#only she and ava get that privilege apparently

[hadesisqueer]

Sister Yasmine may not have the fighting skills the other sister warriors have yet, but you know what she has that they don't? A fucking last name

#only she and ava get that privilege apparently #warrior nun #yasmine amunet #sister yasmine #sister camila #sister lilith #sister beatrice #mother superion #sister shannon #shotgun mary

[btsbabe7]

For you, always

Word Count: 6.4k

Pairing : slightly younger adult Snape x 8th year female student (of age adult student), (hogwarts university)

Synopsis: It’s not love at first sight, at least not for him, but being up to no good finally leads you into a fast-paced commitment with your substitute professor where you both grapple with his past demons and your affection towards him.

Warnings!: 18+, mentions of sex, brief sex scenes, unprotected sex, past trauma and toxic habits

Playlist for this story (just an overall Snape inspired playlist)

Yellow metals and beautiful stones, take my beloved and mend their bones. Take their pain, make it mine and entangle us together, until the very end of time. -Ava

She was a Hufflepuff, and he, a Slytherin.

The sounds of shuffling and hushed whispers draw your attention away from the book in your hand. Only select students had the privilege of being in the library after hours, and the two rushing towards you aren’t on that list, nor are they actual students anymore.

Their laughs echo off the walls as they fight for the chair directly in front of you. Their pants and grunts quickly turn into giggles as you pat the free chair next to you. Clearly they’re up to no good.

“Y/n!” George and Fred laugh while Fred grabs the book from your hands and waves it in the air.

“Hey!” You whisper loudly. “Give it back.”

“‘Give it back,’” Fred mocks before turning the cover to his own face. “Charms that Don’t Do Harm, eh?”

George chuckles, but you don’t find it funny. In fact, you’re quite embarrassed knowing that half the spells in there are usually for first years and would be of no help to you anyways.

“How did you two get in here anyways?” You hum and snatch the book back.

“Woods owes us one. He’s the new Quidditch coach, didn’t you know? He let us in,” Fred states.

“Plus we heard you needed some help,” George answers enthusiastically.

You toss them a glance of confusion.

“Help with what exactly?”

“Your crush of course,” they answer simultaneously.

Your cheeks burn hot.

If they knew about your crush, surely you’d be expelled.

“What crush? And how did you know where to find me?”

They both grin mischievously.

“She’s asking all the right questions, eh mate?”

George nods and Fred does the same.

“Never mind who your crush is. We don’t care about that,” Fred sighs.

George continues, “It’s about how you’ll find them in a castle full of people.”

You’re sure they can see the confusion spread across your features, which only amuses them more. Fred pulls you close while George pulls a folded piece of beige parchment from the inner pocket of his robe.

“Is this some sort of prank?”

“You haven’t heard of the Marauder's map?” They whisper and glance around to be sure nobody else is around.

You shake your head.

“First, you must swear that you’re up to no good,” George whispers and mutters the words with his wand poking into the middle of the unfolded page. Your eyes widen at the sight as the map opens; an entire map of the grounds and names of each student and professor on the property float along the page.

“Eh, see! We knew you’d like it.”

“You’ll be able to find your crush with this,” George states.

“Looks like your uncle is still in his office, it’s been about three hours,” Fred points out as your eyes fall on your uncle, Dumbledore’s name.

“And Professor Snape?” You ask curiously.

“Why would you care about that grump?” They chuckle together. “He’s always in his office for hours at a time, shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“Anyways, you can find your crush with this,” George reassures. “We just wanted to help. Just be sure to look out for professors along the way.”

“Why would you guys want to help me?” You mutter as Fred closes the map.

“Well, Ron wouldn’t shut up about it. Apparently Hermione mentioned the likes of you having a crush and she won’t let up about it.”

Of course you had mentioned liking someone, which was an understatement in itself, but she’s your best friend. She hasn’t put together the pieces to figure out who he is, which is a relief. If it took her energy away from her studies, she usually didn’t let it bother her for long. However, if she told Ron, perhaps she’s still curious and watching for signs.

“Oh, and maybe ask Harry for his cloak,” George suggests.

They both scramble out of the chairs, pushing the map into your hands with George pushing his wand into the center again. “Just don’t forget to say that you’ve managed your mischief when you’re finished.”

“That’s the most important part,” Fred chimes in before joining his brother’s side with a smile.

“Thanks,” you mutter while carefully storing the map in your messenger bag. By the time you glance up, they’re both gone, and their echoing laugher is the only indicator that they had been there in the first place.

A full day passes and you hadn’t given the map much thought until Ron pulls you to the side after Professor Trelawney’s class Friday afternoon.

“Ronald!” You groan defensively. “I’m gonna be late for Defense Against the Dark Arts again.”

“Again? You’re the niece of Dumbledore, doesn’t that mean Snape has to cut you some slack?”

You shake your head, eyes already glancing down the emptying corridor.

“Being the niece of the headmaster doesn’t earn me special privileges, Ron.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to you while we walk then. I guess we all weren’t graced with a free period,” he chuckles while pacing next to you.

You focus on making it to class as you both round corners and rush down the corridors.

“So, what exactly is it you wanted to talk about?” You mutter after moments of silence.

“Oh yeah,” he chuckles, tearing away from his own thoughts. “They gave you the map, right? Fred and George?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve used it?”

“Well, no…”

“Bloody hell, Y/n! I thought you’d use it by now. Hermione’s been talking my ear off about this crush of yours. Says you deserve to be with someone who makes you as happy as I make her.”

You chuckle, but a frown follows.

You hoped she’d let up about it. After all, the person you have a crush on is strictly forbidden anyways.

“Well there’s that student trip this weekend. Maybe I’ll stay behind to talk to him.”

“But what if your crush is going on the trip too?” Ron asks curiously as you both round the corridor to your next class. “Students rarely stay behind if they don’t need to.”

“He’ll stay.” Ron’s eyes draw to yours, but you smile to reassure him. “I just know.”

He nods as you both come to a stop in front of the door of the classroom.

“Ron, I really appreciate the help,” you add before pulling him in for a hug. “But I’m late. Perhaps we’ll all catch up after you all return?”

“Of course,” he replies and gives you a short wave while you tug at the door and let yourself in.

You catch the teasing grin plastered on Draco’s face the moment you step inside. And the door slamming shut right against your back doesn’t help at all either, and only gains you the stares of the ten other students filling the seats of the class.

“Late,” Professor Snape scolds through clenched teeth. “Again.”

Of course this isn’t the first time you’ve been scolded by him for something against the rules.

“Surely Dumbledore’s niece has more privilege than the other students? Not showing up on time seems to be the only gift you’ve graced us with this year.”

“But I—“

“But you what?” He asks, spinning away from the chalkboard before marching down the steps and aisle towards you. “Another excuse, perhaps?”

You swallow dryly and shake your head while the other students snicker in the background.

“I didn’t think so.” Snape spins back towards the front of the room, leaving you gasping for air against the wind of his robe and the lingering smell of bitterness.

You sit down in the only seat open in the class—next to Harry of course, who looks apologetic.

You all spend an hour reading over materials, copying Snape’s potion lists that he’s scribbled across the board and testing out small spells before class is dismissed.

“Y/n,” Snape says, not even turning to glance at you this time. “Stay.”

The other students begin giggling and whispering, but you know you’re in trouble when Harry pats your shoulder gingerly before leaving. The loud slam of the door being the indicator that you two are now alone.

Professor Snape turns away from the board, places his wand on the desk and slowly walks toward you with a permanent frown displayed on his face. Your heart pounds violently under your robe, nails digging into the walnut table beneath your grip while chewing your bottom lip to prepare for your scolding. He steps right in front of you, barely giving you enough space to stand, let alone breath. His eyebrows are furrowed, but his features quickly soften as he peers into your eyes and opens his mouth.

“Detention all weekend. No trip.”

And just like that, he’s waltzing back to his desk.

“You’re dismissed.”

You can feel the wobble in your knees as you gather your book and quill and walk towards the oversized door. Once you’re in the hallway, you can feel the burning of tears forming in your eyes. You can feel the aching of your knees and weakness in your arms from embarrassment. Of course it would’ve been worse in front of your classmates, but him doing it alone felt equally excruciating. Nonetheless, your plans of not attending the class trip had become solidified, and not on your own accord.

“He what!?” Hermione groans, pacing the space between you, Harry and Ron’s legs. “He can’t do that!”

“Actually, I believe he can,” Harry sighs cautiously.

“It’s fine, I’ll just prepare for exams. Besides, I didn’t want to go anymore anyways,” you mutter, looking to Ron for backup, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Hermione.

“You knew and didn’t tell me?”

“Hey!” Ron shouts defensively, sheer panic on his face. “To be fair, my mind was elsewhere.”

You reach for your best friend’s hand and pull her onto the bench beside you.

“Moine, weekend detention and missing the trip isn’t the end of the world. There will be other trips and other weekends to spend together.”

“But this is our very last year,” she huffs.

“We’ll have plenty of years together. Plenty of time to travel without the restrictions of school and professors,” you reply while tossing your head back and smiling at the purplish-pink clouds fading towards the sunset.

She rolls her eyes, but let’s out a sigh while shaking her head.

“Fine,” she huffs and pulls you in for a hug. “But I need to talk to Ron in preparation for the weekend. I just know he hasn’t packed yet.”

You nod with a giggle and she reaches for Ron’s hand before pulling him off the bench.

You watch as they step away towards the grassy area further away from you and Harry, and you wish you had the freedom to do that with your crush.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Harry asks, quickly bringing your attention back to present.

“Of course, Harry. Just promise me you guys will have fun.”

“We’ll miss you for sure,” he sighs and grabs your hands, which immediately makes you flustered. “But I promise.”

You glance down at his hands nervously, eyes focused on the way his thumb rubs over your flesh tenderly. He’s never touched you besides a casual pat on the shoulder to either get your attention or to wish you luck. So which is this?

You lean into the comfort that his hands provide and use that to muster up the strength to ask for his help.

“Harry, I uh… I actually have a favor to ask of you,” you stutter and draw your eyes up to his. “Do you think I could borrow your cloak while you’re away?”

The next morning, you’re waving and sending your friends off as they stray away from the castle with somber smiles on their faces. You know they’d rather have you with them, enjoying butterbeer and the company of each other instead of knowing you’ll be stuck in ‘Snape’s Dungeon’ all weekend, as Ron had put it.  Nonetheless, you have all intentions set on making this weekend the best yet, despite the minor inconvenience of detention.

Once your friends disappear from your line of sight, you turn back towards the castle, only to find Snape lingering by one of the courtyard posts. He’s chatting with your uncle about something you can’t overhear, but you’re surprised to see his permanent frown replaced with a smirk of pure content. He catches a glimpse of your staring, naturally, but you soon come to realize that you’ve been eyeing him for much too long. Far too long for the eyes of a student to linger on a professor, that is.

Moments later, your uncle gives you a brief wave before dismissing himself and strolling back into the castle. Shortly after, once your uncle is out of sight, Professor Snape thunders toward you.

“Enjoying the view, are we?” He questions with raised brows, overlooking the landscape before his eyes fall on you. “Or perhaps you were attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation between your dearest uncle and I?”

You gulp, feeling the same wobbliness in your knees that your felt just a day before. He’s not nearly as close as he was in the classroom, but the knot in your stomach feels just the same.

“Don’t forget,” he states slyly, sporting the same smirk he had given your uncle earlier, this time in exchange for your silence. “Detention all weekend, starting at 6pm.”

6pm!? Night detention would surely be worse than morning.

You pout, but he only smirks again before twirling around and heading inside, leaving you trembling in the wake of his absence.

You fill the rest of the day with reading and some light sketching out in the empty courtyard.

You wish you had more time to watch the sunset, but with only an hour left until detention, you return to the Hufflepuff wing. You quickly strip your robe off and uniform off to shower before heading back into the common room to think while awaiting your doom.

At a quarter to six, you pack your belongings and start the long trek to Professor Snape’s office.

The hallways are eerily quiet aside from the lingering footsteps of students who stayed behind as they rush back to their dormitories. Being in the corridors and wandering the castle at night was prohibited, a violation against the school rules, except in the chance of detention, of course.

You come to halt outside the intricate wooden door of Professor Snape’s office. Drawing in your breath, you draw your fist up to knock, only for your hand to brush against nothing at all.

His eyes are on yours and once you realize, you straighten up nervously.

“It appears you are capable of being on time, even early, just not to class,” he notes sarcastically as you step into the office.

Darkness engulfs the room, except for the sunset spilling through the lattice windows to your left.

But what were you expecting from someone like him anyways? Unicorns and fairies?

Shelves and worn wooden cabinets line the walls of his entire office and house an endless assortment of bottled potions, ingredients and herbs. His desk is neat with stacks of books on potions and the works of great wizards before his time, a bundle of fresh quills front and center, potion bottles and marked up scrolls tied with twine, not to mention an array of ink bottles lined neatly in a tiny basket.

“Sit,” he demands from behind you.

You sit in the black leather chair in the corner of the room and place your bag on the floor with a bated breath.

