked at him.

“Don’t hate me for this.” She blurted out.

“Excuse me?” Spencer frowned, too tired to try to understand what she meant.

“I couldn’t just let it go.” She shrugged, a guilty smile on her lips.

“Let what go?” His frown deepened.

Her eyes flicked back upwards as the number five rolled into the number six and the elevator started to judder as it prepared to stop.

“Just remember I love you and that’s the only reason I interfered.” She shrugged as the elevator stopped entirely and soon the doors were peeling open.

Spencer looked away from her and out of the open doors to where someone was standing just a few feet back.

Spencer’s eyes landed on the stranger only it wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew exactly who this person was standing on the BAU floor.

He remembered the way JJ had read him your letter and how you’d told him your heart knows his heart.

Well his heart knew yours too. And he knew the heart beating a few feet away from him was yours.

“Y/N?” He croaked, slowly stepping out of the elevator but not too close to you.

“Spencer?” You smiled at him, the kind that reached all the way to your eyes.

Neither of you noticed JJ slipping quietly away, wanting to give you some privacy.

“What are you doing here?” His brows were furrowed and he was rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re friend JJ wrote to me. She told me everything that happened to you. And she made me realise that ten years is too long to wait for a first meeting.” Your voice was like honey to Spencer’s ears.

Your prose was beautiful, but hearing the words from your lips as you stood in front of him in all your ethereal glory was more than any letter could convey.

“I…I am actually speechless.” He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

“You? Speechless?” You giggled and Spencer felt the sound all the way to his heart.

“You’ll come to learn I am much more of a wordsmith on paper. In person I am incredibly awkward and often trip over my words. I ramble when I’m nervous or clam up entirely, no in between. I spout facts and statistics rather than have a meaningful conversation. I am much more comfortable writing my words down on paper than speaking them out loud.” He let the words spill out of his mouth, proving his point entirely.

“I’ve waited ten years to hear your voice. Please never stop talking.” You smiled so brightly at him he felt like he was floating.

You were here in front of him, not just hidden between pages of letters. You were real, tangible; within his reach.

And suddenly the last thing Spencer wanted to do was talk.

He took a few tentative steps towards you and cautiously raised a hand to your cheek. You sighed in content when he cupped your face and nuzzled against his palm.

“I could talk to you about anything and everything all day long, my love.” He smiled, inching his face closer to yours. “But at this moment in time I have one slightly more pressing desire to do with my mouth rather than speak.”

“Oh yeah?” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

The warmth of your body and your smile encompassed him. As he looked into your eyes, finally looked into your eyes, every bad thing that had ever happened to him slipped away.

“Love starts as a feeling, but to continue is a choice. And I find myself choosing you, more and more every day.” He quoted Justin Wetch’s Bending the Universe.

“Spence?”

“Yes Y/N?”

“As sweet as that is, I thought there were more pressing desires to use your mouth for?”

“If you insist.” He smiled and quickly closed the small space between you.

When his lips finally met yours it felt like all the pieces of the universe were falling into place.

For ten long years you’d communicated in the pages of letters, constructing replies to what felt like one sided conversations that were confined to only live on paper.

As the kiss deepened every single one of those words seemed to float in the air around you, spiralling like a tornado made of a decade worth of missives.

He swore he could hear each and every word whispered to him in the voice he’d longed to hear all these years as he kissed you like you were the most important being on the face of the earth.

And when he pulled back and mumbled I love you against your lips, it was the easiest reply you’d ever given.

#milestone celebration #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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tvchi · 26 days ago

Text

Veiled Intentions: The Hunt, Prt 3

Disclaimers: DO NOT COPY OR REPOST MY WORK. DO NOT TRAIN AI WITH MY WORK.

Warnings: Mature Audiences ONLY: 18+, Minors DNI- Nudity, Female receiving fingering, Profanity

Pairing: black male x black female Words: 3,884k

A/N: Here is Part 3 of this series. I'm proud of myself for meeting this week's deadline. No real smut here. I'm so sorry, you're gonna have to wait for it. However, the suspense is building. Once again if suspense, thrillers, and espionage are not you're the thing, I get it. Please scroll.

Summary: Terry lets Y/N know that her Mark may be on to her and there are things that she may not be considering in this case. When she finds out that Adrian may not be completely forthcoming, how will she react?

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Terry

I walked into the building and made my way down the hall. I had to let Director Moore know I was being watched, and most likely, she was, too. Once I got to my office, I began getting intel on this Adrian guy. As soon as I got past his birth records, there was a knock on the door.

"Good morning, sir. I just wanted to know if you wanted some coffee because I made your fine ass some," said Brooke. I chuckled and smiled.

"Thank you, Broooke," I sang back.

"You say my name like that again, and we go together!" she retorted, gently laying the cup of coffee on the table before turning around to leave.

"Hey, I wanted to ask you something. Maybe you could help me out. I've looked through all the files and there's not much about the Mark, Adrian. You've been on this case as long as Y/N has. Maybe you know something."

"Yeah, well, he went to Pembroke but got his master's in art history at NYU. He took some time off to travel. Went backpacking in Europe and then visited Columbia, Panama, and El Salvador. He stayed in Okinawa for 3 months before coming back to the States. He submitted a proposal for a PhD, but it was denied. I think I remember him getting a collections manager job for a small-time museum in Miami before coming back here. Why?"

"You keep giving me answers like that, we might just actually go together" I grinned mischievously, sipping the now warm coffee.

"Stop playing with me before this whole office catches an early morning show; you hear me?"

At this, I couldn't help but laugh.

"But seriously, why are you looking into him? Should we all be?"

"Yes, why are you looking into him?" said Y/N from the doorway. I hadn't noticed when she came in, and I always noticed.

She wore a cropped hoodie, an oversized blazer, dark-washed jeans that just kissed the bottom of her hoodie, and Air Jordans. Her braids hung freely down her back. Her lips were outlined in a soft chocolate, accentuating their plump center. I wondered what they tasted like. Trying not to let my eyes linger too long, I flashed my attention to her eyes. Hers met mine and quickly darted to Brooke and then to my desk. This was the third time she's averted her eyes from mine. I stood and walked around my desk.

"Brooke, thank you for the coffee and the intel. If I need anything else, you're my girl," I said, winking.

"You're too fine to be winking at me like that, sir. I'm going to mess around and pass out," she replied, giving me a wink of her own. I smiled. Grabbing my coat, I walked out of my office.

"So you're not going to answer me when I'm talking to you?" Y/N said, stalking down the hallway after me.

"I speak to people who greet me in the morning and look me in the eyes when they're speaking to me. You do neither. If you want to run that question by me again, I'll be in the cafe for the next half hour." I threw over my shoulder.

When I finally got to the cafe, there was a line. I took everything in. The college students huddled around their different groups. All animated. All full of life.

There was this couple in front of me. The girl was trying to decide whether to get the scones or a croissant while trying to convince the guy to drop out of human sexualities because it's for "perverts" and join her in a sociology course. She was giving him good arguments, too, including the point about men only joining to learn different positions and not how to get better at pleasure. Most people who take that course never actually get around to knowing where the clit is. I chuckled.

As I looked around, I wondered if this would have been the life Mike had been living if he were alive. Whether he'd be love-struck, chasing some girl all around campus, listening to her world views, or convincing him to drop courses. I wondered if he would have felt more at home here than the cells he saw.

I placed my order and occupied a free table by the windows. I stared out of the windows, not really taking in the sights but riddling myself with guilt about all the things that I could've done to keep Mike alive. It was a once-a-week misery date I kept with myself so I would never forget that I am living as penance for what I wasn't able to do– nothing else.

A sweet smell filled the air. I turned my head slightly to see who or what it was coming from, and there she stood. She took the seat across from me and peered at the table momentarily before bringing her eyes to me.

"Good Morning ASAC Richmond. I don't want to bother you, but I wanted to know what the reason was for looking into my Mark. We ran background checks months ago. I placed everything in those files."

“Good Morning SA Olisa. You're not bothering me. To answer your question, I wasn't looking into him at all before he stopped me this morning and told me that he was looking into me." Her gaze lowered, and her brows furrowed.

"What do you mean he's looking into you? How does he know you?" she said, confusion littering her face.

"It doesn't seem like he knows me. But it does look like he's keeping tabs on you while you're away from him."

"This is Adrian we are talking about. He's charming and doting. He also forgets his keys every other day, calls me for help when he accidentally trips the alarm at the museum and is actively boycotting Apple for handing over user data to 'The Feds'. I'm pretty sure he's not tailing me."

"Well, I don't know how else to explain him curb-side siding me on my way to the Box, asking me what I'm doing here and telling me that he's never seen me before." She laughed.

"I'm sorry, but there's no way you could be talking about Adrian."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yea. Okay."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I'm going to continue gathering intel on all members of this case, including the ones who actively seek me out, and you can continue maintaining that the Mark is incapable of any wrongdoing."

"I didn't say he was incapable of wrongdoing. I said he isn't a guy capable of surveilling me."

"Okay."