“It’s technically against the rules to have you here this late. However, as a temporary replacement for Remus, I get to make the rules and you’ve been late three times this month alone.”

You swallow hard, attempting to take everything he’s saying into consideration while trying not to get lost in the darkness of his eyes.

“Are you listening to me?” He snaps, coming down to his knees in front of you. Anger ripping through his eyes, but it quickly fades the moment they meet yours.

Does he feel it too? Does he realize the way your core burns at the thought of him being upset and scolding you because it shows that he actually cares?

“Y/n,” he hisses slowly, making sure to annunciate each word that follows. “Whatever you’re trying to do is strictly forbidden.”

He’s within your grasp, but somehow all the years spent pondering over your feelings for him fail you. You realize, in this moment, that you’re utterly in love with him and there’s no way he can reciprocate those feelings appropriately. Even as an eighth year student and it being your final year, engaging in such behavior wouldn’t go unscrutinized.

You dry your sweaty palms on your robe after he turns away to his desk. Despite your own feelings, you thought he’d have something more adventurous in mind for your punishment, but you never expected to be sitting in silence in the corner of his office while he scribbled away on his scrolls and graded student quizzes.

It only takes an hour for your book to grow boring before your mind simply won’t stop pondering about the man working in front of you.

He’s spent his whole adult life teaching. From adolescence to adulthood, he had always been overlooked—from being placed in teaching a class as simple as Potions and never being given the full opportunity to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts until Professor Lupin had taken personal time was a simple example of that. And in the midst of it all, you remember the horrible stories Harry shared with you, and only you, about the memories Snape had once shared with him when he was in a state of pure desperation. Bullied as a kid, having his first love stolen from him, and it was no secret that Snape had become a Death Eater to finally try to find belonging amongst his peers, only to find the woman he loved dead after switching alliances. He had never been dealt the easy route in life and that led him to become bitter.

And who wouldn’t when they never received anything they deserved in life? Who wouldn’t become bitter after every choice they made, no matter good or evil, brought on constant heartbreak and pain?

You slip out the chair and leave your book behind on the leather. You can feel his eyes boring into you as you eye a single shelf of potion ingredients before he returns his attention to whatever he’s been working on.

Every groove and knick in the walnut, every particle of dust lingering between the shelf and bottles can be felt against the flesh of your fingertips as you glimpse over the assortment in front of you.

Lavender. Aconite. Dried Nerium Oleander. Snake Fangs. Horned slugs. Unicorn horns and hundreds more corked and sealed jars line the full, yet organized shelf. You can only imagine the types of potions he’s brewed in this very office and in his lifetime alone.

“Quite curious, aren’t you?”

The feeling of heat sweeping over the back of your neck causes a tingle to run down your spine.

“Maybe,” you breathe softly while lifting your fingers from the shelf and rubbing the dust between them and your thumb.

“I didn’t think a young Hufflepuff such as yourself would be interested in the likes of something so simple, yet complex as potion making seeing that you find it difficult to make it to class on time.”

“Perhaps that opinion was formed at the liberty of your own insights and not by merely observing or asking me of my interests?”

He steps in front of you with a smirk. His obsidian curtain bangs clouding the seriousness in his hooded eyes. “I’ll have you know that I take notice in the interests of all my students, believe it or not.”

Is that so? Is what you’re tempted to ask, but instead you carefully bring your trembling hand up to his cheek. The warmth of your hand radiates against his cool flesh as he leans into your touch with closed eyes. It only lasts for a moment, barely, before he’s ripping away from your touch—not disgusted by it, but disappointed in himself for letting his guard down. And to almost let his guard down after Lily failed him so many years ago would be paralyzing.

“Strictly forbidden,” he groans.

“B—“

“You’re dismissed!” He snarls, not saying another word.

You rush towards your belongings, gathering them quickly before rushing out the office and running to your dormitory with tears flooding your eyes—not for yourself, but for the pain you felt expelling from his anger.

You spend most of the night tossing and turning in silence—contemplating the reasons one would think they’re incapable of deserving love, only to come up empty-handed. It’s not long before you toss your quilts back and rush towards your bag hanging on the tattered coat rack in the corner of the room, letting out a tiny, “lumos” to illuminate the contents inside.

You plop down on your bed with the blank parchment and press your black walnut wand against it with a deep breath, swearing that you’re up to no good.

As the map reveals itself to you, your eyes search the map for your uncle first. After all, he’d be the only challenge in your way with your friends gone and out of your hair for the time being. But much to your surprise, he’s nowhere to be found on the map.

As you mediate on it, you remember Professor McGonagall stating he’d be away on business over the weekend, which allows you full range over the castle. The others professors had gone to accompany the students on their trip and the select few that stayed behind appear to be in their sleeping quarters for the night. It’s amazing, this map, the way it shows exactly where everyone is at this very moment. And as you search for Severus, it seems that he’s already on his way to find you.

You swallow hard and close the map, stating the words Fred and George had advised before stuffing it into your side table drawer with your wand before shuffling out of bed and making yourself appear more presentable in your pajama shorts.

The knock on the door is expected, but still makes your stomach flutter and your heart skip beats in your chest. You carefully open the door, only to be met with his eyes gazing straight into yours.

“I’m sorry for waking you, I shouldn’t have come,” he states immediately and turns to leave, only stopping at the feeling of your hand firmly grasping his arm.

“Stay,” you plead, equally surprised by the neediness lacing your voice.

“Y/n, it’s forbidden for a teacher to be with a student,” he replies simply in a tone so much softer than you’re used to.

He knows.

Not that your actions in his office earlier weren’t obvious enough, and Severus Snape was never one to be oblivious to subtle cues, though he sometimes chose to ignore them.

“Severus,” you mutter cautiously, “you deserve happiness. You deserve to be loved for once.”

You can hear the way his breath gets choked up in his throat before he fixates on you.

“Not by you,” he answers coldly. “I don’t deserve your love.”

But you had prepared for this. You’d spent all night playing the scenarios through your mind.

“That’s not for you to decide, is it?”

His furrowed brow softens and raises in curiosity as you lead him more and more into the room until the door is shut and locked behind the two of you.

“If anyone finds out—“

“—then we’ll be prepared,” you finish, allowing your fingertips to trace down the length of his buttoned tunic before meeting his sparkling eyes in the dim moonlight coming through the lattice windows.

His lips rush against yours and you gasp softly as he takes you in his arms and twirls you around. He hums against your lips while you quickly undo the buttons clasped against his chest. His lips don’t leave yours when he lies you back against your bed, the pine creaking lightly under your bodies as he molds himself against you. The weight of him against you feels so foreign, yet so perfect.

Moments pass and your hands find themselves tangled in the greasy thickness of his black tresses while he kisses into your neck, earning a soft moan from your lips.

The sudden coldness causes your eyes to flutter open against the dimness. He stares into your eyes, lightly stroking your curls with a sigh. You know something is wrong—something in his mind has once again convinced him that this is wrong, that he doesn’t deserve this.

He slips off of you with no words spoken and begins buttoning his tunic while you lie in discontent on your golden and black quilt.

“Severus,” you whine, but he shakes his head and draws his hand up to silence you.

You can see the torment in his eyes again and you wish you could understand it, wish you could take it all away. He walks towards the door, hand stopping on the knob as you call out for him again.

“I made you aware that this was forbidden,” he states sternly. “We’ve already gone too far tonight.”

Swallowing hard, you bite back tears as he slips out the room and leaves you alone with your thoughts of him once again.

If only he knew how much your heart genuinely yearns for him.

You’ve hardly slept at all, but finally force yourself out of bed at noon. Surely the lingering professors would soon wonder why you haven’t come down to eat yet, but all you can think about is Severus. And if your lips didn’t still tingle from the coolness of his against yours last night, you’d swear it were all a fever dream, and it wouldn’t have been your first.

You let your curls down in the mirror with a sigh. Your cheeks are hot and flustered at the thought of last night and seeing him again today knowing you’ll have to pretend nothing happened at all. And the worst part, the part that hurts like a basilisk fang to the heart, is that he still believes he doesn’t deserve any of it.

Six o’clock approaches quickly and you stand outside the familiar door with weary eyes. Your thoughts had torn you apart and exhausted you endlessly, yet you’re here, ready to try it all over again because he deserves it. You know he does.

You expect him to open the door like he had the previous night, but you’re not greeted. Though, you know he’s in his office, you had checked the map to be sure, just in case he decided not to show.

As you push inside something crunches under your shoe and you glance down to see burnt pieces of scrolls leading the way towards his desk. After closing and locking the door, you drop your bag to the floor and approach his desk with caution.

Ink pitter patters on the scrolls below the desk. This catches your attention first, then the sight of him, and it makes your stomach churn.

Severus leans against the desk with his head bowed shamefully in his palm. There’s a bottle of whiskey sitting on the desk, still clutched in his other hand. He’s drunk and he’s in so much pain, you can sense it.

You grab the ink bottle and sit it upwards before grabbing the whiskey from his hand, which earns you a loud, muffled groan on his behalf.

“Give it back, Y/n.”

Luckily, he’s not as drunk as you thought and you’re glad he’s coherent enough to remember that it’s you that’s there with him.

“You’ve been drinking?” You ask blatantly, remembering that your uncle mentioned Snape’s hatred for drinking. He mentioned that the smell of alcohol alone brewed anger within him due to his abusive father’s habits.

“Obviously,” he states and drops his hand to catch a glimpse of you.

You roll your eyes and quickly cast a cleaning spell before slipping onto the edge of his desk in front of him while capping the bottle.

“Why?”

He groans and sits up in the chair, gazing at everything in the room, except you before answering, “You think you love me and it’s simply too much to bear.”

You swallow and stare at him with nothing but seriousness sparkling in your irises.

“I don’t think,” you state sternly, waiting for his eyes to find yours before continuing. “This crush that everyone thinks I have has been so much more for such a long time. I’d be lying if I said you aren’t the only thought on my mind every waking moment. You’ve become my only thought, my only breath, my only desire. I don’t think I love you, Severus, I know I do. I can feel it, I just wish you would allow yourself to receive it.”

There’s confusion and realization in the pain clouding his deep brown eyes, but he remains silent. After all, even you had no expectations after seeing him last night. You just knew you couldn’t give up that easily.

He stands up, eyes focused on yours as his body towers over you with anxiously parted lips.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

A spark flickers in your eyes at the saying and he wishes you could see yourself from his point of view. He wishes you knew how beautiful you look perched on his desk with your hands nervously tugging at the hem of your skirt. He wishes you knew how crazy you drive him, almost as wild as the curls framing your face. He wishes he could tell you how you’re all he can think about, how the taste of your lips was all that engulfed his brain the moment he walked out last night, and how your touch had burned his flesh in a way no dark magic ever could. Yet, all he can do is try for you.

His hand caresses your cheek just as yours did his yesterday, and you lean into his touch with a grin.

“Y/n,” he mutters, waiting until your eyes flutter open before finishing. “If we do this forbidden act, there’s no turning back. You understand that? Understand that once we give in, we belong to each other? There won’t be anyone else that compares to you and you’ll remain the only object of my desire forever.”

Your heart almost explodes at the thought. If only he knew the amount of time your heart spent beating for him, and only him, would he be asking this?

Surely he’s noticed all the stolen glances you had given over the last four years. If only he knew the reason you were always late was solely just to be in this very moment with him, would he understand?

“Are you sure?” You ask.

He nods, staying focused on you. “But I told you, I don’t deserve your love.”

“You deserve the world,” you breathe. “I know there’s pain in letting your guard down, in letting someone back in after heartbreak. I know there will be challenges, but I’ll always be here for you, Severus, for as long as I shall live.”

“Always, for as long as you shall live?”

You nod just before his lips crash into yours.

Both of you exhale, taking each other in like you’ve spent a lifetime waiting. You can’t exactly explain how it happens, but you don’t want it to end.

You don’t want to let go of the way his hands pine into your flesh as the pants and moans that bounce off the walls only solidify your love for each other. You can’t let go of the feeling of his eyes being solely focused on you because he truly wants you to know how much you mean to him. He wants you to know he’s committed, that you are the only woman he desires. That he, in fact, loves you too and has for quite some time, despite his own attempts of trying to overlook the signs. And for the first time in months, he smiles and it almost kills you.

You grip the edge of the desk with a gasp the moment his thrusts falter. His eyes squeeze shut and his hushed pants fill your parted mouth. You’re so close that you can hardly focus.

“I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve made you have to endure,” he whispers and collapses on top of you.

You wrap your arms around him and whine as his hands grip your flesh firmly before he spills into you. You whimper at the feeling, so much warmth and unfamiliarity filling your womb that it makes your head spin.

You lie back on the desk to steady your racing heartbeat as he plops down in his chair to catch his own breath. It isn’t long before realization settles in and all you can do is smile.

“You’re the one that deserves the world,” he states, “and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to give it to you.”

You smile with closed eyes, holding onto the lingering moments of sheer ecstasy that follow your high. And you spend the remainder of your time together in each other’s arms.

The following night is your last together for awhile and you spend it in his sleeping quarters with your moans muffled under his palm.

Your eyes roll back and he smiles at you with a sparkle in his eyes, one you’ve grown all too familiar with within the last twenty-four hours.

“I love you,” you whimper as he spills inside of you again.

He slips off of you, huffing violently before collapsing beside you for the third time today.

“I’ve given your proposal some thought,” you breathe, focusing on the fire crackling in the fireplace across the room that he started to provide warmth and lighting for the evening.

He stirs next to you and you can feel his eyes on you, but he doesn’t utter a word. He remembers what he proposed to you after making love to you for the very first time, and though you already had the answer waiting on the tip of your tongue, he told you to give it some thought. You’re still young with lots of life ahead of you, but so is he, and you know exactly what you want, and it’s him.

It’s always been him.

You turn on your side, allowing your curls to freely pool over your bare shoulder blades as you trace the indentation between his brows. Your fingertip grazes down the bridge of his hooked nose and over the edge until it meets his closed lips. His eyes are closed now against your touch as shaky breathes leave his mouth.

“Severus,” you hum and caress his cheek.

He turns his gaze back to you, eyes lidded and tired, but focused with a tinge of worry flickering in their depths.

It’s only natural for him to be worried; given his history, your decision to his proposal could break him and he simply wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“I want to be with you… forever,” you breathe out.

He trembles underneath your touch, but you swear you feel his heart beating with yours, the only noise pounding in your ears as he pulls you close with a sigh of relief before kissing you slowly.

“I want to do it tonight,” you whisper against him.

“Tonight? Surely you want to wait?”

“I don’t want to wait. I’ve done my waiting, four painful years and three days of it.”

He sits up and you mirror him.

“Whatever you wish, my love.”

The two of you climb off the bed.

He slips back into his tunic as you wrap the extra obsidian sheet around your body. He meets you at the edge of the bed and takes your hand into his while leading you in front of the fireplace.

The burning embers illuminate the cracks in the wooden logs a deep, crimson red. The warmth radiates off his body as he pulls you closer, taking your left hand in between your bodies with a smile.

It’s only right that a spell bonds this until an official ceremony can take place, but as he slips a simple, gold banded emerald ring onto your finger, you realize he’s so much more prepared than you expected.

It’s absolutely gorgeous and it fits perfectly, no adjustments needed as if it had been made just for you.

You open your mouth to say something, tears of happiness flooding your vision before you’re shushed by the warmth of his lips pressing into yours. His hands caress your cheeks and he places a soft kiss on your forehead before pulling you down onto your knees with him.

“The words of the spell are simple,” he breathes. “But it only works if both parties mean them wholeheartedly.”

You know you’re completely committed. You just hope he feels the exact same, despite all the times he’s reassured you.

“Together then?” He insists and takes your hands in his.

You had practiced the spell over and over again since last night, muttering the words as you watched the sun rise and sketched in the empty courtyard. It’s a simple spell, yet you know the power it holds. It would bound the two of you together forever, for a lifetime and even after death, but it was a commitment you were ready for.

You nod and squeeze his hands with a reassuring smile.

“And you want this?” You ask last minute, eyes focused on his.

“Yes,” he answers simply, no hesitation in his tone or eyes.

“Then together.”

You stare into each other’s eyes as you sit knee against knee, hand in hand in front of the heat of the crackling wood before casting the spell together with closed eyes.

“Yellow metals and beautiful stones, take my beloved and mend their bones. Take their pain, make it mine,” you both vow and squeeze each other’s hands tighter as the pain rips through you both. You can feel all the pain he’s ever felt, every heartbreak, every disappointment, every failure, and it brings tears to your eyes as each of his memories become your own, and yours, his. “…and entangle us together, until the very end of time.”

When you both open your eyes, an emerald fire burns golden around the both of you. He chuckles in pure happiness and it warms your heart and erases all doubts that had lingered.

The fire burns out after a few moments and you crash into each other, gasping loudly against each other’s lips as he lies you back and makes love to you once again. Only this time, a golden fire burns in the depths of his eyes, and an emerald green in yours.

He’s finally yours, and you his.

“Forever and always?” You gasp softly.

He carefully takes your curls into his hands and presses a firm kiss against your mouth.

“For you, always,” he breathes.

A/N: I couldn’t not write this with Autumn slowly approaching and after I diving back into researching the details of my HP house placement this weekend [after years of being placed in Hufflepuff].

It made me nostalgic and made me realize that I miss the HP world so much. Now I’m determined to rewatch all the movies and repurchase the books I lost so many years ago. And in the meantime, it only felt fitting to write something Snape related since his arc always hits me right in the feels.

S/N: A quick Labor Day weekend write (sorry if there were typos). Also, this was a jump away from my normal kpop fanfics and I’ve been on the fence about posting it. However, I can’t make progress if I’m nervous about sharing, so I’m giving in!

As always, thank you to whoever decided to read. I hope you enjoyed it! 😊

Please be sure to check out my other latest fics:

- Yeonjun as your boyfriend (TXT drabble)

- In the Heat of Summer | KNJ

- Closer | KNJ

- Who I Am With You | JJK (18+ Only)

~ Navi: masterlist (all fandoms) & (bts imagines/drabbles)

**A HP masterlist will be added soon, this was a very spontaneous write, so I don’t have a section yet**

September Update!: a HP masterlist has been added! 😊

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction, but please don’t copy! Written purely for fun :) Please only repost to other socials w/my permission and credit! Reblogging w/credit is fine. Thank you! ♡

#severus snape #harry potter #young severus #young snape #slytherin #hufflepuff #always #hogwarts #pro snape #snape #professor snape #snape x reader #snape x y/n #snape fandom #snape fanfiction #snape angst #harry potter fanfiction #severus snape x you #severus snape x reader #ron weasley #hermione granger #draco malfoy #albus dumbledore

[cdyssey]

“Re-watched “Gifted Program” because I was missing Abbott today. 😭

The main storyline in this one always makes me philosophical because in elementary school, I was in a gifted program, and it was genuinely a wonderful and enlightening experience, but what Abbott absolutely highlighted here is the utter disparity in that privilege. I was pulled out of class once a week to do fun art projects, go on field trips, learn new instruments, etc., etc., and as a child, I never stopped to think about how my friends who weren’t in the program must have felt. This episode gutted me the first time I watched it because of that. 

In elementary school, there were a few times where I was teased for being a teacher’s pet and a nerd—which, well, wasn’t great!—but this episode gave me some perspective about the fact that there were already external forces putting divisions between myself and those schoolyard bullies. Sure, they called me a nerd, but the school system had already called them ungifted and rubbed their faces in it. Not that it gave those kids the right to be mean, but it does explain why they were hurt.

Barbara calling pedicures foot facials and recommending that Melissa get one because she heard it on Dr. Oz is so HSIOHSIOH.

A little acting moment that continually fascinates me from this episode is Barbara pushing Mel towards Gary in the background, and Lisa’s choice to look simultaneously guarded and surprised.

When Gary suggests that they should go to Dave ‘n Busters, Barbara scrunches her nose disdainfully.

FHIOHSOIHD, the funniest exchange in this entire episode is Jacob: Well, the real cancer is ignorance. / Gregory: Mm, the real cancer is cancer.

I always love the tidbit of Gerald having been a player and a flirt when Barbara met him!! In fics, I like to write Gerald and Mel getting along because they have similar playful and outgoing personalities.

SLR’s expression in the lunch scene when Mel conveys her hopelessness is one that plays in my mind on an unending loop. So vulnerable and tender auhfdohfidhfi.

“Oh, come on, Barb. I’m not ready.” / “Melissa Ann Schemmenti, I know you. And you are not ready because you are telling yourself that you’re not ready.” She pulls out her whole damn name because she knows her!!!! 

The conversation with Joe always takes me out. Lisa plays it with such aching quietness. When they exchange “I hate yous” like “I love you,” there’s a real lived-in sense that one time they definitely screamed that each other across a room.

The fact that Joe apparently proposed that they divorce at a restaurant is so much.

Ava’s expression after Malcolm tells her that she doesn’t do anything is so fucking funny HSIOHIOSHIO.

Janine and Gregory’s banter in the parking lot is so adorable. It’s only like ep. 6 and Gregory has the biggest heart eyes for her. 

#maggie blogs #s: abbott elementary

[mollrat101]

I’ve been doing a season 2 re-watch and...I’m just going to say it. 

Deborah’s characterization gets better in the last half of the season, but I’m sorry but I literally don’t understand the character of Deborah I’m watching to be the same one I got to know in season 1. 

Things have just been adding up to the point that I just don’t get it. 

This was one of the most critical reviews of season 2 I remember seeing and this one paragraph about Deborah resonated with me.

“Smart is as sharp and bracingly funny as she was in the first season, but the progression of her personal growth backslides once she discovers Ava’s betrayal in an early episode. Despite a few moments of tenderness, she’s not only the same callous person she was before her relationship with Ava began, but she’s actively more abusive. It’s hard to believe that Ava would continue working for her given Deborah’s continual abuse regardless of their connection as artists. It also robs the show of the pleasure season one gave us by slowly peeling the layers away from this terrible person to reveal how she got the way she is. Instead, she’s just relentlessly cruel and by the time there is a glimmer of growth, the cruelty has gone on so long it’s eroded a lot of the goodwill the character had built up.”

2.04 made Deborah look snobbish and unprofessional when season 1 took pains to explain that she didn’t get that far in her career with that kind of attitude. “A gig’s a gig” after all. And yet she freaks out because she has to perform on a lesbian cruise? Are you not a professional comedian who’s worked for 40 years? But then if you try to excuse it by saying it’s because of her prejudice well that’s still bad because then that means she’s a bigot. And the show never really challenges her for this, so I guess that’s the message we’re left with? I could deal with Deborah’s prejudices if a) the show didn’t seem to try, in theory, to be “progressive” and b) if I thought they were ultimately going to be challenged or explored. 

But 2.04 also made her seem so insecure about her attractiveness and desirability which is something that’s very human and I can understand but seems over the top in the way it’s shown. There could’ve been subtler ways to portray that Deborah worries about her sexual desirability than the lesbian cruise. She just comes off as very openly desperate which...I could work with but the way I see Deborah she tries desperately to hide any feelings of vulnerability like that. @circling-back-to-it-all made a good point that this season is very loud and that includes Deborah’s character and it rings off as discordant with season 1. 

She says that Ted Kennedy is innocent? Yeah it’s a joke, but what are we supposed to learn about Deborah that she’s excusing a rich, privileged man who’s actions got a woman killed? 

It just feels like this season is like “calm down, it’s just a joke” except season 1 also recognized that jokes had meaning. That jokes sometimes revealed truths about the way people think. Take the therapist joke where Deborah tells DJ that “all therapists are pedophiles”. It seems like an outrageous joke until you see where it’s coming from in Deb’s brain. It’s Deb’s way of coping with being raped by her therapist. People have outrageous or seemingly paranoid views (especially Deborah) are explained as being how she’s coped with what she’s endured. 

But the Ted Kennedy joke doesn’t tell us anything deeper about Deb and what it does is very ugly. That apparently she will side with a rich, privileged men who committed wrong because...I don’t know because Deb just excuses people like that? Which wasn’t really a thing in season 1. Deborah usually either tried to go along with the awful biases of her industry in order to fit in and she’s internalized it or she reluctantly tried to keep her mouth shut in order to not create waves. 

Or is the joke trying to help us see that she agrees with the worldview that privileged people like her should be excused from their actions because of outside forces? That’s the feeling that I’m getting from this season. Deborah isn’t an underdog (which to be fair, she was never completely), she is a rich, privileged asshole and she’s damn proud of it. In a season where she also sues her less wealthier employee and threatens her with financial ruin, it’s not very charming, it just makes her look like a jerk. 

Deborah being a jerk wouldn’t be a problem if it was consistent. If I was always supposed to think that and never read anything deeper about her actions, then I could handle it. But that’s not the expectations they set up for me in season 1. They seemed like they wanted me to understand why this woman is the way she is. This is a woman who’s lashing out is based on self-protection and trauma. Her privilege is both a way to try to shield herself from harm and yet has also made her feel empty and not made her feel healed. This is a woman who came from nothing so, while I’m not trying to say she doesn’t have rich person’s entitlement, she also knows very well what it’s like to be at the bottom and sympathizes with those who society tends to shove to the side. 

But season 2 hasn’t focused on Deborah’s internal world very much and so now I’m shut off of understanding a lot of her actions. It just makes hard for me to sustain my sympathy for her. 

I feel like the show wants me to like this person and, in season 1, I very much did. But season 2...it’s a mixed bag. There are parts I like and feel like the character I thought I knew and then it feels like someone else. A different character who belongs in a different show and a lot of people have pointed out how season 2 kind flipped genres on us. 

It’s not that there’s nothing to like about season 2, but it doesn’t live up to the idea if you were going into this season hoping to see more of what you loved in season 1. And I fully admit, I was. 

#hacks hbo #hbo hacks #hacks #hacks thoughts #deborah vance

[cleverclove]

Wait what going on with @/talenny4life what receipts??????????????? I’m lost

Hi anon. I’ve been debating on answering this for weeks now. But no more waiting. This is my story.