"I think I would know. I've only been—"

"Sleeping with him for the last three months," I finished flatly, attempting to hide my contempt with boredom.

She inhaled deeply and slowly before speaking again. "I was going to say that I've only been at his side, living with him and monitoring his habits for three months. I'm not sure how anything else I do is any of your concern."

"It is if you forget that he's a mark," I replied too quickly.

"Forget?" she said incredulously, her eyes squinting and lips flattened into a line. Her head tilted to the side in smoldering anger. For a moment there, I was distracted. Even in her disdain for me at that moment, she looked incredible. Not wanting to escalate things, I quickly thought of a way to disarm her.

"I just mean, when was the last time you did a sweep? When was the last time you tailed him? When was the last time you listened to the bug in his office? The last time you looked into the new clients he was purchasing for? Did you do a deep dive into his overseas contacts when he was backpacking in Europe and parasailing in Panama because I didn't see any details in the files?"

"Are you suggesting that I can't or didn't do my job?"

"I didn't say that. I think that we have a limited focus, and we need to broaden the net. He approached me. We were never seen together except for in the Box. So unless he's also a part of the case, I'm not sure how he would know me."

She pursed her lips. Her forehead creased in pensive thought or inner turmoil; I couldn't be sure.

"If you need proof that he approached me," I started, chuckling, "There are thousands of cameras around this campus. Ask Brooke." With that, I stood and walked out of the cafe with my coffee in hand.

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

Y/N

He has no reason to lie to me, and he's technically my boss. He has nothing to prove. I've been studying Adrian's tells since he first asked me out on a date. I know him. He hasn't been lying to me. I also haven't been asking him very many questions lately. Nothing that would need him to tell a lie.

You sat at the coffee shop on campus, thinking for a long moment. What if Richmond was right. What if you haven't been paying as close attention as you should have. This is the part of the job you hated— the second-guessing. Being the first African-American female on the shortlist for Assistant Director was without its fair share of imposter syndrome.

Having to conduct meetings or manage briefings where everyone's eyes are constantly questioning you. Their perpetual state of disbelief or random inquiries on work that you've triple-checked always got to you. No matter how iron-clad your work has been over the years, there's always someone else who doesn't think that you should be here. Someone else looking to point out your mistake and hang you for it. Someone needs to find hard data to prove that you should've never been hired. Today, it's him.

The pressure in your chest starts to build as you begin to put into words a feeling that has been ruminating in the back of your mind for weeks. Always knowing you're alone in this world and seeing the hard proof of it are two different things. I know that if it were him or me, his connections or my word, his status or my truth, he'd always choose himself. I'm not entirely sure his sole purpose of coming here and shortening our deadline isn't because the hire-ups don't trust me to run point on this. You closed your eyes, hoping to dull some of the pain circling your temples. After a deep breath, you opened your eyes again.

"Ma'am, I'm not sure if you wanted to order anything, but if you did, you have to do it upfront," the waitress interjected.

"No, I was just leaving. Thank you" you replied and headed out of the shop and towards your car.

Driving back home, you tried to think about the case and what you could be missing. Adrian being into play was far-fetched but if Richmond was right, it may be the answer to why they've been behind for so long. That thought made your stomach turn.

"Hey, Siri. dial Brooke"

"Dialing. Brooke. Now," Siri responded.

"Two days in a row. I must say, ever since Mr. Fine Ass showed up, you've either been calling the office or showing up way more than you have been. You tryna get perfect attendance in his class, heifer, 'cause he's mine." You laughed. Brooke always had a way of making you smile.

"Brooke, you know HR and IA exist, right?"

"I know. I also know that I'm the head of surveillance around this muthafucka, and won't be no evidence for them to find!"

"Lol. You got that."

"So, wussup?"

"I need some footage of all the library entrances and exits from early this morning till about now."

"Why, what's going on?"

"I haven't heard any chatter, but I wanted to double-check that I'm not being followed."

"Okay. I'll send those right over. Today's encryption code is 4761."

"Thanks, girl."

"Anytime. Oh, girl, I gotta go. Here comes Mr. Fine-Ass now. Heeeeeeey ASAC Richmond"

As the call disconnected, you wondered whether Richmond was in the Director's office right now telling him how he doesn't think you're fit to lead this operation.

After you got home, you headed straight to the den. You opened the government-issued laptop and typed in the code. An entirely new interface comes alive on the screen. You navigated emails until you landed on the one Brooke sent of the footage. Quickly, looking around the den to make sure no one else was there, you clicked on the video and began to watch.

Around 6:15:35am, there is a man approaching Richmond on the steps with a knitted hoodie and black denim. The face is obscured by a fitted cap, hoodie, and Richmond's frame.

Then, at about 6:17:45 am, he changes positions, placing his back to the camera. He continues to do so throughout the entire video. He must have known this camera was there. This could be anybody.

At 6:20:29 am, he turns to leave down the stairs of the library. Once down the stairs, he walks off to a vehicle that is out of frame. You rewind the video back to 6:17 and watch it again. This really could be anybody, I mean — you spot it.

[At a cookout last month, Adrian invited you to meet some of his friends. The park was teeming with bodies, from those who were well-known in the county to those who were just happy to be there. The DJ played all the Top 40 hits and mixed some 90s jams throughout. You spotted a friend and joined in a line dance on the grass. Finally spotting Adrian, you ran to him.

"Wait, wait, wait girl. I will give you the world, but I will throw you somewhere if you get those muddy ass boots all over these 1s."

"What is so special about them damn sneakers that you'd risk your life like that?"

"Wouldn't be the first time"

"Now you gotta tell me."

"It was 2017. My first Mardi Gras experience. My brothers took me to the All-Star weekend festivities because their friends had the hookup. We were going from the games to the clubs. There was liquor, titties, and ass everywhere. That same weekend, they dropped these. There was a line down the block at every Foot Locker and Finish Line in the state of Louisiana damn near. I left the club early and stood in line all night and all morning. I finally got to the store, and there were only 3 left in my size. As soon as I placed my hand on the shoe, this other guy placed his hands on it. I looked at him and tugged the shoe away. The next thing I know, this guy is swinging at me. We fought, and security had to break us up. I told them that they had to go to the back and look at the footage of who got the shoes first and who assaulted the other first. I was not leaving there without those shoes. One of the employees and one of the security guards left together to watch the footage. I snatched the other sneaker out of the man's hand and walked up to the register to get my shoes. I got to pay for them, and I noticed that my wallet was missing. I called everyone I knew to either look for my wallet or come pay for the shoes. Eventually, my second oldest brother came and bought the shoes for me. Turns out, I had left my wallet in our section at the club, and he picked it up."

"Oh, you really went to war for these."

"Sure did. That night, we went out to celebrate.]

The special edition Air Jordan 1 Retro High OG All-Star with the iridescent detailing glistened into view on the computer screen. There was a white tag that he linked through one of the holes. You stared back at the shoes missing from the case and back to the video. Shit.

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

Y/N

"Babe, you home? Adrian's voice boomed from the front entrance.

"Hey. I'm here. What are you doing at home?" you quickly shut down the laptop and closed the lid as you heard his footsteps make their way toward the den.

"Got done early today, so I thought I'd pop in and get dinner started. I didn't want to order out again."

"Oh well, aren't you thoughtful"

"What are you doing at home? I thought you said that you'd be working a little later tonight. Something about moving up a deadline," he probed.

"Right. Well, you know me…I thought I would focus more if I was on campus like every other collegiate student. I kept getting distracted," you lied. "Then I tried my office, but I wasn't comfortable there," that wasn't entirely a lie. You wouldn't have been able to focus in the Box. Not with him there. "In the end, I just gave up and came home. But there is still very much a deadline that I have to meet," you finished.

"Sounds like you need some productivity. Lemme get out your way" he concurred, pecking you on the lips twice and then moving to the empty case.

"Oh, I see you brought out the big dawg today. What was the special occasion?" you asked, hoping that this would be the start of something enlightening.

"Oh, you mean the shoes. Nothing. I just felt like wearing them today."

"Mmm, well, what did you do all day today looking fresh."

He chuckled. "Nothing. I went by the office, spoke to a couple of clients who were interested in some pieces, stopped by the store, and then came home."

"You should've stopped by my office so I could show you off to those hating ass hoes at my job if you just wanted to look fresh running errands."

"I'll do that next time," he joked. "Alright, I'm really gonna leave you alone. Get that work done!"

"Sir, yes, sir."

He turned back and smirked. "Hold on to that. I may need you to say that to me again later." He turned and went up the steps. When the door shut, you exhaled. He was lying to you.

When did this start, and why didn't you notice? You started retracing your steps with Adrian to see if there was something you missed or maybe a change in behavior. When you couldn't pinpoint an inciting event, you left that task and adopted a new one that required you combing through his file piece by piece.

"Did you do a deep dive into his overseas contacts when he was backpacking in Europe and parasailing in Panama because I didn't see any details in the files?"

As Richmond's words echoed through your head, you started going back to all of the places that he had been seen and confirmed vacationing in. You worked all into the night.