Disclaimer: Please DO NOT send hate to Tal Tal. She is still a minor at the end of the day and I do not condone any invalid comments toward her.

This is one example of her self-centered nature. She did this on countless posts where she would use posts made by POC FOR POC...and made it about herself.

So...bad right? But not too bad. Alright. It gets worse.

She THEN turns around and asks ME for help in fixing HER mess. She uses her “culture shock” as only one excuse of many. Depression, her age, her near constant insistence that she’s “trying her best,” you name it. Anything but taking blame.

“I try my best, and sometimes it isn’t good enough.” YEAH. SURE. BECAUSE PEOPLE OF COLOR CALLING YOU OUT ON THIS IS A GREAT TIME TO BRING UP YOUR SELF-ESTEEM ISSUES. Yeah, you know what? It WASN’T good enough, and you crying “uwu victim” in the face of REAL POC trying to tell you that what you did was wrong!

I do not have screenshots for this particular incident, but she also asked @dilfcores (a Latina WOC who was then mutuals with her) if they thought her Latina OC was whitewashed. This is incredibly insulting for many reasons, namely POC are not monoliths and it is especially inappropriate knowing she is a white person.

Finally, these are screenshots from my conversation with @princessava1-deactivated2021052 before she deactivated due to the stress of this drama. Ava, who is a POC herself, felt so used by Tal. The screenshot just feels so manipulative to me. First, bringing up her vomiting is a grab for sympathy. I’m not denying it happened, but bringing it up is guilt tripping for Ava to stay. It’s as if she’s telling Ava that she’s somehow better than the rest of us who had blocked her because she stayed. In my opinion, this is gaslighting and manipulation, and it makes my blood boil how much Tal has used so many of us and getting away with it.

There are more instances of her taking real issues of POC and smacking them onto her OCs. While I may not have screenshots for this, it shouldn’t be too hard to find on her blog archives. She has this awful habit of making her characters get called slurs/face racial struggles uwu because?? Reasons?? Real woke there, sweetheart.

TLDR; @/talenny4life is a racially insensitive gaslighter who used tumblr users like me and so many more for clout, art, and validation. She uses POC for OC content and apparently sees us as nothing more. Furthermore, she uses manipulation in DMs in order to stop us from speaking out and to tell her that her twisted fantasies of being a white savior are in fact in the right.

What I need you to understand, anon, is that SHE gets to move on from this. She gets the privilege to walk away and look back at this years later and laugh. But not us. Not the POC she’s hurt. We have to live with the fact that she manipulated, used, and fed off of us as creators and people for clout. I was 13-14 when I was friends with her. 13-14 year olds should not be the ones educating a 16 year old white girl who only wants to learn her culture for the sake of a pathetic OC.

#serious #long post tw #ask #anonymous #callout post #talenny4life #carmen sandiego #carmen sandiego 2019 #carmen sandiego netflix #puttin this. in the tags in case yall in the fandom didn’t know. #I’m sorry for such a long post. if you have any questions yall can dm me.

[topherfoxtrot]

Thunderbolts: The hulk's personal protection team

Hey, here's the second episode of my fanon thunderbolts. Since last episode Emil Blonsky escaped from his imprisonment. He's probably going after the Hulk, right? John, Ava, Yelena, Justin and the mysterious Contessa Valentina attend to a presentation Bruce Banner is giving at MIT to find out. This one is more comedy leaned. It wasn't a conscious choice, it just sort of happened. But I'm glag it did. If you enjoy your read please like, share or comment something :D

Valentina hated those heels but something inside of her made she wear them anyways, even on grass. She was going first and foremost. Justin Hammer was right behind her jumping in excitement and giving a lot of useless yet interesting facts about MIT lore and culture. The rest of the thunderbolts were there too. John was wearing a cap and a 5 o'clock beard. Ava was wearing a huge gray sweater as she usually did. Yelena was rocking a leather jacket. For all purposes they did look like a group of college students.

"This place is huge!" Ava looked around, "I wish I went to college."

"What would you do?" John asked.

"I don't know. Anything except quantum physics I guess!" Ava laughed.

"I knew a quantum physics guy once." Justin thought out loud.

"Yeah you knew everyone." Yelena rolled her eyes, "You told that already. We been knew."

"Hey, no need to be so harsh. Your new equipment is my property and I can reclaim them at any time, remember?"

"Oh yeah I haven't used the tasers yet. Wanna help me out with that?" Yelena smirked.

"Behave, children." Valentina intervened, "We want doctor Banner to have a good first impression about us. Specially after the Blosnky incident." She side eyed Ava.

The campus was packed with people of all ages and all around the country and possibly the whole world too. There have been a lot of workshops and seminars the whole week, but today's main event was special: Bruce Banner was gonna give a presentation on the applications of biochemistry in robotics. Apparently the robot dogs running around campus were testing an engine that doesn't need gasoline or electric energy to work.

"I've seen those dogs before." John was reading an informative folder, "I don't think building them to never sleep is a good idea."

"I have a history of dangerous applications of robotics and I agree." Justin cleaned his glasses. The microfiber cloth had his name on it. "It can get out of hand rather quickly!"

"Now that I think about it Bruce Banner also has a history of dangerous applications of robotics." Yelena pointed out, "Y'all remember Ultron?"

"Mistakes are learning opportunities. I mean, not for them I guess." Valentina sighted, "Trust me those super idiots are always making mistakes and they never learn!" She said that last part in a loud whisper.

The presentation was supposed to happen at 4pm so they got there one hour earlier as the Contessa wanted. Doctor Banner was in the auditorium already. His big hands were setting the projector and his eyes were studying the obnoxiously small papers scattered across the table. As usual, the heels Valentina was wearing announced her presence.

"Doctor Banner." She greeted him formally.

"Hello." He analyzed her quickly, "How can I help you..? And you?" He looked at the thunderbolts arriving with the Contessa.

"Well, you see." Valentina took off her sunglasses, "It might actually be the other way around. We are the ones who are here to help."

"Oh." Bruce changed his posture to pay full attention at the lady.

"We are the thunderbolts and we are here to protect you Doctor Banner."

"Protect... me?" Bruce tried to sound polite.

"We have privileged information that confirms you might be in danger, man!" Justin put himself in front of Valentina, "We don't want to scare you or anything but the Abomination scaped his imprisonment!"

Bruce's eyes opened wide suddenly. It's been fifteen years since he saw Emil Blonsky. And as time passed by he caught himself thinking about the man less and less. Now however this distant memory became an immediate danger.

"Should I cancel the..?"

"No, of course not Doctor Banner!" Valentina waved her hand as if the whole situation was nothing but a little annoyance, "You can carry on with your presentation. The Thunderbolts are here to protect you. Also, my name is Valentina Allegra de La Fontiane, Contessa Valentina de La Fontiane. It's a lot to remember I know but don't worry, I'm hard to forget."

"Okay. The.. hm, thunderbolts." He looked at the weird bunch, "Hey aren't you the new Captain America?" He asked.

John looked down and then looked to the roof real quick, "I'm not Captain America anymore." He said between his teeth.

"Yeah there's a new new Captain America now." Valentina rolled her eyes, "But that's not important now, is it? We'll just sit here and wait for the presentation to be over. How about that?"

Bruce didn't trust the team quite yet, but he trusted himself to be his own protection so it was no big deal. Still, as the thunderbolts took their sits at the end of the room, Bruce grabbed his cellphone to check if Emil was really out. There was nothing on the news or on twitter which meant that either Valentina was lying or the government was hiding this information really well. Both options were equally plausible in Bruce's eyes so he decided to roll with it.

***

When the presentation started the lights went out. Yelena, Ava, John, Justin and Valentina were sitting on the last set of chairs. At some point Valentina got up to get a phonecall. John whispered to not disturb the presentation:

"So...who is she?"

"What do you mean?" Justin asked, also quietly.

"This... Contessa. I don't know. Her." He pointed at the exit door she just left through.

"Haven't you read the card?" Ava asked.

"What card? You mean the blank card? The one with nothing written on it?"

"It was written with invisible ink." Yelena clarified.

"Invisible ink?" John couldn't believe his own words.

"John that's the oldest trick in the book." Justin seemed interested in the presentation, "Espionage 101."

"I was black ops...!" John sounded offended. Someone shushed them so they stayed in silence for a while. Ava felt bad for John though.

"It doesn't matter if you read it or not." She whispered, "It's not like there was any key information there. It was just her name and this weird lightning symbol."

"The thunderbolts!" Justin whispered back.

"So.. us?" John asked.

"That's what it seems." Yelena looked around with no sign of the Contessa, "But who are we?"

"Didn't she explain anything to you guys?" Justin asked.

"No! Did she explain anything to you?"

"I mean, no."

"What?" Ava asked a little louder than intended.

"She just said she would sponsor my projects so I was immediately on board." Justin justified himself, "I just assumed you were more into her deal than I was."

"I can't believe I fell for another pyramid scheme." Ava sighted

"Another?" John asked.

Someone shushed them again, more aggressively this time.

"Excuse me who do you think you are to shush me??" Justin whispered as loud as he could.

"Hammer, sit down!" Yelena ordered.

"Not, let's see what this fella has to say!" Justin grabbed his cellphone to use as a flashlight, but that was not necessary because the lights turned on out of sudden. The robot dogs entered the room as part of the presentation and everyone clapped and cheered at them. Justin sat down again and straighten his blazer aggressively.

The robot dogs did some flips and silly dances. Their "skin" was transparent so it was possible to see all fluids and engines working inside. Everyone was having a good time except Justin, John and Yelena. Something about the dogs and the claps made John unsettled. Yelena felt the same. They looked at each other looking for some guidance. That's when the shots were fired.

A few people from the crowd got up wearing balaclava masks and wielding machine guns. The robot dogs positioned themselves, one on each side of every seat row. The chemicals inside them started to bubble in a menacing way. A man from the first seat now in balaclava got closer to Hulk with a shotgun aimed at his head.

"Hello everyone!" The man screamed, "We are only here for the money. If everyone cooperates, no one gets hurt."

The criminals started to walk around the room with huge bags stealing rings, watches, wallets and all sorts of jewelry.

"There's twelve of them." Yelena whispered.

"How much you can take?" John analyzed the room with her.

"Without getting shot? A few. But the dogs seem to be time bombs."

"Yeah there's too many people here. We have to think this through!" Ava stated.

"Oh my god is that Ant-Man??" Justin screamed pointing at Ava's feet.

"What? Where?" Ava got up on a jump. The men started shooting at her but she phased around the bullets out of reflex. That was just the distraction Justin needed to run into the exit door Valentina went through minutes ago.

"Fucking Hammer!" Yelena grunted before jumping to the ground. A nearby dog jumped to attack her but she quickly applied a jiujitsu move that made the dog fly above her. The fluids inside the robot started to shine in a weird way. John jumped across the seats and kicked the robot to the roof where it exploded. The roof suffered some damage but no enough to fall. No one got hurt. Except the dog whose metallic remains fell onto the ground.

John landed beside Yelena to check on her. Ava made herself invisible and visible again more times than the nearest criminal could comprehend. When Ava reached him she grabbed him by the back and used him as a human shield. Her hand phased into his neck in a lethal threat.

"Nobody shoots no one and no bloody dog explodes!" She demanded.

Everyone in the auditorium hold their breath together. Bruce seemed to be having fun. Yelena and John remained on the ground watching everything in anticipation. Ava had declared a temporary negotiating time, but for how long?

Suddenly breaking the absolute silence the auditorium was emerged in music started to come out of the speakers on the wall. Even the criminals looked around confused to the sound of "U can't touch this". When MC Hammer sang the iconic 'Hammer time!' the exit door exploded and among the smoke Justin Hammer emerged with a shield, three tasers, a shotgun and bunch of flash grenades. He took his right hand to the sky to show his car keys in triumph.

"He went out to get our stuff from the car trunk." John said in denial.

"Fucking Hammer!" Yelena screamed again (with a smile this time) before running to his direction. John came right after.

The criminals started shooting at Justin, who jumped to the ground scattering everything he brought with him. Ava let go of her human shield and disappeared. Yelena grabbed her tasers and John grabbed his shield. They both got up ready for action. The criminals started shooting and John instinctively projected the shield in front of them while Yelena got closer to him.

"Hey, it even looks like we rehearsed it!" Yelena said, smiling.

John also gave her a smile. Without realizing it he offered his arm for a forearm pump like he used to do with an old friend. Yelena forearm pumped him and jumped back into action. John smiled even brighter.

What happens next is just incredible. John's shield ricochet's throughout the whole auditorium at his will. Ava phases through and disarms everyone fast. Even with no powers Yelena runs around quickly dodging bullets and immobilizing the criminals. Justin cheered for them just alright. But he also turned off the robot dogs and used some of the flash grenades when necessary.

At the end of the showdown all the criminals were gathered at the podium. Bruce scrubbed his hands with a pride smile as if he did something at all. The gesture clarified that the threat was indeed neutralized so all the people in the crowd got up and started clapping at them. Justin waved his hands with a bright smile.