A soft knock on the door alerted you to the fact that it was late. Adrian walked down and stood at the doorway.

"Come eat, Alana"

"I'm coming. I just need to jot down one more thing." You changed your interface back to the default Microsoft interface and powered down your phone before he could get the chance to look at it. You climbed the stairs, wondering how you were going to muster the energy to withstand tonight's dinner conversation. You sat and ate dinner, slowly pondering the day's revelations. It must have shown on your face because Adrian stood up and asked.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just thinking,"

"Talk to me"

"It's really nothing. I guess I just didn't realize I had so much to do behind this project."

"Yeah, I get that."

A moment passed, and you finally finished the last bite of your salmon when you heard some music playing in the distance.

"Dance with me," Adrian commanded, hand held out to you.

"Adrian? Right now"

"Yea. Dance with me. C'mon, woman", he repeated.

You took his hand, and you two danced to the sounds of Sweet Lady by Tyrese. His hands slowly trailed your spine as his head nestled into your neck.

It was the strangest thing. Feeling at home in the arms of someone you knew was lying to you, knowing that you were lying to them. Your bodies swayed together in tandem as you both held each other. It was everything you wanted. It was what you craved. Why couldn't this be…real?

After a couple of songs, he led you to bed. He slowly undid your jeans, helping you out of them one foot at a time.

Then, after applying short kisses up your happy trail, he stood up, removed your cropped hoodie, and undid your bra. Your breast spilled out of them. He took the left into his mouth as you moaned. Interchanging between nibbles and kisses, he stimulated the small whimpers you tried to stifle deep within your throat. After a few moments, he turned his attention to your other breast.

A trail of kisses slowly went up your neck and finally to your mouth. You took his lips in yours desperately. You hungrily sucked his tongue, hoping to salvage the last night you would be this version of yourself with him. He tugged at your thong until his hand found what it was searching for.

He traced circles around your pearl. You waited for a moment to feel that release. That dampness that never had to be beckoned. That exhilarating plummet in your stomach makes way for the honey coating that ruins the sheets. It never came.

"Is something wrong?"

"Mmm, no, why?"

"Your panties are usually done by now."

"Maybe I didn't drink enough water today."

He looked at me intently. His eyes darkened with intensity, then softened slightly.

"I took you to Cali for three days. All we had were shots of Tequila and a couple of Coronas. I had your legs behind your hand, and we had the sheets changed four times one of those nights. Water has never been a problem for you. Talk to me," he said sternly.

"I'm not sure what's going on, Adrian," you lied.

"Are you sure there's not something you want to tell me?"

"Like what?"

He paused for a moment. "I don't know. I'm just asking. Maybe you're upset or worried about something?" he probed.

"The only thing I've been focused on has been the deadline. I'm okay with that, though. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's okay. Let's go to sleep."

"Or or or…maybe we can try some lube," you suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

"So now we're lube people?"

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with lube."

"No, but something is going on with you, and I'd rather we get to the bottom of it than throwing some lube on it,"

"But...but," you pouted as you looked at his erection.

"He'll be fine. Let's go to bed."

"You sure?"

"Yea, come here," he said, lying down on his side and pulling you close. Unable to fall asleep, you wondered how you were going to salvage this night. You needed to find out who the new buyer was going to be and fast because, at this rate, it would only be a matter of time before he found out the truth.

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

Check out Part 1 and Part 2 if you haven't already! Please hit the comments with your feedback, give suggestions on what you'd like to see, and let me know who you like and don't. Talk TO ME!!! Part 4 coming soon.

Tags: @thecapodomme @writers-of-tmblr @melaninpov @spaceslutsworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @mymusicbias @the-black-label @master-builder42 @miraculously-dumb-bitch @megamindsecretlair @hopefulromantic1 @tranquilfandomer @thadelightfulone @vivalaorgasm @hotgrlcece @planetblaque @blackgurlnhermoods @andriaharris @theblacklewinsky @kumkaniudaku @lovelyflames @girlbeblogging @toiadeenovels @longpause-awkwardsmile @sweettea-and-honeybutter @sirenmouths @almostelectroniccheesecake @liquorlaughslove @meleekabenjamin @19jammmy @thoseprettywords @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @stellarxfresh @noirelyfe @moooonluvr

@kinginwithbreezy-blog @bunniibooooo @sk1121-blog1

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palestinegenocide · 7 months ago

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274 Palestinian lives don’t matter to the Biden administration

This week provided further evidence – if any were lacking — that anti-Palestinian bias is simply a rule of American politics, and today maybe the leading rule.

Yesterday Israel killed 274 Palestinians and wounded hundreds more in Gaza’s Nuseirat refugee camp while freeing four Israeli hostages, and the U.S. promptly hailed the “rescue”. It is beyond question that this was an indiscriminate massacre, but Joe Biden saluted the Israeli action, and so did Secretary of State, without a mention of Palestinian lives.

“As if we needed more proof of how little this administration values Palestinian lives,” Khaled Elgindy wrote.

Mainstream reporters are horrified, but politely. After the last outrage earlier this week, when Israel killed dozens of Palestinians in a school, a reporter asked at the State Department: “People might find it very puzzling that you have the leverage of $3.8 billion of defense supplied to the Israelis per year, and you cannot compel this situation to change.”

The State Department said the U.S. has prodded Israel, and there’s been progress. “We have seen them [the Israelis] take improvements over time.”

So the U.S. keeps pouring money and weapons into Israel, and the Democratic base believes overwhelmingly that it’s a genocide, and Biden keeps saying he wants a ceasefire, but won’t apply any pressure to achieve it.

Republicans are at least more honest about their policy. Nikki Haley—a possible running mate for Trump —visited Israel at the end of May and wrote “Finish them” on an Israeli shell. Even as the death count in Gaza crossed 36,000.

This disdain for Palestinian life is consistent throughout the American establishment. Variety reported this week that a Hollywood marketing guru warned her employees that they should hit “pause on working with any celebrity or influencer or tastemaker posting against Israel.”

In an email, Ashlee Margolis said, “Anyone saying Israel is committing a ‘genocide’ is someone we will pause on working with, as that is simply not true…. While Jews are devastated by the loss of innocent lives in Gaza, we are feeling immense fear over the rising Jew Hatred all over the world.”

So again, Palestinian lives just don’t matter, next to Jewish fears.

This special degraded status for Palestinians has become an area of study for Palestinian intellectuals. Rabea Eghbariah, a human rights lawyer and doctoral student at Harvard, wrote a lengthy legal argument for a new term for the Palestinian condition.

“The law does not possess the language that we desperately need to accurately capture the totality of the Palestinian condition. From occupation to apartheid and genocide, the most commonly applied legal concepts rely on abstraction and analogy to reveal particular facets of subordination,” Eghbariah wrote –and offered the idea of “Nakba” as a legal concept to encompass that subordination.

But Eghbariah’s argument was censored, first by the Harvard Law Review, in “an unprecedented” move against a fully-edited essay, as the Intercept reported. Then, in an even more unprecedented fashion, by the Columbia Law Review this week, whose board of directors, which includes alumni with ties to the Biden administration, actually shut down the entire website when Eghbariah’s piece went up. (In the ensuing controversy, they have now restored the site).

In the eyes of the world, Palestinians only count when they are dying. That is what Qassam Muaddi wrote at our site this week, in an essay titled, “Against a world without Palestinians.”

Over the years, learning our Palestinian history, I began to notice that in order to be acknowledged by the rest of the world, we Palestinians always had to die…. It is as if in order to exist without justification, Palestinians had to intimately deal with death — they could master it, put up the best show of it, but they always had to die.

Qassam went on to explain that all that builds Palestinian character, including culture and stories, has no place in the world as it is. It must always be dismissed as terrorism or something less than human.

He actually ends that essay with hope, that the global discourse of Palestine is finally changing.

And the next day, another 274 Palestinians were killed, with full U.S. support. And Democrats wonder why democracy is in crisis.

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extremelyblackandwhite · 1 year ago

Text

pairing: dad!bucky barnes x au pair!reader

warnings: age gap (reader is 10 years younger than bucky), smut (18+, dni if under 18)

author’s note: things are picking up now xx

masterlist

and you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars

Waking up on a Friday was also the toughest thing to do. At least, it had become an issue ever since Sadie realised that the 5th day of the week usually meant the last one at kindie before she got to spend the next two days at home. In fewer words, the two year old had learned the concept of a regular working week which is a feat considering her father blatantly disregards the sanctity of a Monday to Friday work week in favour of a messier approach. Y/N was almost sure his motto was screw work-life balance; nevertheless, Sadie made it incredibly hard to bathe and dress with all her excitement with what to do over the weekend, specially since Steve was around.

She finished brushing and braiding Sadie's hair, straightening her uniform so she wouldn't get yet another passive aggressive note from the PTA mums complaining about tidy uniforms - as if it was possible to get a 2 year old to be tidy. The two went downstairs with Sadie running to the breakfast table once she saw some donuts laying around which she was sure to only eat the pink icing of and hand Y/N or Bucky the donut itself.