"Come on guys, it's the least we could do."

"What is happening?" Ava grabbed her arms is a slight self hug.

"Don't you see?" Hulk whispered to her, "You're the heroes!"

The sentence made John move his shoulders awkwardly. We are the heroes!, He whispered to himself. Yelena giggled because she totally heard that. She grabbed one of John's hands and one of Ava's hands and curved to the crowd as if they were actors in a play. Ava and John looked at each other and decided to bound as well. The cheers went louder.

The Contessa finally came back. She looked worried.

"What the fuck is going on?"

"We are the heroes, Val!" Justin winked at her before grabbing John's shield and bound as well.

#john walker #john walker positive post #thunderbolts #ava starr #yelena belova #justin Hammer #valentina allegra de fontaine #bruce banner #FoxtrotFanfic

[raywritesthings]

All’s Fair

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Nyssa al Ghul Pairing: Laurel Lance/Nyssa al Ghul Summary: Laurel helps Nyssa celebrate her first New Year’s and complete her first Resolution. Notes: No “Eleven-Fifty-Nine” and no Crisis *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN, links in my bio*

“What are these ridiculous glasses?”

Laurel turned back around in the aisle, her basket hanging from an arm, to find Nyssa by the New Year’s display. She was holding a pair of floppy, glossy paper frames shaped into the numbers 2020.

“It’s for New Year’s.”

“New Year’s?”

Laurel stopped, then walked over to her friend. “Nyssa, you’re not telling me you don’t know—”

“I realize we are leaving one year behind for another,” Nyssa quickly stated. Laurel bit her lip to hide a smile. The way her friend tended to get embarrassed over not knowing things about everyday life outside of the League was endlessly cute. But Laurel didn’t know what Nyssa might say if she realized Laurel found her cute.

“Okay, well, it’s tradition to sort of celebrate. Ring in the new.”

“With silly glasses?”

Laurel nodded. “And hats and noise-makers and watching a big disco ball drop in the middle of Times Square. I haven’t done any of that in years.” It was strange to think about how many years she had let just pass by for one reason or another.

As she watched Nyssa eyeing the display with curiosity, she made a snap decision. Laurel scooped up two hats, noisemakers and another pair of the glasses, dropping them into her basket.

“Let’s do it, okay? Let’s celebrate New Year’s.”

Nyssa’s lips quirked in a bemused sort of way, and she dropped the glasses she was holding into the basket as well.

She grabbed some more things while they were out at the store, then returned home to work on putting it all together. Nyssa offered to help, but she told her to sit back and relax since this was her first ever New Year’s party. Though it wouldn’t be much of a party since their friends would all be out that night on patrol. Laurel sent Thea a text to let her know she and Nyssa would be taking the night off for themselves.

She was mixing a punch together when Thea’s reply came back. Have fun! Get a New Year’s kiss for me ;)

Laurel licked her lips and tucked the phone away. That was one aspect of the tradition she wasn’t planning to bring up with Nyssa any time soon.

It was just so unfair. Nyssa had been staying with her for a few months now, ever since she, Thea and Roy had returned from destroying the Lazarus Pits around the world. She had Thea’s old room, since Thea and Roy had gotten their own place. And rooming with Nyssa had been nice… yet endlessly frustrating.

Nyssa had certain habits, like lounging about in a towel while she let her hair air dry. Her very long, full head of hair. Her rosemary perfume tended to cling to things like the couch cushions, and she hand-washed and hang-dried everything. Including her underwear. Needless to say, Laurel’s imagination had taken her on many a trip to fantasy-land featuring rosemary and the swell of Nyssa’s breasts barely hidden under deep purple lingerie that Laurel knew for a fact her friend owned.

And it just wasn’t fair because Nyssa was off-limits. Not only was Nyssa her friend, but she was Sara’s ex — which Nyssa had only recently come to terms with after the last time Sara visited and told Laurel all about her new girlfriend, Ava. So, despite what Sara had done regarding Laurel’s boyfriend what felt a lifetime ago, Laurel knew that making any kind of move would be awkward at best and judged harshly at worst.

Never mind the fact she still hadn’t gotten around to telling anyone she might like girls.

It just never felt like the right time. She could hear the voices of her friends in her head even now: Laurel, you really have to stop trying to be your sister. It wasn’t like she’d made a conscious decision to like girls. It was mostly just little stuff, like that Mari was so strong and skilled or that Felicity was kind of adorable a lot of the time or that Nyssa was stunning and sweet and brilliant but refreshingly naive about so many things and she was everything.

God, she really was pathetic about this. But when she fell, she always fell deep.

Laurel ordered some Chinese, which was always a careful affair as Nyssa had very lofty standards where American Chinese cuisine was concerned. But Laurel hadn’t wanted to put her out by asking her to cook when Nyssa was supposed to be enjoying her first New Year’s. They turned the TV on to the channel playing the Times Square party, but kept the volume down in order to be able to hear the delivery man’s arrival.

“An interesting selection of songs so far,” Nyssa remarked. Interesting was her word for something she wasn’t quite sure she liked.

Laurel shrugged. “It’s a mix of new stuff with some classics. And some Christmas, because we didn’t get enough of it the rest of the month, apparently.” She passed her friend a glass of punch, grinning at the sight of the bright and glittery hat perched on Nyssa’s perfect hair.

“Thank you, my dearest.” Nyssa had taken to saying that a lot recently. The first time, it had been said as ‘my dearest friend’, but it had since become shortened for convenience's sake. “Mm, I like this.” Nyssa smacked her lips and licked them, which so didn’t help Laurel from openly staring at them. “How else do people celebrate the end of the year?”

“Well,” Laurel said, pausing to take a breath to collect herself. “A lot of people will make resolutions that they plan to uphold in the New Year. Like losing weight or quitting smoking or doing one random act of kindness a day. Stuff like that.”

“And do they uphold them?”

“Not usually,” Laurel admitted.

“Should we make them anyway?”

“If you want to.”

Nyssa nodded. “I do.”

“Okay, then.” Laurel heard the knock at the door and went to get their food. She returned with takeout containers she set on the coffee table, then went into her kitchen for the paper plates and utensils.

They spent the next several minutes eating silently as the night wore on. Laurel searched her brain for some kind of resolution she could say she was making. She liked where she was with her training and physical fitness right now, so that was out. Her sobriety was still intact. And she figured her vigilantism counted as random acts of good for the people of their city in a way. So that was most of the big categories.

Laurel knew that some people made romance a part of their resolution. But Laurel’s wheels were pretty much stuck in the mud when it came to relationships. She was going nowhere fast.

“Oh, it’s close to midnight,” Laurel realized, setting the remains of her Kung Pao Chicken aside and washing it down with the last of her punch.

“Very good. I have made my resolution,” Nyssa announced.

“Great.” Laurel bent down to fish the noisemakers out of her bag. “Did you want to tell me what it was?”

“Yes, as it rather involves you.”

Laurel lifted her head. “It does?”

“Yes, my dearest.” Nyssa set her own glass aside and slid closer on the couch they were sharing. “My resolution is to stop, as you Americans say it, beating around the bush.”

“Beating around the bush about what?”

“Us, of course. You hardly believe I would parade myself around as a feast for the eyes for just anyone, would you? Or allow you to glimpse my unmentionables? Not even my short-lived husband has ever seen them, and he would not be alive if he had,” Nyssa added with a wicked smirk.

Laurel was too busy gaping at her friend to really process the veiled threat towards Oliver. “I- you were doing all that on purpose? But I didn’t think—”

“Laurel, ever since I met your family, my life was changed. But you, dearest, have changed me. Perhaps more than you will ever know. How could I not hold you in my heart when at last I made room for it?”

Like most of Nyssa’s declarations, this one was nearly overwhelming in its intensity. Oddly enough, Laurel felt herself comforted by the wet sheen she could see in Nyssa’s eyes. Knowing she was just as affected as Laurel stoked something warm in her chest. “I thought I was wrong or taking advantage of you staying here. I didn’t think you could ever see me as someone to be with.”

Nyssa’s actions hadn’t been unintentional at all. She had been trying to let Laurel know that it was okay, that she was interested. That they could have this.

“To be with you as a friend and in this home has already been my greatest privilege. To be with you in every sense is now my greatest desire.”

Laurel couldn’t help a shiver. It had been so long since someone had even looked at her with something like want. To hear it laid so bare like that was doing things to her, reawakening feelings and sensations she’d thought she couldn’t have anymore. 

Nyssa slid even closer, so that their knees brushed and she laid one hand on Laurel’s thigh. The touch seemed to burn through the thin cotton of the pajama bottoms she had on. “I have done some reading on this holiday while you were preparing our celebration. I understand that revelers exchange a kiss at midnight.”

Laurel nodded, not really trusting her voice.

“I would very much like to participate in that tradition.”

This required perhaps more than a nod, so Laurel just barely managed an, “Okay.”

Her friend smiled, a genuine one that was rare and thus all the more beautiful, before she leaned in. Laurel’s hand rose to cup Nyssa’s jaw, then stroke her cheek as their lips met in a tentative exploration.

Nyssa’s lips were softer than she could have expected, and warm against her own. Laurel couldn’t resist capturing the bottom one between her teeth for a moment, earning a surprised but happy hum.

They parted to breathe, foreheads leaned together, and Laurel smiled as a thought came to her. “Nyssa?”

“Yes, dearest?”

Laurel reached down and snagged one of the noise makers, blowing into it for a short, shrill burst.

Nyssa sat back, blinking in shock. “What on Earth—”

“Happy New Year.”

Nyssa let out a breath and shook her head. “Your country is ridiculous.”

Laurel laughed as Nyssa snagged the noisemaker and tossed it aside, then happily resumed their previous activity. The television flashed with fireworks as the crowds in New York City cheered. Laurel closed her eyes to all of that, too happy to surrender her lips and her mouth and her body to Nyssa’s touch. Her friend, her trainer and now so much more.

Maybe life was fair, sometimes.

#lauryssa #laurel lance #nyssa al ghul #arrow #black canary #my writing

[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark; I knew we’d be alright (part twelve)

a shawn mendes rpf fic ratings/warnings: contains descriptions of a panic attack. and angst. notes: I’M ALIVE. thank you everyone for waiting so patiently; these last few weeks have been a lot busier than I was expecting. to make up for the long wait, this part includes links to ten photos from my personal instagram to give you guys a sense of Ellie’s London adventure, and clocks in at a whopping fifteen thousand words.  and in other news, I have an ending. part thirteen will be the final part of this fic, and part fourteen (cause I like even numbers) will either be an epilogue or various outtakes – depending on what happens. thank you everyone for all your support! you’ve been amazing.  (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here) manchester; now You’re not sure exactly what wakes you, but two thoughts slam forward when you blink your eyes open into a dark room. The first, accompanied by a split second of panic, is that you don’t know where you are. Memories flash quickly: the show, the video. Shawn. 

The second, when you’re aware enough to take stock of the rest of your body, is that you can’t remember the last time you were ever really held. You and Shawn clearly shifted in the night; you’ve ended up on your side, facing the window out to a still-sleeping city, while the arm he’d tossed over your waist is now hooked around your ribs, which Shawn had apparently used to pull you firmly into the open curve of his chest.

His breath is warm over the back of your neck, and Shawn’s nose is buried in your hair. He’s holding your hands. You feel like crying, inexplicably. The temptation to close your eyes and fall back asleep is so strong that you’re almost all the way down before you flinch. You fell asleep in Shawn’s bed. You’ve been here all night. You nearly jerk upright, remembering Shawn at the last moment, still breathing even and soft against your skin. You’re half-afraid he has too tight a grip, but as you slide carefully away from him, Shawn doesn’t move. You’re so cold, all of sudden. You drag yourself to the edge of the bed, allowing yourself exactly eleven seconds to stare at him over your shoulder. His face, half hidden in the pillow and his wild curls, is untroubled in sleep, and as you watch Shawn’s body curls forward into the space you’ve just left. It feels like a strange sort of privilege, to see him this way. You didn’t know it was possible to want someone this much. You get up. The journal you bought him over a year ago sits on the bedside table with his prefered brand of black pen. About half the pages are discoloured at the edges and worn with use; you flirt briefly with the idea of leaving a note, loath to let Shawn think you just abandoned him as if this were straight off the album. But you don’t dare lay your hands on one of his most private possessions. A text will have to do. You tiptoe carefully across the room to the adjoining door.  Ava is gone.  Fuck.  “How’d you sleep?” You jump, a shriek and a curse both lodged in your throat, but you shove them down. Your sister leans against the bathroom door with her hair twisted up into a towel, one perfect eyebrow raised. Is she judging you? Laughing at you? Your inner hysteria makes it hard to tell.

“Fine,” you choke out. The truth is though, that you’re exhausted. Ava lets you flounder for another half second before she laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Relax, Lenny. I know you didn’t get laid last night.” You can feel yourself turn pink. “How…?” She points at your phone, left behind on your bed. “Figured you hadn’t gone far. Opened the door when I got up and saw you, both fully clothed and on top of the covers.” Pink turns into red. You’re not embarrassed, exactly, nor are you upset that your sister made a logical guess in looking for you. But something in you flinches anyway at the thought of being seen a second time. “Nothing happened,” you say, unnecessarily if not for a silent it could have. “He just... needed me.” You will your voice not to shake. You won’t apologize for it. Ava meets your gaze steadily.