There was something ... off. Bucky was silently buttering a slice of toast and Steve was staring into the further wall which Y/N knew was not that interesting.

- Who died? - Y/N asked as she sat down.

- It's Friday morning, Y/N. Sorry if we're not singing Kumbaya my lord. - Bucky replied, taking a bite of his toast.

- Thank god, you can't hold a tune. - Y/N smirked, helping Sadie place a napkin on her lap. - We're gonna need to get Sadie a new uniform, by the way.

- A new one? - Bucky looked up from his plate. - Swear we bought her that one a few months ago.

- We need to get the winter uniform. She doesn't fit the one from last year and it's starting to get chilly.

- Take the AMEX and buy it today. - Bucky fished through his wallet before handing Y/N the gold card. - Oh, get her one of those lunchbox thingies. I saw some kids with them the other day.

- Hm, now describe such lunchbox thingie, Sergeant.

- What do you mean? The thingies the kids carry along with their lunchbox for soup or water. The round thing.

- A thermos? Why would Sadie need a thermos?

- Yeah Bucky, she's a 2 year old not a college student. - Steve said, handing Sadie a donut. - She doesn't need one.

- Y/N get her one. Get one for yourself too, you eat soup right?

- I have a thermos, thank you.

Sadie, as expected, ate the sprinkles and frosting off the donut and handed the half eaten donut to Y/N. She excused her from the table, kissing the top of her head and sending her on her merry way to wash her hands and get her backpack, leaving Y/N to bring the dirty dishes to the kitchen. Bucky followed behind like a puppy, carrying some leftover pastries and fruit to put in the fridge before they ended up with fruit flies.

- Are you going to Columbia today? - he said, opening the fridge nonchalantly.

- No. I'm going to come back home after dropping Sadie. I have some online meetings booked with some experts in the UK and France about some topics in my PhD and the library didn't have any available private rooms.

- I'll ask Steve to come down with me to the office then.

- That's not necessary. - Y/N loaded the dishwasher with the plates, looking at Bucky, taking a very good look. He didn't look as put together as he usually did. His hair, usually wavy yet gelled into place, was messy and he wasn't wearing his suit yet. - I'll just go to my bedroom.

- You can use my office. - was he trying to get on her good graces once more? - The internet signal is better there.

- It's your office, Sergeant. I'm not gonna use it.

- I absolutely hate it when you call me Sergeant. - he shut the fridge, leaning against it. - Look ...

He sighed, his eyes not meeting hers.

- I'm sorry. - those words came from his lips very slowly, as if it pained to say them and if Bucky were being honest it pained him to say them. Bucky wasn't sorry but that didn't mean he wanted Y/N to hate him forever. - It's not my place to interfere with your relationship.

- I know. - she shrugged. - If you think your opinion of my love life interferes with it in any way, you're wrong.

- I'm just trying to look out for you. There's a lot of wolves in New York.

- I'm not a country bumpkin, Sergeant. I know how to look after myself.

- So ... are you and Chris Davis dating then?

- That it none of your business, Sergeant.

- It actually is. - he smirked. - You see, you are my employee, he is my employee which means if two of my employees are dating they should tell HR.

- You're not HR, you're the CEO.

- Maybe I multitask, how about that?

- That would be illegal and a conflict of interests, Sergeant. Besides, why are you so interested in my relationship? Are you bored of yours?

- He's just not the type of guy I would picture you with.

Of course not. Bucky had always considered Y/N would end up with someone ambitious, someone who'd crawl and give blood, sweat and tears to get what they wanted. Chris Davis, although not a complete dunce, was not that. He was smart but he wasn't innovative - what he was good at was packaging old ideals to newer audiences. He didn't come up with new marketing ideas, nothing that hadn't been done and when he did it was usually under the guide of an executive. He wasn't his worse employee but he also wasn't his best and Bucky wanted Y/N to have the best.

- Clearly. - Y/N dried her hands. - As if you have a good track record of relationships.

- Is this about Anna? Are you still pissed off because of Anna?

- You can't treat people like crap and then expect them to forgive you.

- I know but you have to understand that me and Anna ...

- You are a father first, Sergeant. You can't potentially hurt your child because you're so blinded by this stupid notion of "a real family". You and Sadie are a real family, you don't need Anna and you can't force her. If Sadie was any older she could've gotten very hurt.

- I know but if it had gone well ...

- Bucky. - Y/N interrupted him. She didn't want to be mean, she didn't want to be hateful about a woman she'd never met, specially the woman who birthed Sadie. - If you think the woman who left a baby in front of your door and has never attempted contact would suddenly change your mind, you're naive.

- You wanna know what's funny? - he moved away from the fridge to get closer to her.

Y/N almost took a step back. She didn't like being close to Bucky, it was always weird for her. Bucky, despite being her boss, was an attractive man, an attractive and imposing figure and she sometimes would find herself divided between fear of what he would say and fear of what she usually did at night when she thought of him.

- I don't think anything is funny about that situation.

- Anna would've liked you. - he said before turning around, almost happy that he'd gotten her a bit speechless for a while, happy he got to be the dominant one for a bit. - And you would've liked Anna.

- I doubt I'd like any woman who would willingly sleep with you.

- She didn't like any woman who would willingly sleep with me either. - Y/N rolled her eyes, not really understanding what Bucky was trying to get at. He was always like this, jumped over bad moments looking for some peaceful solitude in an off hand joke or confusing statement. - Are we gonna continue being mad at one another?

- Who said I was mad at you?

- Fine, if you're not mad then take my office upstairs for your meetings.

Before Y/N could reply something regarding his very flawed logic who wouldn't win him any debate, Sadie came walking through the kitchen, dragging her backpack through the floor and her yellow raincoat so Y/N could help her onto the plastic garment.

- Hey squid. - Bucky lowered down to her help, taking over Y/N to help Sadie into her raincoat. - Do you want a thermos?

- What? - she looked at him eyes wide, probably not knowing what a thermos even was. The red head looked at her au pair, looking for clues about what her dad was talking about. Y/N just smiled and shrugged. - Yes.

- See? Told you she wanted a thermos. - Bucky picked her up to kiss her cheek, directing his voice towards Y/N.

- She doesn't know what a thermos is, Bucky. - Y/N took Sadie from him.

(...)

When she returned from dropping Sadie off, buying her an overpriced uniform and a thermos which she would probably only use by the time she was 12, she found an empty house. Bucky had made good on his promise, leaving a note telling her Steve was with him as well as where to find the key to the office. The office was usually locked due to Sadie, according to Bucky, having almost gotten hurt. If Bucky's dramatic retelling was to be believed, when Sadie had started to walk she'd manage to get into the office and grab a stapler which she was keen on using until Bucky caught her. However knowing Bucky and knowing 2 year old Sadie who still struggled to reach the handles of doors, she reckoned he was overreacting or probably saw something similar in one of those "scare the parents" TV shows.

Nevertheless, the office/study had been locked and Y/N had never had been inside, yet once she got inside, it looked like what she expected Bucky to have as a work space. It was white, bright and minimalist with a few knickknacks from when he had been stationed in Italy and some first version novels which had undoubtedly came from his mother. His desk was deep mahogany, neatly kept with all contents at a 90 degree angle.

She moved to seat on his chair, putting her laptop on the middle of her desk and logging into Zoom. She waited for the right time, her eyes hoovering over everything in his desk from the gold pens, to the tape and the photo frames. He had a big photo of Sadie when she was a newborn followed by a few others, yet what called her attention were two gold circled frames - one with a photo of Sadie and Y/N when she had first started to work for them and one of Y/N and Sadie at Christmas.

She didn't allow herself to dwell much on it, she had meetings to get to. Besides, this was nothing big. It was just a photo of his daughter that he liked which Y/N happened to appear in. She had bigger fish to fry now than wondering about Bucky.

(...)

The work day wasn't any better for Bucky. Steve was being, well, Steve and to describe Steve is to describe someone who likes playing both sides to get to a decision which everyone is happy with. He knew he shouldn't have brought up the stuff about his wife, Steve would never try to break a relationship, heck he wouldn't even think it. Nevertheless, now Steve and Y/N were upset at him - maybe they can unionise and start a little "We hate Bucky", maybe they'll get branded thermos.

- Sergeant Barnes? - his assistant knocked on the door. She was pretty, very pretty and Bucky was almost certain they'd slept together ... almost. Yet today not even the pretty assistant could sort his mood out. - Christopher Davis wants to talk to you.

- Christopher Davis? - oh yes, the best way to make his day, seeing Chris Davis. - What does he want?

- He says it'll be a quick word, Sergeant Barnes. Should I send him in?

- 5 minutes. - he sighed, closing his laptop. Maybe making Chris Davis squirm would make his day, yet again, he was sure the "We hate Bucky" club would not enjoy that. Besides, it was hair washing tonight for Sadie and last time he tried, he had ended up inside the bathtub.