“Okay.” Her lips purse, just a fraction. “You filled your prescription before we left right?”  Your next inhale is a wheeze. “Fucking hell, Ava.” She just raises the other eyebrow. “Yes, now can we please never talk about it again?” Your sister really does laugh at you now. “Doubtful. But consider it dropped for the time being.”

You suppose it’s as good as you’re ever going to get. Mostly, you’re grateful that Ava isn’t currently trying to give you The Talk, that she has not immediately jumped to a place of reservation or shame when it comes to the idea of you and Shawn being...intimate; she’d never do the latter, and the former well– she’s too late to the game. (She had, however, taken you to the doctor’s for birth control just before your fifteenth birthday, after you’d spent a large percentage of your last period lying on the bathroom floor in absolute agony, tearful and nauseous yet unable to even lift your head high enough to vomit. Pain of that magnitude had never occurred before and hasn’t since, and as you stood in line at the pharmacy she’d said, “It should help even you out. And you know, with other stuff. Whenever that happens.” You’d nodded, trying to blush too deeply in front of the elderly gentleman just behind you, holding a pill bottle in his veined and knobbly hands. “Right.” That had been that. Over a year later, after you’d exhausted yourself crying over an ending that included an important beginning, she doesn’t ask you if you were safe. It’s the first time you’d ever felt Ava truly treat you as something besides her little sister – a responsibility. Even though you suppress everything else about that spring, you’ll never forget that feeling.) “Did you know?” you blurt now. “That Shawn was going to ask me to come to New York?” Your sister nods. “He ran it by me, in Dublin.” Ava tilts her head. “Why? Do you not want to go?” “No, I do.” You can’t decide if you’d rather her be concerned or encouraging right now, which one you want versus the one you probably need to hear. “I’m just…” You trail off, remembering how you’d felt only minutes ago waking up in his arms, realizing your fear from Paris has compounded into something deeper. This thing between you and Shawn is real now, and you don’t know if you’re quite prepared to hold it up to the light and see all the ways it could be torn apart. “He’d understand,” Ava says gently. “If you’re not ready.” You shake your head. If he can be brave, you reason, so can you. “I don’t want to disappoint him. We agreed to just give it a try.” You muster a grin. “Besides, how can I pass up New York? There’s so many things I haven’t seen yet.” She laughs lightly. “Fair enough. Do you know what happened to the blow dryer?” You open your mouth to reply; a knock at the adjoining door cuts you off. You have the ridiculous urge to race your sister to the doorknob, but of course she doesn’t move as you answer it. You know it’s Shawn, and yet some part of you is still surprised. It’s too early. I’m not ready. I haven’t put myself back together yet. 

He's pulled a hoodie over last night’s t shirt, the hood half-caught around one of his ears as he smiles down at you, still blinking a little sleep from his eyes. “Did I hear something about a blowdryer?” Shawn’s holding one of your constant tour companions, purple like Pablo, in one hand, his toothbrush in the other. “My saviour,” Ava says, crossing the room and taking the dryer. “All packed, kiddo?” Shawn nods. “You guys need help with your bags?” “Nah, we’re fine, thank you. Why don’t you both get dressed and we’ll meet downstairs in ten? We’ll grab some breakfast on the way to the airport.” Ava bumps you gently with her hip on her way to the bathroom. “Do a last toiletries and charger check for me before you close your suitcase, yeah?” “Sure.” Your sister disappears. Moments later, the roar of the blowdryer effectively drowns out anything that you or Shawn might say to each other in the next room. Even so, you’re strangely nervous to meet his eye in approaching daylight. “Morning El.” Everyone seems intent on inwardly laughing at you before you’ve even had a chance to wash your face. “Hi,” you say weakly. “Sorry for uh,” He’d put it well last night. “freaking out and ditching you.” Shawn’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry about it. But...” He leans down and tugs very gently at the hem of your t-shirt. “You should wake me up, next time. Before you go.” Your insides squirm at the idea of next time. “You sure? Even if I can’t stay?” He nods, tightening his grip on the pale pink fabric and using it to pull you forward. Shawn seems to like this, you’ve noticed, the ease with which he can draw you in and keep you. Not, of course, that you ever really resist. He drops a minty kiss on the crown of your head. “I like the idea of waking up to you.” Before your stomach can stop swooping, Shawn leans down further, and only at the last moment do you have enough presence of mind to pull back. “Shawn…” “Just one?” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel his breath against your face. Your stomach swoops again. “Av’s busy.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet,” you complain. You’ve got your hand on his chest to bar him from further movement, but even that feels like too intimate a touch, feeling the broad firmness of him beneath the soft layers of his clothes, still warm from sleep. Shawn presses a little against your fingers. “Don’t care.” Shawn bends until you really have no choice but to bend yourself back – an almost reflection of the shape you’d both made on the bed –  tilting his head so all that’s really required is for gravity to pull him down. You roll your eyes, lift your chin, and the curve of his smile touches your closed mouth. “Happy?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t giggle. “Very.” He likes making you blush too much for you to ever be able to really stop. “You’re a goof, you know that?” Shawn’s smile is a little crooked, a lot pleased. “You like me anyway.” He’s not wrong.

*

Moments after boarding, Shawn coughs exactly twice. Everyone in the cabin exchanges looks, and Andrew declares immediate voice rest for everything that isn’t the BBC breakfast show, where Shawn’s due in two hours, and the following two nights of tour. Ava pulls out the air filtration mask, and Shawn proceeds to make silent faces at you for the next thirty minutes. You don’t mention the planned adventure with the gang, on your technically first day and night off since Germany nearly a month ago. You can tell without asking that he’s already thinking about it. At altitude, you’re proven right. shawnmendes: I can’t believe I’m missing tonight. lennysinclair17: You can’t come and just...not talk? shawnmendes: Doubtful. lennysinclair17: We can hang out instead if you want. Watch a movie. shawnmendes: No way. We’ve been talking about it with everybody for ages. You owe Brian tequila remember? This is true. You glance up, where Shawn is looking pointedly at you with only his eyes and eyebrows. 

lennysinclair17: I hate the idea of you stuck in the hotel by yourself. shawnmendes: I’m used to it El. It’s fine. You’re going. You’re not missing out on London because of me. The girls have a million things planned.

This is also true. Everyone is meant to head for breakfast while Shawn is at the BBC, and when he returned the plan was to carefully mislead the legions of fans in the city about where you are and what you’re doing. When Shawn balked at the deliberate unkindness, Geoff had just leveled a look and said, “You want a repeat of your birthday?” There were no more objections after that. And now well – now Shawn couldn’t even speak his unhappiness if he wanted to. shawnmendes: I expect you to bombard me with photos. He looks at you again, and it aggravates you to no end that he knows he’s won the argument. shawnmendes: Do a shot for me. 