Chris Davis walked into the office, the mere sight of him ignoring Bucky. Did Y/N seriously find that attractive? He was so bland, so boring, the only interesting thing about him was that he was rich and Bucky was almost certain he only finished his PhD because his godmother is Professor Anderson. Nevertheless, here he was, taking a seat in one of the chairs of his office without even asking. This is the guy who gets to see Y/N naked? Life really is unfair.

- What do you need Davis?

- I know this will probably be crossing a line but I was wondering if you could let Y/N have the weekend off.

- What Y/N? - he cocked a brow at him.

- My Y/N.

- My daughter's au pair Y/N? - Bucky rested against his chair, looking down at the man in front of him. - Why?

- I was thinking of taking her to the new restaurant downtown but she said she was busy with Sadie. I wouldn't ask but it's really hard to get reservations and I got one and I would love to take her.

Oh, this was fun.

- Y/N has always had the weekends off. She doesn't work weekends unless she wants to, specially not this weekend which I'll spend at home. Besides, she doesn't have a fixed work schedule.

- Oh ...

- Maybe fix your communication issues with her before you come and waste my precious time, Davis. You can go now.

(...)

Having meeting after meeting had really wasted all energy Y/N had and to congratulate herself for not crying when someone suggested another alteration to her project with a thick French accent, she decided to cuddle against one of Bucky's many small yet cuddly cashmere blankets in the couch of the living room watching Gilmore Girls. She was close to snoozing off when the front door opened and closed. It could be Bucky, Steve or a burglar but she was much too tired to actually check.

- Oh, Y/N, do I have some gossip to share with you. - Bucky. It was Bucky and it was the first time she'd heard him say the word gossip. That couldn't be good.

He walked with a douchey smile to stand in front of the TV, sitting on top of the coffee table and staring at her, just waiting for her to question him on it and she was much too tired to avoid playing his game.

- What? Someone you fucked got pregnant?

- Someone came into my office asking about you. I didn't know that you were gonna be busy with Sadie this week. Isn't Steve taking her to Coney Island?

- What?

- You're using me and my kid as an excuse not to go out with Chris Davis? - he chuckled. - What? Is he a bad lay or something?

- Oh shut up!

- Small dick?

- This is highly unprofessional. - she turned around to face the couch.

- And sleeping on my couch isn't? C'mon, tell me, Y/N. Are you tired to pretend to orgasm or have you just figured out he's just bland.

- You're such a child! - she got up, folding the blankets so she could get away from her but he kept going after her. - Why don't you go pick up your daughter?

- Steve has her. I wanna know more, I thought everything was okay in the Y/N-Chris relationship. Is he one of those guys who cries when he cums? Is that it? Is he a crier?

- Why won't you shut up?

- Or maybe he can't find your clit. You know, he can barely find the copy room sometimes and that's way bigger.

- He is perfectly fine, I just don't want to hang out and I didn't want to hurt his feelings but because you can't lie to save your goddamn life I know have to go.

- He's taking you to Le Coucou, you may want to brush your hair before you go. The poor thing fought so hard to get reservations but obviously you prefer to eat buttered noodles with Sadie.

- I have been to Le Coucou.

- I know, I took you there. - he smirked. - And here I was thinking you'd soon start bringing your boyfriend around.

- I don't want to go. I'm tired, I need to wash Sadie's hair tonight and that will take time and I am not in the headspace to get ready.

- I'm sure Chris would love it if you came in with a soaked white t-shirt.

- You're a dick, Bucky.

Before Bucky could continue with his teasing about it, Y/N's phone started ringing. She grabbed it from the counter and put it up to her ear as she saw Sadie's school number. Bucky watched, mostly hoping it was Chris so he could tease her some more but as the colour drained from her face, he realised he wasn't. She put her phone down and looked at Bucky.

- We have to go. - Y/N looked overwhelmed, looking around fo something. - Sadie has appendicitis. They called an ambulance and she's going to the New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

- Shit. - Bucky rushed to grab his keys.

- Where's her toy, where's a toy? - Y/N started throwing pillows around, looking for Sadie's cuddly toy.

- Y/N, let's go.

- NO! - she screamed at him. - She's scared and when she's scared she needs her toy and I knew, I knew she was a bit off when I dropped her off and I should've known better and I ...

- Y/N. - he held her shoulders, stopping her in place. - I'll go find her toy, get the car going and drive there.

- But yo ...

- I'll get a cab. Now you go and stay with her, I'll meet you there with the cuddly toy. Go.

taglist: @talesofadragon @themermaidscales82 @winters1917 @vladsgirlxx @stinkerbelle007 @maybefoxysouls @blackwood-bodecker-housewife

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan/you #sebastian stan/y/n #bucky barnes #bucky imagine #bucky/reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky/you #bucky x y/n #bucky/y/n

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enjoythesilentworld · 7 months ago

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Wille's Month - Music (Room)

day 29 ! @youngroyals-events

Ex-Prince Wilhelm, hoping to escape the turmoil following the end of the monarchy, enrolls in university in New York City. He meets fourth-year music student Simon Eriksson in a music room on campus. AU.

read below the cut or on ao3. (T, 2k)

It’s a random Monday afternoon in September when he first meets him. Well, first sees him.

Wille has been taking advantage of the rentable music rooms on Columbia’s campus, despite not technically being a music student. One day, enjoying the general listlessness of his new life in New York, no path, no expectations, he’s playing a tune on the piano that he still somehow remembers from his childhood. He must have gotten carried away, distracted by the music, because he jumps out of his skin when someone bursts through the thick, sound-proofed door.

“Listen, I just made it to the practice rooms so,” a voice is saying in– Is that Swedish? Wille turns around in surprise as the intruder halts, quickly ending his phone call and dropping his hand to hang loosely by his side. He switches to halting English to say, “Oh, sorry, I thought I had—”

Ever used to it, Wille notices the exact moment the recognition flooded the other’s face. He braces himself, feeling a bit sick because he hasn’t been recognized yet in New York, which has been a welcome change of pace, and also because this man is the most beautiful person Wille has ever seen.

This time, the stranger doesn’t bother switching to English to say, “Aren’t you—?”

He stands up abruptly, saying “I– Just, just Wilhelm,” then gives a curt nod and starts frantically collecting his things. Hesitating for a moment, he cools his expression, trying not to stare too hard at the man’s smooth skin and silky curls. “Forgive me, I must have lost track of time. I didn’t realize anyone had booked this after me. I’ll get out of your way.”

In a matter of seconds, he’s slipping out of the room, ignoring the warmth when his arm lightly brushes the stranger’s as he passes, and fleeing down the hallway.

Feeling guilty, he thinks about it the rest of the week, hoping he’ll run into the pretty man with the brown eyes and brown curls again so he can apologize. He’s back in the music room on Wednesday at the same time and he stays a few minutes after, but no one else arrives.

On Friday, he does the same, pacing the room as the last few minutes of his reserved time tick over. Just like Monday, the same man bursts through the door, looking slightly ruffled.

“Oh.” The man stands in the doorway again, awkwardly staring.

Wille comes to a stop next to the piano.

“Hej.”

“Uh,” the stranger glances over his shoulder, like he expects to find someone else standing there. “Hej.”

“I’m sorry, I was rude last time. I didn’t expect to—” He shakes his head and steps forward, extending a hand. “I’m Wilhelm.”

The man stares down at his hand for a moment, looking shocked, before slowly extending his hand.

“Simon,” he says, brown eyes boring into Wille’s. Wille tries not to think about how well Simon’s hand fits in his. Thankfully, he’s distracted by the other man saying, “You were kind of a dick.”

“Simon,” Wilhelm repeats, feeling both a slight grimace and an embarrassed flush rise on his face. “I am really sorry.”

Simon shrugs and his perfect mouth curls into a smirk. Wille’s shoulders sag a bit at the realization that Simon might be fucking with him just a little bit. That, he can deal with.

“I was hoping to run into you again,” he says earnestly, hoping to make up for his lack of manners earlier that week. “It’s nice to meet you. You… You speak Swedish?”

“I am Swedish,” Simon deadpans. Wilhelm’s cheeks blush pink again. “Half, at least. I was born there. We moved away when I was, like, 13.”

Wilhelm nods understandingly. At that moment, they both seem to realize that they’re still shaking hands. They drop each other's hands quickly, chuckling awkwardly. Wille feels the blush on his cheeks darken further, but he sees a slight pinkness appear on Simon’s cheeks, too, and feels a bit better.

“I have to admit, you caught me off guard.” Wille folds his hands behind his back and rocks a bit on his feet. “Most people here either don’t know who I am or don’t care.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” Simon says nonchalantly. Wille lets out a surprised laugh. “I just mean— I never really cared about the monarchy, you know. I thought it was a stupid waste of taxpayers’ money and upheld harmful traditions of the elitist class. I mean, I lived in a small town with a fancy rich-kid school. They all assumed the absolute worst of me and just solidified my theory that the upper class sees those below them as ‘less than’. The monarchy really only encouraged that mindset, I think. Rich people helping other rich people get more rich, perpetuating the gap. I wasn’t living in Sweden when the vote happened, but I would’ve voted for the end of it. Thankfully they didn’t need my vote, anyway, but—”

Trying to school his expression into something that hopefully doesn’t say I want to kiss you so badly right now – one, because that’s inappropriate and two, because they’ve quite literally just met – Wille pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and bites on it, hard.