london; now  @TrackingSM: Shawn talking about the Manchester show this morning on @BBCRadio! [Shawn’s curls are only half-tempered by the enormous headphones covering his ears, the camera angle offering a full view of his shoulder and arms in a plain white t shirt. Greg James leans forward onto his elbows. “So tell me about Manchester last night,” he says. “Reports make it out to be a pretty emotional show.” “Yeah,” Shawn replies. “It was amazing. One of the most moving shows I’ve ever had. The crowd was phenomenal.” “I was hoping you’d put a bit of a rumour to rest for us Shawn. Twitter is all a flutter but video of the incident in question is pretty grainy and dark.” “Oh?” Shawn sits up a little, his pendant swinging with the motion. “What rumour is that?” Greg’s smile is gentle. “That you cried, during Youth. Fans in the front few rows swear it happened.” Shawn’s eyebrows fly up, scrubbing his hand up the back of his neck. “Do they?” “I thought you might like a chance to confirm or deny your sensitivity, just between us. It won’t leave this room.” “Oh but it’ll also be broadcast to millions of people?” Shawn and Greg both laugh. “But of course.” There’s a pause, and then Shawn shrugs good-naturedly. “I did shed a few tears last night. It was a pretty overwhelming moment. I’m glad to have shared that with everyone who was there.” “I also want to ask you about who you were spotted hugging after the show,” Greg says, “But sadly we’re out of time. There you have it ladies and gents: proof that Shawn Mendes is, in fact, just a bit like us mere mortals. Thanks for stopping by Shawn, and I hope you have an amazing two back to back shows in London tomorrow and Saturday. My sincere best wishes for the rest of the tour. Anything you want to say to your London fans?” “Thank you so much, Greg. Thanks for having me. And to everybody listening, I’ll see you very soon and I can’t wait to spend two nights with you. I love you so much.” likes: 703; retweets: 5] * There’s maybe half a dozen girls at the hotel by the time you and the gang head out for breakfast, who peer hopefully between Charlie and Brian and then lean back in disappointment; Ava and Paul will leave to pick Shawn up within the hour and sneak him inside through a service entrance. “Damn, Sinclair,” Charlie says as he watches you inhale a latte from across the table. “Preparing for a caffeine shortage?” You shake your head. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.” Brian raises his eyebrows. “Is that why Shawn’s on voice rest?” You promptly choke on your coffee; the boys lean away from the spray as you cough, your eyes streaming. Kristin tosses napkins on the table while Kelsey rubs your back, throwing dirty glares at Parker, Brian, and Charlie, who are all suppressing laughter. “Just because you haven’t gotten any in a year doesn’t mean you get to be disgusting at the table,” she snaps. Parker and Charlie howl. Even Geoff snorts. “I was kidding!” Brian objects, his ears red. “Jesus, Kels. You really gotta air a dude’s private info like that, huh?” Kelsey’s barely raised eyebrow is the most scathing silent expression you’ve ever seen. Apparently mollified, Brian mutters a “Sorry, kid” at you. You wipe your eyes and put down the glass of water Geoff had shoved across the table. “It’s fine, Bri. No worse than my conversation with Ava this morning.” Everyone at the table winces sympathetically. You just shrug, any embarrassment you had left long gone, especially with people who would never betray your secret. “Just fell asleep guys, perfectly tame. But we’re definitely not gonna make it a habit.” “Wise,” Geoff says. “But this is definitely the happiest I’ve ever seen him before the crack of dawn in a long time.” It’s your turn to blush. “Can we talk about something else please?” “Well we haven’t picked a museum yet, for after Big Ben and Buckingham Palace,” Parker  offers. You smile at him. “What were we between? Victoria and Albert and National Gallery?” “The V&A is a little more fun,” Charlie remarks, and you’re reminded of all the anecdotes he’s told you about his year abroad when he wasn’t that much older than you. “You didn’t want to see Natural History¹?” “Vetoed by the New Yorkers.” Parker casts a sardonic eyeroll at Kristin, who meets his eye entirely unphased. “It’s the principle of the thing,” she says. “Just can’t do it.” “I’m down with whatever,” Brian chimes in, “As long as tonight ends in a pint glass.” “V&A it is then?” Geoff, as ever, is the mediator. There are nods all around the table. “And after?” Ellie and I are off to the Kew Gardens for a couple of their limited exhibitions.” Kelsey stirs her own coffee as she speaks. “If anyone wants to join us. Otherwise, shall we all just branch off and meet up tonight for dinner and drinks?” More nodding. “We’d better eat quick guys,” Parker says as the last plate is laid on the table. “Sinclair looks like she’s gonna pass out in her potatoes.” * Brian’s arm lands, a familiar weight, around your shoulders at the last crossing before you’re back on your hotel’s street. You’ve journeyed further into Central London and seen a few major landmarks, and everyone has agreed on a rest before going out again. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” You cast him a bemused look, though half your attention is still on the traffic, backwards to everything you know, mesmerizing in its strangeness. “Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?” The bassist shrugs almost sheepishly. “What I said, earlier. Didn’t want you to feel bad.” You laugh, and a quick glance around reveals you to be the only people at the light, so you’re comfortable enough to say, “Truthfully, Shawn and I don’t have a sex life to speak of. And even if we did, you’ve never offended me with a joke, okay?” You lean into his shoulder a little for emphasis. The light turns in your favour, and you let Brian carry some of the weight of your tired bones across the bustling street. “Let me at least buy you another coffee,” Brian says. “Take it up, take a nap after, and we’ll all be good to go for tonight. I won’t have you tapping out before tequila, Sinclair.” “We’re almost back,” you point out. “We can just order one, can’t we?” Brian points further down, to a place labeled simply EAT. “Charlie’s been talking about a fucking matcha something or other for weeks. Says he got it out the train station every morning for like three months. You don’t wanna try that?” You laugh again. “If that’s the way you sell it, Bri. Let’s go.” He shakes his head, relinquishing you from beneath his arm. “You go up, say hi to the boy wonder. I’ll grab us a couple to go. You like you’re about to fall over.” You should be insulted, probably, but even though your body is somewhat used to the constant movement and changing time zones, the moment your mind said we don’t have a show tonight, everything in you is screaming for rest. “Thanks,” you say, relenting. “See you up there.” You’d lost the rest of the gang at the corner while you and Brian talked, and now coming up to the hotel entrance alone, you wish desperately that you hadn’t. The six girls from this morning has somehow already morphed into more than you can count, taking up the pathways on either side of the entrance, much to the both bemusement and annoyance of passers by. People across the street are gawking. Your heart thumps, harder and faster than it should, as you force your legs forward. You tell yourself that just getting to the door will probably be easier than loitering in wait for Shawn’s bandmate, who would definitely give you away. So you swallow and try to keep your head down. And that seems to work, as you move past the throng of young girls and boys whose blending, half-hushed voices are like the buzz of a hive. Until it doesn’t. “Oh my god.” A hiss cuts through your concentration, and you’re stopped by a hand. You look up to the face of a girl, her highlight beaming and her lip gloss glistening, even in a half-overcast morning. Perfectly manicured fingernails wrap around your forearm. “You’re on Shawn’s crew, aren’t you?” “I–” You’re suddenly aware of dozens of eyes on you. “I’m–” There’s a dawning in her expression; you look desperately for anyone you know. “Are you the girl from Manchester?” “Do you know when Shawn’s coming down?” asks another voice. Nerves stick your vocal cords together. “I don’t think he is.” “What?” The distressed murmur of the girl next to her echoes through the crowd. “What do you mean?” “He’s tired,” you say, knowing it’s the truth – the message burning a hole in your pocket – though it feels like a major breach to concede to even this. “He was on BBC One this morning, and we flew in so early–” “But we’ve been waiting hours!” the second girl wails, and the one holding your arm tightens her grip, narrowing her eyes. You want to wrench yourself from her hold, but the screaming instinct to protect Shawn from this mob and the constant shadow of your secret freezes you in place. The crowd presses in tighter. “How do you know?” You feel like you’re in first grade. “He’d say if he was tired, wouldn’t he?” demands someone else. A phone appears in your peripheral vision; panic overtakes the nerves, squeezing your lungs. “Please let go of me.” “I don’t believe you.” There’s something so insistent in this girl’s eyes, a demand you could never fulfill. “Shawn–” “Red!” To your eternal relief, even though it’s a name you’ve never been called, you know it’s Brian. Ignoring all the heads that turn in his direction, the bassist makes a beeline for you, holding a tray of coffee. His eyes zero in on the pink nails still keeping you captive. “What’s going on here?” “Amber,” someone hisses, and you watch long imprints leave your skin. Amber’s mouth drops open when Brian reaches for your elbow and tugs you closer to him. “C’mon,” he says to you now. You’ve never seen Brian look anything but cheery and warm; his eyes are stormy as he leads you gently forward. “Let’s go.” You’re too grateful for a friendly face to speak. “W-Wait!” cries another voice in the crowd. “Is Shawn coming down or not?” “No,” Brian snaps without looking back. “He’s on voice rest till tomorrow.” There’s more agonized noise, like he’s just told the mass of heads and phones that Shawn’s leaving London entirely and never coming back. Some people start to leave in a huff. Only steps from the entrance, you notice a girl who can’t be older than you, being shouldered aside by the person next to her, clutching an envelope in her hands and clearly trying to mask her disappointment. You think abruptly of Clara, so much so that it stops you in your tracks. “Are you okay?” you ask. The girl’s chin jerks up, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry about this.” “N-No!” she stammers. “I understand, he needs time to rest. I’m–” The envelope creases between her fingers. You step closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice. “I’m fine, thank you. I um, didn’t even really want a picture anyway, but I couldn’t afford a meet and greet and I just...” She trails off, clearly just as uncomfortable as you at being the centre of the crowd’s frenzied attention. You nod your head at the white rectangle. “Did you want to give that to Shawn?” Her eyes are glassy. Your inexplicable urge to cry from earlier suddenly rears its head again. “I can take it for you, if you want.” Tears spill over her cheeks. You’re very glad, even more than you were moments ago, that Brian is still there, holding you up. The girl hands you the envelope, labeled simply with Shawn in careful block letters. “What’s your name?” You accept the offering with care. “Are you coming to either of the shows?” “Morgan.” Her voice hiccups. “I’ll be there tomorrow night. Thank you so much.” You manage a smile. “See you tomorrow. I’ll make sure he gets this.” “Red,” Brian says, not a shout but sharp enough that you know he’s done with this whole thing. Phone camera are surely still rolling. You nod, and wave at Morgan with the envelope in your hand. Brian holds the door open for you; people are shouting for him, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t let go of you until the doors swing closed. “Red?” you ask as you wait for the elevator, chancing a glance at his still thunderous expression. The bassist exhales. “Couldn’t exactly call you Sinclair, could I?” “Sorry,” you start, suddenly ashamed, hoping he doesn’t think you an absolute idiot. “I tried to just walk past–” “Hey, no.” Brian turns fully to face you. “That wasn’t your fault. We just wanna keep you safe, yeah?” You blink in the face of his intensity. “I–” You have to swallow a new knot in your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.” To your surprise, he follows you off the elevator and into the hall. “Where are you going?” “He’s gotta know about this,” The bassist says, and before you can stop him, bangs with the flat of his hand on Shawn’s door. “Hey kid!” “Bri, no!” You drag his arm back. “I’m fine. He doesn’t need–” Brian shakes his head, raising his hand again despite your best efforts. Before he can knock again, the door opens. Shawn only looks half-awake, back in the hoodie from this morning. He smiles, but you can tell that you’ve been too slow to hide the panic that hasn’t faded yet from behind your eyes. Pablo is plugged in and puffing cheerily away; you force yourself to inhale deeply. “Looked out the window yet?” Brian asks. Shawn shakes his head, but his attention is over his shoulder at you, a question, even as Brian practically hauls him over to almost floor to ceiling glass. You watch as familiar eyes nearly bug away from sleep-mussed curls. “We gotta deal with this,” Brian says. “Sinclair just–” “I’m fine,” you insist loudly. Shawn’s head whips around. You point at him, a lightning reminder. “You cannot talk.” You swing to Brian. “And it wasn’t a big deal–” “Someone grabbing you wasn’t a big deal?” You wince at the shout. “What?” Shawn’s voice is crackly from lack of use, but there’s no mistaking the alarm. You try to recreate Kris’ truly withering expression from breakfast. Brian, however, does not look sorry. “What would you have done if I hadn’t walked up right then?” he demands. It’s hard work to ignore the pole of Shawn’s eyes; you manage it in favour of glaring at his bassist. “It’s not like I wasn’t six feet from the door!” Brian points an imperious finger at the glass. “That girl laid hands on you. Did you see how many people are out there? Some of those guys were twice your size!” More knocking on the door cuts off your opportunity to shout back, though in all honestly you’re not sure what you would have said. You didn’t think Amber would have actually hurt you, but you can’t deny that even now, dozens of feet above the street, the memory of the press of the crowd still makes your heart race. Andrew sweeps an eye over the room. Shawn no longer looks like he’s the referee of a really uneven boxing match, but the tension in the room is palpable enough that Ava shoots you a bewildered look behind Andrew’s back. “You’re not going down there,” the man says. “This part of London is extremely busy. Paul and Cam can’t contain three hundred people without the help of police, and we don’t want to bother them.” He narrows his eyes. “And you’re still on voice rest.” Shawn swallows and nods, though he’s visibly frustrated by the situation. You sneak a last glare at Brian, daring him with your eyes. If he gives you up now, you probably won’t speak to him for the rest of the day. “We thought you could do an Instagram Q&A,” your sister continues. “You know, that question box feature? Then you don’t strain your voice and people sort of get to see you today.” Shawn picks up his phone from the bedside table; moments later, Andrew lifts his own. “No,” he replies aloud. “We don’t need to check your answers beforehand. You can just treat this like an Instagram live. Do it for however long you like.” “Get some rest, okay?” Ava smiles gently. “You look beat.” His lips quirk, but the smile doesn’t quite reach Shawn’s eyes. His management team departs, leaving the both of you and Brian as the points of a skewed triangle in the middle of the room. The bassist sighs and places a single to-go cup on the window sill. “I won’t tell them,” he assures you. You let your shoulders relax a fraction. “But only if you agree that you won’t go wandering around without one of us for the rest of the tour.” Part of you balks. Ava and Andrew – and everyone – are surely going to see your face online before either of you has time to tell anyone, and you resent the thought of being chaperoned like a child. But the rest of you knows he’s right. You’re shaken by what just happened to you, even if a streak of stubborn pride will never let you admit it. “Fine.” To your surprise, Brian crosses the room in two long strides before leaning down and dropping a dry kiss on your cheek. “I’ll tell Kels to give you an hour at least, yeah?” And then all of a sudden you’re alone with Shawn the first time since you woke up in his bed this morning. The door is barely closed before he’s reaching for you, his hands skimming up your sides and over your elbows like he’s looking for injury. “If you talk,” you warn, “I’m going to hang out with the girls right now and I’m going to ignore you all night.” Shawn rolls his eyes, but when he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, you don’t need to hear his voice to understand what he’s asking. “I’m not hurt.” You wrap a hand around his wrist. You know that’s not what Shawn really means, but pretending is easy when he can’t dispute you. “You better get on–” He shakes his head, emphatic. It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but Shawn can be stubborn if he wants. He’s not doing anything until you tell him. “The girl recognized me, I guess, from last night, and–” His surprise is clear. You pick up your pace, anxious to get all this talk over with. “They wanted to know when you were gonna come down, and didn’t believe me when I said you were tired.” A flash of irritation casts a shadow over his expression, followed by something you can only describe as a protective glare; you’re startled to realize that it’s not for him, but for you. Shawn’s eyebrows crease now as he brushes his thumb over the bags beneath your eyes, another question. You shrug. “I could use a nap,” you say honestly. “But if I lay on that bed I’ll never get up again.” He seems to consider this, before pulling you towards the enormous armchair next to the window. You watch as he sits, takes a quick selfie, and gestures for you to join him. “You’re a giant,” you protest, and he just snorts and reaches for you again. Shawn seems determined, so you fold yourself into his lap, angling your legs across him and the arm of the chair so your feet are supported by the sill. The coffee Brian left is delicious, and you make a note to buy another when you can actually appreciate it, offering the rest to Shawn. It’s surprisingly comfortable, this armchair jenga: your cheek against his soft sweater, Shawn’s arm wrapped around your back so he can hold you there and type with both hands in front of your face. Hey guys, I just wanted to confirm that I am actually on voice rest until tomorrow before the show so I can be in top form to play for you all. I wish I could come down and meet you, but security is also really concerned about the size of the crowd and I don’t want any of you or my team getting hurt... Instead, I’ll be doing a story Q&A for you! Leave questions and I’ll answer as many as I can! Love you xx “Not hurt,” you remind him, a little more petulantly than probably necessary. Shawn just leans his cheek against yours, holding up his phone so you can see the text he’s pulled over his smiling mouth in two photos and the question box. “You’re good. No typos.” He brushes his mouth over your hair in thanks, and you watch him post the photos. Almost immediately, his story is inundated. Shawn takes the first about the Q&A and M&Gs, assuring everyone that they’re still on. You see at least three demanding who Red is. Shawn gestures at the question but doesn’t move to answer it. “Brian. Pretty genius, not gonna lie.” His huff of laughter is warm against your face. You find yourself relaxing, almost unwittingly, into this cozy little space Shawn’s created for you. You blink drowsily, until Shawn flicks the white envelope you’d almost forgotten, still dangling between your fingers. “S’for you,” you murmur. “Saw a girl outside, she looked a bit like Clara.” He stops typing. “She couldn’t do a meet and greet and she just wanted to give you this.” Shawn takes the envelope gingerly. You concentrate on the view of the South Bank outside the window as he slides a finger beneath the seal and pulls out a thrice-folded sheet of paper, torn from a notebook but carefully freed of frayed edges, and full of impossibly neat blue ink. You feel him tap your nose gently when you let your eyelids drop closed. “Not for me to read,” you tell him without looking up, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Shawn’s breath. “She’ll be there tomorrow though.” He hums, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Don’t let me sleep too long, please.” You burrow into him a little like a cat. “I really owe Brian that shot now.” Shawn breathes another laugh, but squeezes you gently in reply. A minute later, his hand slides beneath your chin again, and you smile with your eyes still closed when Shawn kisses you, slow and languid. Your heart starts to race again for an entirely more pleasant reason. “If you keep that up,” you say when he pulls back for air, blinking to find his smiling face shining down on you, “I might reconsider leaving at all.” Shawn shakes his head and kisses your forehead instead. His left hand reaches up, sliding gently to tuck your hair behind your ear. As you settle back against his shoulder, his fingers continue to glide through in a steady rhythm, like a gentle wave that eventually coaxes you to sleep. * In the end, after almost getting lost in the depths of all the exhibits at the Victoria and Albert Museum², the gang parts ways like this: you and Kelsey board a Richmond bound overground train to the Kew Gardens³; Parker and Kristin wander Hyde Park; Geoff, Charlie, and Brian trek up to Brick Lane. Remembering Shawn’s request, you snap photos of everything, from the MIND THE GAP yellow platform line to everyone posing in front of Canada House⁴ in Trafalgar Square. London on its own is possibly one of your favourite cities you’ve ever been to, but the fact is cemented when Kelsey leads you through the Gardens; you visit Palm⁵ House⁶, the orchid⁷ festival⁸, and the most breathtaking of all: the Life and Death exhibit by Rebecca Louise Law.  (Kelsey convinced you weeks ago to finally start posting to your still-private Instagram; she gets a particularly nice one⁹ on your third go round of the specifically marked path through the endless garlands of flowers, though Shawn also likes the slightly blurred one of you laughing too close to the camera.¹⁰ The exhibit reminds you of his desire to last, for his music to endure; you wish, like you’ve wished all day, that he were here.) A few hours later, Brian gets his wish. At a bustling pub maybe three-quarters full, one of the bartenders – an older Englishman with an impressive beard wearing a Star Wars t-shirt – patiently recommends the array of London beer available to the group. Geoff leans over the bar to shake his hand, insisting on his name so as to thank him properly. “Pete,” the man says. “It’s a pleasure.” Finally, you’re the last to order. “And for you?” You’re hyper aware of people leaning on nearly every inch of the dark wood, which runs in an enormous oval in the centre of the room. The only other bartender looks younger, though he’s as tall as Shawn; you can’t see much of his face through the thick crowd, but women in the room eye him with interest. “I’m not much of a beer person,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “Cider?” Pete offers, tapping the glossy label of the last spout in the row in front of him. “Sweeter, you know, made from apples and all.” “Sure.” “Pint?” He watches you consider the enormous glass in Charlie’s hand with trepidation. “Half?” “Half, please.” You smile delightedly when Pete produces a miniature version of a pint, shaped and embossed with the same cider name and text as the full-scale you can see dotted around the room. Geoff beats everyone to the punch paying for the round, and the gang snags a corner of benches and small stools on the far side of the pub, beneath a wall displaying twenty-five varieties of gin. Facing the bar, you have ample opportunity to people watch, dipping in and out of the flow of conversation; Charlie and Parker are currently debating the merits of pizza versus pasta in an ‘every day for the rest of your life’ context (you, for the record, choose pasta). The pub fills up quickly. The crowd seems to lean more towards elder locals, though as you sit there, a young woman, probably around Kelsey and Kristin’s age, snakes through the room, weaving easily around the throng to the end of the bar closest to you. She greets Pete by name and several clusters of people, taking a stool. When Kristin rises for another round several minutes later, you watch as the serious looking younger bartender looks towards the girl on the stool, but she nods her head at Kris instead, so he serves her first. When a half pint of cider is finally placed in front of her, the girl smiles warmly at him. He leans his elbows on the bar as they talk, familiarity between them though the pub is too loud for you to be able to make anything out. “He’s cute,” Kelsey says, more conversational than anything. You nod absently. You suppose it’s instinctive to compare this stranger to Shawn: this boy is similarly pale, though his hair is a lighter shade of brown and sticks up shorter where Shawn’s curls over his forehead. The other boy also has a more square face, and his eyes are a striking shade of blue. You think of Hannah. This bartender is exactly her type, right down to the eye colour (she’d lamented to you years ago about the boringness of brown eyed boys, though these days you couldn’t disagree more). If you were on speaking terms, you would have snuck a photo and sent it along with several suggestive emojis. But now you just let the thought pass with a dull ache. 