The other man looks sheepish by the time he cuts off his own rant, then blushes and looks down at his feet. “Sorry, I just…” He trails off and Wille grins.

“It’s okay. You’re right. It was a harmful system. The vote passed for a reason.”

Simon tilts his head to the side, considering Wilhelm, which, is fair. Most don’t expect him to be staunchly against the institution that he was a part of for most of his life.

“What are you doing here?” Simon asks.

“Uh,” Wille glances behind him at the piano. “Practicing?”

The pretty man waves his hands, “No, here, in New York. But, yes, I suppose also why are you in the Columbia practice rooms?”

“Oh. I’m a student here. I wanted to escape Sweden for a bit after… everything. My, um,” Wille pauses, twisting his fingers together, “My brother and I always talked about taking a trip here when I turned 18, too. So… Here I am.”

A silence fills the room and Wille is grateful when Simon diverts the topic.

“Are you focusing on music then? What are you working on?” Simon rounds the room to look at the papers propped up on the piano. Wille feels suddenly embarrassed by the music sheets that are just messy scratches of black ink.

“It’s not really—“ Wilhelm rushes forward, collecting the sheets and shuffling them together. “I’m registered for sociology, but I haven’t really decided on a focus yet. This – the piano – is more of a… hobby. It was a hobby. I’m not really sure how I feel about it.” There’s another long pause and Wille blushes more, holding the papers to his chest. He looks down at his feet. “I wasn’t really allowed a lot of hobbies growing up, but music classes were required so I figured…”

“Right, that makes sense,” Simon says gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No!” Wille bursts out, nearly dropping the sheets in the process, eager to reassure the other. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m just not very good so I…” He releases the music from his tight grip and shuffles them in front of himself, frowning slightly at the scribbles.

“I could,” Simon begins slowly, “take a look, if you want? This is kind of my whole degree. No pressure.”

Wille looks between the black ink and Simon’s face, chewing on his bottom lip again. Reluctantly, he slowly returns the paper to the music shelf. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to steal your reserved time.”

Waving him off again, Simon slides onto the bench and begins to sort through the notes. “It’s fine. No one has this room booked after me so I can stay later. Like I said, it’s literally why I’m here.”

Simon looks up at Wille hovering over him and Wille looks down, thinking, oh fuck this is going to be a big problem isn’t it?

Before he can doubt himself any further, Simon says, “Show me how it goes so far?”

That entire weekend, this time not out of guilt but out of fascination, he thinks about Simon. He can’t help it. The beautiful man with his beautiful laugh, his snarky remarks and complete disregard for Wille’s past is the perfect storm for Wille immediately falling head over heels.

On Monday, he lingers awkwardly in the music room, praying Simon will show up. He does, much to Wille’s delight, and brushes past any lingering unease, offering to show Wille the production program he’s been learning about in class. Simon is very smart and a very good teacher, easily moving through the parts of the program and kindly explaining them to Wille without complication.

Apparently the program is rather large, because after only about ten minutes, Simon’s laptop slips into buffering mode. He frustratedly smacks the side.

“God, this dumb laptop,” Simon groans, tossing his head back. Wille does not look at the long, lean line of his neck.

Wille smiles at the dramatics, and says, politely, “I don't think hitting it will encourage it to work, Simon.”

Simon groans again and sends a scowl at him. “You don’t know what my computer likes.”

“I can’t imagine it likes being jostled around like that.”

Simon rolls his eyes and Wille laughs.

“Why don’t you leave it alone for a bit and let it work itself out?” he suggests, wanting to reach out to comfortingly pat Simon’s shoulder but not knowing if they’re to that point, yet. “We can do something else?”

Shrugging, Simon puts the laptop down on the piano and folds his arms, glaring at it like he’s willing it to work.

Motivated by the rapport they’ve established, and itching to learn more about Simon, Wille asks, “Do you like it here?” He’s embarrased by how shy and timid his own voice sounds.

Simon turns to him and studies his face.

“Do you like it here?”

Wille holds eye contact for as long as he can, before looking away to stare at his shoes. There’s something about Simon’s stare that pierces his soul and completely disarms him.

“Yeah.” It sounds a bit like a question, which it kind of is, because he’s unsure if he’s telling the truth but also doesn’t know if he’s lying. He steels himself enough to look back up to meet Simon’s eyes.

New York has been fine, a nice change of pace at the very least, but he’s still lonely. A different type of lonely, but no matter how far he flees, his brother is still dead and the monarchy is still gone and he still has no idea what his future was going to look like. (Now, though, for the first time in a long time, thanks to brown eyes and a blinding smile, he has some idea of what he might want it to look like.)

“What did you want to be?” Simon blurts, startling Wille out of his musings. “Before this. When you were a kid. Before you were… a prince. Before you weren’t anymore.”

Wille smiles slightly. “An astronaut.”

“Really?” Simon sounds surprised.

“Yes,” Wille frowns. “What’s wrong with astronaut?”

Simon shrugs. “Cliche.”

“Oh, alright,” Wilhelm quips sassily, and enjoys the amused look that arrives on Simon’s face. “What did you want to be, then, if my answer is no good?”

“A fish.”

Wille’s mouth drops open. He closes it, then opens it again but can’t seem to make any sound come out.

“Yes, exactly like that!” Simon grins widely, pointing at Wille. This makes Wille splutter, which makes Simon burst into laughter.

“That’s not– You can’t be a fish, Simon,” he gasps incredulously.

Simon continues to giggle. “Why not?”

“It’s not possible!”

“Oh and you becoming an astronaut is possible?”

“Hey, if I wanted to I could. You are a human person. You cannot be a fish.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to be. You asked.”

Thirty minutes later, their booked time in the music room is up and Wille realizes Simon’s laptop has stopped buffering. He’s not sure how long it’s been done, he’d been too busy laughing and joking with Simon. He’s also not sure how long it’s been since he laughed like this. It feels really, really nice. Comfortable. He books the same time slot for Wednesday as they bid their goodbyes.

#another au! who's shocked #been working on this lil guy for months #music room redemption! let's go #willemonth2024 #yr fic #young royals #wilmon #simon eriksson #wille eriksson #yr fanfic

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trulyunholy · 7 months ago

Text

no in-between | part six

matt murdock x reader

notes & warning: mature, minors please dni ; college au, student x teacher ; age gap

word count: 4.7k

The world at 30,000 feet looks startlingly the same. It’s gray, it’s small, and it’s just as it’s always been. But it feels absurd now, this sameness. Your entire life has changed in one night, and it doesn’t feel fair that the rest of the world hasn't changed with it.

You woke up to an empty room. The pillows had been rearranged, and there was no evidence of anyone having shared the bed with you. For a moment, you think you dreamt the whole thing. It would’ve made a lot more sense, because what the fuck happened? You didn’t know where he had gone; you don’t remember him saying anything about leaving early. The only evidence of him in the room was his sweatshirt, which you were still wearing. Unsure if he was even coming back to the room, you decided to pack it and give it to him when you got back. You fought the temptation to wear it on the flight back, thinking it might have been difficult to explain that away to Annie or anyone else why you’re wearing a Columbia sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big.

So now, after your one-night stay in the Midwest, you’re back on a plane before having really comprehended the events of the night before. On the crowded plane heading back east, your head is spinning with questions that you know have no answer. What the hell happened? Was it a dream? Waking up still feeling the trace of his fingers, the softness of his lips on your skin, it certainly could’ve been a dream. But it happened, you know that.

After the conference, you had another week of classes before summer break officially started. Due to a rain delay at the airport, you didn’t arrive back home until late Sunday night. So you decided to sleep in on Monday and miss all of your classes, needing the day to recuperate anyway.

Tuesday morning, with a thick humidity in the air, your stomach felt as twisted into knots as it had upon your return from winter break. You hadn’t talked to Dr. Murdock -to Matt- since the night you had the panic attack. Honestly, the thought of seeing him again stirred up similar feelings in your chest now, an uncomfortable tightness, a feeling of a lack of air. But you push through. Unlike when you returned for the spring semester, you have a better idea now of the feelings between the two of you. Even though you have no name for it, you at least exist mutually in this odd space, this strange in-between. You aren’t sure how he’s going to react, if he’s going to say he regrets what happened or admit that it was wrong. Maybe he’ll report you for inappropriate behavior, and you’ll lose everything you’ve worked so hard for, jeopardizing not only your academic prospects but your future career.

You won’t know until you address him, though, until you talk to him again for the first time since it all happened. And you’ve got a confidence now that you hadn’t before.

The face of your watch reads 9:10am before he shows up to class. The ten minutes following the scheduled start time of class might be the tensest ten minutes you’ve ever experienced. When he does finally arrive, the anticipation of the fear you expected to feel disappears immediately. There’s a purple bruise blooming behind his glasses, and a cut splitting the corner of his bottom lip. He does not look good, and your worry spreads fast through your whole body.

None of the students have the audacity to ask what happened, and he dismisses class a mere thirty minutes in. You want to stop and talk to him immediately, but you don’t. You don’t want to risk your worry taking over your common sense. So you wait until he heads back to his office and follow close behind him.

Your knock on his office door is met with a terse answer.

“Is, uh, is this a bad time?” you ask as you push the door open only enough to walk in, the old hinges squeaking against the heavy wood.

You notice his face softens at the sound of your voice, but it isn’t enough to quell your worry.

“No, no, never a bad time.”

“I don’t mean to be forward,” you start, hovering close to the front of his desk, “But…what happened?”

You could have asked him half a million different things. You could have asked about what had happened at the hotel, what he meant by it and what it meant for you. But the only thing you care about right now is if he’s okay.

“Just a bad fall,” he tells you nonchalantly, standing and straightening a stack of books on his desk. “It was my fault, I wasn’t paying attention when I should've.”

“It must’ve been bad,” you tell him. “No offense, but you look like shit.”

He laughs at that, and your worry does start to dissipate a bit.

“Do I?” he asks with an amused huff “I guess I never think about how it looks, just how it hurts.”

“Does it still hurt?” you ask him, your voice softer now.

He makes his way around the desk, keeping one hand on the edge to guide him. Your eyes linger on that hand before focusing on the man in front of you again.

“It…doesn’t feel great,” he tells you, though he seems hesitant in his answer. “But I’ve gotten used to the pain.”

You step closer and reach your hand out, placing it gingerly on his forearm, a sort of warning to your proximity. Your breath stills as your fingers find a place to rest on his cheek, moving your thumb to run over the small cut on his lip. His head lowers at your touch, nearly turning into it.

“I hope it’s not too bad,” you whisper as you eye his lips and think about how nice they felt on your skin, and how badly you wanted them there again.

Instead, you clear your throat and step back as you remember the open door behind you and the possibility of prying eyes. He leans back too, and you swear you can see a blush lingering on his skin.

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” you say, your voice still low.

He nods his head but says nothing. As you turn to head back to the door, you stop as you remember his sweatshirt, still packed in your carry-on bag at your house.

“Oh, I almost forgot. You left something back at the conference,” you start, trying hard to keep your words as vague as possible. “I grabbed it for you. If you want to come get it, I’ll be home tonight.”

The smile on his face sends butterflies to your stomach.

The sun set hours ago, and your home is mostly illuminated by several small lamps and candles. The anticipation of seeing Matt after class had waned a while ago, assuming that he would just ask for his sweatshirt some other time. So the knock on your door at 8pm startled you.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” you admit as you open the door.

Matt’s frame takes up much of the doorway. He’s still dressed for work, dress pants and button up shirt fitting him sinfully well. The marks on his face are less visible in the low lighting, but he’s still strikingly beautiful.

“You’ve got something of mine?” he asks with a smirk, leaving your unasked question unanswered.

“Yeah, it’s in the living room,” you tell him, inviting him in as you close the door behind him. “Thanks again for letting me borrow it.”

Instead of heading toward the living room when you put your hand on his arm, he grabs your hand and holds it, so tender it almost hurts.

He doesn’t say anything, so you take the chance to bring up what you’ve wanted to ask him since Sunday morning. But how on earth could you bring it up? Hey, we shouldn’t have done that, right? No, that doesn’t sound right. How do you feel about what happened? What were you, his therapist?

Your heart beats faster than hummingbird wings in your chest.

“Listen, I…um, I don’t know how-”

But your words are cut short as Matt’s lips find yours. His fingers tighten slightly around your palm as his other hand finds your face. The kiss is messy, it’s awkward, but there’s a passion behind it that you’ve rarely experienced before.

He pulls back after only a few seconds, and you hear yourself nearly whimper at the loss of touch. He leans in toward you, crowding you until you feel the wall against your back. He’s breathing hard, his breath hot on your cheek.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” he says, his voice low and quiet. “That night in the hotel, your touch, your lips. I can’t get you out of my head.”

There’s a fire growing in your belly now. His words, his touch, his breath on your skin, it’s all too much. You aren’t sure what to say. You can’t think of any words that could justify breaking your contact with Matt’s skin now. So instead of words, you show him the reciprocity of your feelings by moving your lips to his ear, placing the softest kiss on the tender skin there. He lets out a breath as you let your hands do the talking, your fingers gliding to the nape of his neck, down his back, reveling in the feeling of muscle underneath his dress shirt. Your mouth travels down his neck, feeling the beat of his pulse when you reach the pressure point there. It’s fast, maybe as fast as yours, and it stokes that fire in you, knowing that your touch has the same effect on him as his does on you.

Then, suddenly, he pulls away again. It’s a subtle move, not one that takes him away from you completely. Your hand rests on his shoulder, fingers digging in only slightly.

“Matt?”

“Should we be doing this?” he asks.

And there it is, the question you foolishly hoped you would never hear. The one you have been dreading, the one you have been asking yourself since he offered to share a hotel room with you the first time. You aren’t sure how to answer.

The logical answer, the right answer, is easy. No. No, you should not be doing this. He’s your professor, you’re his student. The two of you are breaking all sorts of professional, possibly ethical, and certainly university-standard conduct. If you were ever found out, the consequences could be serious for the both of you.

“Do you want to do this?” you asked.

Your heart is racing so fast you’re worried you might die before he answers. You aren’t sure you can handle much more of this. You don’t want to hear his answer, yet you need to hear it. Of course he wants it, you think. He may not have set the actions of last night in motion, but he certainly acted with you, and he initiated whatever this was right now.

But maybe it’s not you. Maybe it isn’t that he has any feelings toward you at all outside of being a young woman who had shared his bed. Maybe it could have been anyone in your place, and the same thing would have happened. Maybe it just happened to be you.

“Yes,” he finally answers, breaking you out of your reverie. And the word is so solid, so sure, it almost surprises you. “I want this, I want you.”

“Then how can it be wrong?”

He’s back on you in an instant, and you’re pinned between his body and the wall. The heat of him pressed into you is everything you’ve fantasized about for months. His hands move up from your hips to your waist, and there’s a shock when he makes contact with the skin underneath your shirt. His touch is electric, and it leaves you breathless as his fingers trail up your ribcage, his lips never leaving yours.

When his hand reaches your chest, your gasp is caught in his mouth as he takes it all, fervent in his actions. His hands don’t stay still for long, pulling out of the fabric of your shirt and back to your face.

He slows down, his face still inches from yours as he strokes your cheek with his thumb and whispers your name like he did several nights before. Like it’s the holiest word he knows. Then he plants a chaste kiss on your forehead, so contrasted from his hurried pace only seconds ago. He sighs your name again before placing another soft kiss on the tip of your nose. Then again, your name, and a kiss on your cheek. Your name, a kiss on the lobe of your ear. Your name, a kiss on your chin. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, a silent request for permission to take it off, and your heart is suddenly in your throat. You oblige, lifting your arms over your head as he pulls it off swiftly.

Then his mouth is back on you again, picking up right where he left off. But it’s different now. Your name is more ragged on his tongue as he kisses down your throat, to your collarbone, your breast, down your stomach, until he’s moaning your name before leaving hot kisses on the ridge of your hip. He’s on his knees, worshiping you like you’re the holiest of holy, and all he’s done is kissed you.

Jesus Christ.

You look down at him, still fully clothed as he kneels in front of you, and the sight is intoxicating.

But you stop him there. You have to. You worry that he’ll protest, since he seems to be enjoying himself so much, just feeling your bare skin under his lips. But he doesn’t. He stops the second you put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He leans his forehead into your hip, catching his breath before standing back up, and then he’s towering over you again, waiting for you to say something. It’s clear to you that he’s at your mercy.

“Matt,” you start, putting a hand on his cheek.

His eyes fall shut for a moment, and he inhales sharply before stepping back, and it’s like he’s using everything he has to pull himself away.

“I have to go,” he says, his voice raspy. “I’m sorry.”

You’re confused. A feeling similar to hurt starts creeping over your whole body. Everything is a whirlwind as he pulls you back in for one soft kiss, then finds the door handle -still only a few feet away- and opens it slowly. He looks back in your direction, and despite the forced smile on his face he looks conflicted and unsure of himself.

“Keep the sweatshirt,” he adds with a more genuine smile.

Before you can get a word out, the door closes behind him, and you’re left standing alone, your head spinning trying to process what just happened.

Wednesday morning arrived with a cool breeze, wisping away some of the humidity from the day before. You had a meeting scheduled with Dr. Isaacs, and on your way out of the building, Matt stops you.

“Do you have a minute?” he asks.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry.

“Yeah, sure,” you tell him. “What’s up?”

“Can you come back to my office with me?” he asks, his voice so casual it almost takes you off guard. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

“Oh, um, okay.”

You follow him back to his office, very aware of the small swarm of students and professors meandering through the building, buzzing about all that needed to be done before the semester was over.

He doesn’t say a word on the way. He doesn’t say a word as he shuts the door behind you, and he doesn’t say a word as you hear the soft click of a lock. The room is dim, the overcast sky not allowing much light in through the window. He motions for you to follow him, and you do so, pushing through the confusion and the tightness building in your stomach.

“So what did you want to show me?” you ask, unable to take the silence any longer.

But he doesn’t answer you. Instead, once you're on the other side of his desk, he pushes you into one of the corners of the office. His body nearly crashes into you, and his lips find yours with surprising accuracy.

After a breathtaking moment, you push him back gently, scoffing in disbelief.

“Matt,” you say in surprise, your voice as quiet as you can possibly make it. “What are you doing?”

“I think it’s obvious,” he tells you, a smirk on his face.

“What if someone finds us?”

“No one’s going to find us,” he reassures you. “Trust me. With the door locked and the lights off, no one’s going to bother me.”

“Pulled a lot of girls into your office before, huh?” you tease, your surprise finally giving away to desire.

He leans in dangerously close to you, his breath hot on your cheek as he whispers.

“Only you.”

You sigh as his mouth finds your throat, leaving a trail of fire down your neck. Your hands are on his back, taking in the way his muscles move under your fingertips as they shift under his shirt. He straightens in front of you, and you have to lift your head to find his mouth again. All you hear is his breath and your own heartbeat as he rests his palm on your throat, the slightest pressure as he wraps his fingers around.

It drives you crazy, knowing that so many people are nearby, so many possibilities of getting caught. There’s something thrilling about it, something you hate that you enjoy. His mouth is so close to you, yet just out of reach, and it’s criminally unfair, you think.

Your hands are on his chest as he closes the gap between your bodies. You can feel his heartbeat under your palms, and it races just as fast for you as yours does for him. There’s a beautiful validation in that, proof that he’s somehow equally caught up in what shouldn’t be.

You whisper his name, a plea on your lips, as he trails his fingers down your throat and to the neckline of your shirt, toying with the top button. You don’t stop him, couldn’t move your hands from between you if you wanted to. But you don’t want to. You let him flick it open and immediately relish the feeling of his touch on your chest. Even though his touch is only just below your collarbone, it feels so much more sensual, more intimate. Something about his hands, you think, his fingertips, how they explore the world around him, and how they explore you now, dancing on the small expanse of exposed skin.

A loud knock on the door stops your heart.

“Dr. Murdock?” a voice comes from the other side, feminine and sweet. “Are you in?”

You open your mouth to say something, to ask him what the hell you were supposed to do. But his finger is on your lips instantly, keeping you silent. He doesn’t move. He’s still just as close to you as he was before, one hand still on your chest.

“They‘ll leave,” he whispers, his voice but loud this close to your ear.

After thirty more seconds, you can hear soft footsteps leading away from the door. Neither of you move until you can’t hear them anymore. Only when it’s completely silent, he lets you go. Your chest deflates as you let out breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. He clears his throat once, twice, before you finally speak up.

“I should go,” you start, your words unsure. “I’ve got to…”

“Yeah, I'm, uh, sure you’re busy. You should go,” he says, shaking his head.

“I’ll see you later?” you ask as you reach the door and open it slowly, making sure the hallway is clear before you commit.

“Yeah, I’ll see you later,” he says, a shy smile on his face as he makes his way back to his chair.

Then you’re out the door. Out of the hallway, out of the building, and all the way home before you even think about trying to process what had just happened.

Thursday morning comes with a storm, the rain hitting hard on your window as the sun peeks through the gray clouds. Sleep was evasive and when you finally drag yourself out of bed, it’s only the promise of a coffee run with Annie that keeps you going. You could stay in bed all day, you think, wrapped in warm covers and not dealing with the day ahead, and not dealing with the confusion that now lies in your relationship with Matt.

You still have no idea why he left so suddenly the other night. Nothing had happened that you can figure out, and his change in demeanor was sudden and jarring. Sure, he left you with a smile, but it wasn’t his smile. It was forced, like a mask, like a facade. He told you to keep the sweatshirt, which you’re sure he wouldn’t have done if he planned on never seeing you again. But how the hell were you supposed to interpret it all? It hurt, honestly. It wasn’t fair for him to rile you up and then leave you with no explanation. And then the stunt he pulled in his office. Damn near disgracing you right there, but then you both ran away when someone interrupted. Where were you? The whole thing didn’t sit right with you. _

“I just don’t know what to do, Annie.”

You’re at the coffee shop next to campus thirty minutes later when the rainfall finally starts to lighten. You had debated whether or not to tell Annie of your struggle, but you needed help, and you knew you could trust her. Not that you were going to tell her every detail. She certainly didn’t need to know who it was about or what exactly had happened. You just told her your feelings, and how conflicted you were about it all.

“Damn, you’ve got it bad, huh?”

She takes a sip of her usual drink -caramel macchiato with extra caramel- and you nod. Your own drink is starting to cool, untouched on the table in front of you. Annie chews on her lip, her telltale sign of thinking something over.

“And you’re sure you can’t tell me who this is about?”

“Absolutely not,” you stress. “Besides, it isn’t really relevant. All that matters is, I think I’m falling for him,” you say with a sigh. “And there’s no way he feels the same.”

“Even though you two have hooked up?” she asks incredulously.

“We haven’t hooked up. We just…made out a few times, and spent the night together once. But no sex.” You run your fingers through your hair, the familiar smell of coffee in the air doing little to help your nerves. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m no relationship expert, so I’m not sure why you’re coming to me. But, I am your friend, and so I’ll do my best to help you out. Is it possible to stop seeing this mystery man?” she asks.

You shake your head again, finally daring to pick up your coffee and taking a sip, the bitterness barely even registering on your tongue.

“Impossible,” you tell her. “He’s…well, I see him all the time. And I don’t have any way to avoid that.”

“So it’s somewhere here, then, at the college.” You shoot her a look that warns her to stop guessing, and she busies herself with another drink. “Sorry. So, you can’t avoid this person. But maybe you can just… don’t know, stop talking to them?” she suggests.

“Annie-”

“I mean, I assume this is someone that you talk to a lot, since I’ve neve known you to fall for someone you don’t actually know. Which is a little weird, honestly, because everyone has celebrity crushes, but-”

“Annie!”

“Okay, okay, sorry. But seriously, could you just stop talking to this person? Just because you have to see them doesn’t mean you have to actually interact with them, right?”

You mull it over.

“I mean, it’s a possibility,” you say. “But it’s not what I want to do. I like him, I like seeing him and being with him. Cutting that off would hurt like hell.”

“Girl, unless you end up getting together with this guy -which you have dressed is not a possibility- then any ending to this situation is going to hurt. You just have to decide which hurt you’re willing to live with.”

Sometimes she was so right it was frustrating.

“But why isn’t ending up together a possibility?” she asks.

You take a drink, hold it in your mouth a little too long before swallowing, doing anything you can to delay your response.

“Because- because it just isn’t. And like I said, I don’t see the feelings being reciprocated anyway. Just because he wants to make out with me doesn’t mean he wants to be with me.”

“With all due respect, you’re not always the most observant when it comes to the finer points of romance,” she tells you.

You chuckle, because you know she’s right. You never liked romance books, you couldn’t stand rom-coms, and you’d barely been in a serious relationship before. You’ve never been good with this kind of thing. To you, that’s just another reason to shoot it down before it goes any further.

“I just can’t handle it,” you admit, hiding behind your coffee cup the best you can. “The idea of being hopelessly in love with…this person, but knowing it’s never going anywhere. I don’t think I can do that.”

“Woah, love?” Annie asks. “You didn’t mention the l-word before. So, this is like, serious serious then.”

“Yeah,” you agree, keeping your eyes focused on the marks on the wood of the table. “I guess it is.”

“Well, if you want my honest advice,” Annie says as she stands up and slings her bag across her shoulder, “cut it down now. It’ll hurt, but it’ll hurt a lot less than if you get any more involved.”

She’s right, you know she is. But you don’t want to admit it to yourself. All you want is another chance to see Matt, to talk to him about everything and figure it out together. But as much as you’d love that, you know it won’t happen. Even if he somehow does reciprocate your feelings, he can’t do anything about it. At best, the two of you will continue to exist in this strange in-between. Not quite strangers, not quite friends. Not quite friends, not quite lovers. You aren’t sure where the two of you land, but you know where you want to be. You want to be with him, you want to be by his side. But does he want you there, too?

That’s where the confusion lies, and you aren’t brave enough to ask, because you know it will only end in hurt. And you can’t keep existing in the in-between, for your own sake and your own sanity, you have to be on one side or the other. You know you have to do something about it, and you have to protect yourself. It’s what you’ve done your whole life, protected yourself from family who only did you harm, protected yourself from people who became false friends, and now you have to protect yourself -and your heart- from the inevitable pain that that this path will lead to.

So you decide. Something has to be done. So you’re going to do it. You’re determined. There will be no in-between.

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