* “Hey. Sinclair.” Charlie’s voice tickles your hair in a familiar whisper as you lean on the bar some three and a half rounds later. You need water. “Be cool.” “Right,” you reply without turning your head. You watch him slide his credit card onto the bar, beneath your hand. “You’re going to order the first round of tequila with this card, and you’re not gonna let Geoff or Brian see. They’re getting air with the girls. I’m supposed to be in the bathroom.” “Because they already suspect you?” “Obviously.” “Obviously,” you echo, smiling. “Okay, done.” “My girl,” he says affectionately. Charlie murmurs the pin in your ear and slips away again. A minute later, the young bartender finally turns to you. He looks expectant and you’re momentarily at a loss; fuck his eyes are really blue.   “May I have a glass of water?” you ask, regaining your tongue, and he nods, lifting the spray nozzle in his hand. “And seven shots of tequila?” He raises an eyebrow at you as if to confirm he heard you right. “Seven?” His accent isn’t English, but you don’t have a good enough ear to place it. French, maybe? You flush just a little. “My friends are outside.” He nods again, exhaling like he’s holding back laughter. “Lime or lemon? Salt?” “Lime, please. And salt.” You watch him line seven glasses along the bar and fill them expertly. “Are you Canadian?” he asks, conversational. You blink in surprise. Most people assume the other side of the border. “Yes.” He smiles, a fleeting thing. “You sound like someone I know,” he explains, before turning away to slice a new lime on the centre island. Aware of eyes on you, you look up to catch three men with various shades of salt and pepper and silver hair, stealing glances down the bar at you and conferring amongst themselves. You look away, unsure of what to do. “Don’t mind them,” says a voice from behind you. You turn to find the girl from the end of the bar, her cheeks flushed. She lifts her chin at the men. “You’re new and pretty and they’re just being weirdos thinking you won’t be able to handle your liquor.” This must be the fellow Canadian. Some strange part of you is pleased. “Okay then,” you say slowly, and she smiles at you before sitting at an empty stool and turning towards the boy behind the counter. “Ben,” she calls, drawing out the ‘e’. He looks up. “May I have two shots of tequila when you’re done?” She glances over at your small fleet. “Or are you out already?” Ben shakes his head. “Got another bottle. You’re not having both are you?”

“Oh yeah, I’m double fisting it tonight.” The girl laughs. “One’s for Lex. She’s making friends outside, as usual.” The bartender nods his head at you. “Guess where she’s from?” From his tone, this seems like a well worn question. Her eyes light up as she turns back to you. “Canada?” You nod, and her smile is ridiculously wide. “Toronto.” You’ve never seen someone so delighted by your hometown before. “Amazing. Love it there.” “You?” you ask as Ben presents a small plate of seven nearly perfect wedges of lime. “Alberta. Oh sorry, how rude of me.” She reaches a hand out. “I’m Iris.” You shake. “Ellie.” “Nice to meet you Ellie. This is Ben.” Iris nods her head at the boy on the other side of the smooth, dark wood. “Who is terrible at introductions.” “I’m working,” he objects, depositing another two glasses in front of her as he says it. “You’re the one who likes talking to everybody.” You pay for the tequila with Charlie’s card. “And you talk to me, so we’re golden.” Iris grins at him, clearly pleased with her logic. Ben rolls his eyes, but there’s no real malice in it. He lays a wedge of lime over the top of each of Iris’ full shots and pushes the salt towards her. “You’re drunk.” “Not drunk,” Iris corrects. “Tipsy.” “How many have you had?” he asks. “Mm, four.” She squints at her shot. “No, five.” “Five?” Ben frowns. “I only served you three drinks.” Iris laughs. “Oh but Pete loves me, didn’t you know?” “Is there a magic number?” you ask, intrigued. She opens her mouth, but another voice says, “Seven.” From behind Iris another girl has appeared, though her accent is definitely English. In tow, somehow, is the entire gang. “Alex!” Iris hauls her friend forward. “This is Ellie. She’s Canadian.” “As are almost all her friends.” Alex gestures at the band and the girls. “Everyone, this is Iris, my tiny Canadian, who can only consume a specific variety of seven drinks in one evening before she’s pissed.” “Why is that always how you introduce me?” Iris complains. Behind the bar, Ben snorts. “Because it’s my favourite fact about you!” Alex winks at you. Introductions are made and shots are passed down. “Can I propose a toast? To Canada, for producing really cool people?” “Can we counter that toast with London for doing the same?” Brian asks, and Alex clinks her glass with his. “Here here!” You lock eyes with Iris last, who grins before tapping her glass on the bar and throwing it back. “Shall we take this back outside?” Alex suggests. Iris waves her off while the gang agrees.

“Gotta pee, see you in a sec.” You reach forward to help instinctively as Iris gathers all the empty glasses and discarded lime into a pile for Ben, who sweeps them off the bar and begins to serve again.

“Alright, Ellie?” Kelsey asks, and you nod. “I think I’ll hang here for a bit.” 

“You know where to find us,” she says, and everyone leaves you and Iris seated together. “Six?” you prompt. 

She nods, laughing lightly. “Six. Thankfully Lex lives literally three minutes down the street, so I don’t have far too go if we tip over the edge tonight.” Iris hops off her stool, proclaiming she’ll be back in two. You nurse your water, and watch in surprise as Ben reappears, sliding a steaming mug and saucer of tea across the bar in front of Iris’ empty seat. You can smell the peppermint from a foot away. He winks at you, lifting a finger to his lips. You blush before you can stop yourself.

Minutes later, Iris returns, staring at the tea as she sits down. “Did I order this?” You shrug. “Fuck,” she mutters. “Am I that sloshed already?” Iris furrows her eyebrows and leans forward to catch Ben’s attention. “Was this you?” He looks amused but doesn’t deny it. “I know you,” he says. “You’re drunk now, and you’re going to ask me for it.” Ben’s smile is teasing. “Only person ever to chase tequila with tea.”

Iris makes a face. “You know what, Ben?” But the question clearly doesn’t even have an answer; Iris just resorts to scowling and Ben’s laughter transforms his entire face. Oh, you think. I get it now.

“I hate you,” she mutters. “No you don’t,” he says matter of factly. Iris sighs, as if she’s long since resigned herself to the fact. But when she looks at Ben again her eyes are soft. “Thank you lovely.” Iris uses lovely like a noun, like a tender endearment.

You feel abruptly as though you’re intruding on something private. Ben shrugs a little. “That’s alright.” He glances down and then up again, smiling with one side of his mouth higher than the other – you’re reminded so viscerally of Shawn that it’s hard not to stare – before he’s called away further down the bar.

“He’s right though.” Iris laughs a little again. “I’m pretty much drunk now.” She runs a finger around the rim of her mug. “I’d better drink this.” Her smile is almost rueful. “Don’t become best friends with bartenders. You’ll start drinking way too much.” “Noted.” “So what brings you to London, Ellie?” You should lie, probably. “We’re on tour with a musician. He’s not here tonight.” “Oh yeah? Anyone I’d know?” The shot has loosened your tongue. But there’s something very warm in Iris’ gaze, something trustworthy. “Shawn Mendes?” Her eyebrows fly up. “Seriously? Holy shit! I love him. I wish I’d known he was in town sooner. I would’ve dragged Lex to go see him. Is everyone part of his team?” You nod. “And you?” “Um,” you say. “I’m not– I’m no one.”  Iris casts you dubious look. You swallow. “It’s complicated.” The older woman studies you for another moment, before she smiles gently. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I’m just a slightly drunk girl in a pub drinking tea.” Iris takes a long sip. You don’t know why you say it; maybe you’re also more drunk than you thought. Maybe, like with Taylor, something in you knows that Iris is safe. Or maybe you can’t bear the weight of this truth anymore. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.” Iris puts down her cup. “Oh honey.” It’s not a condescension, but an empathy. Before you know it, the story in its entirety comes pouring out. You tell Iris about your sister, the first tour across the States, about every correspondence over the long break between albums, about Clara and Hannah and Amber and Morgan. You tell her about the Twitter threads, popping up faster than Ava can even ask you about them, about Andrew’s iron fist, and about this strange fear of your own wanting whenever Shawn’s eyes go dark. “It’s the talk, that’s the worst.” you admit. “They’re all just speculating, and I want to be able to just ignore it, you know, but some fans are just…” You don’t dare finish your sentence. Iris nods thoughtfully. “Gossip can be pretty awful,” she says. “It can ruin a lot, if you let it.” You follow her eyes across the room to Ben, who is pouring with both hands and then impressively, leaning his forehead on a third spout to finish a set Guinness.  He makes a silly face at her over the row of taps and she smiles back at him, though when he turns away, there’s something very sad in it. Your curiosity burns but you don’t dare give it voice. “I know it must all feel like too much,” Iris continues. “But you know how Shawn feels about you.” She swivels to face you fully. “That’s more than a lot of us ever get. You took your chance before anyone could say anything about it.” She reaches for your hands and squeezes gently. “You deserve to be happy. And your secret’s safe with me, okay? I swear.” You’re going to cry, definitely. “I’m scared.” If you’re going to bare your soul tonight, you may as well go all the way. “I’m scared that all of this is going to ruin us before we even get started.” It could be the alcohol, but it looks like Iris flinches. You’ve regretted enough in your life to be able to see it, even distantly, in someone else’s face. “Don’t let people who’ll never matter in your relationship dictate your actions,” she says. You force yourself to hold her eyes. “You were that brave before. You can be that brave again.” She smiles, and that distant look disappears. “I know I’m not an expert in the business, but you’re such a sweetheart. And Shawn seems wonderful. Plus, you’re so young.” “I miss him,” you blurt, and she squeezes again. “Isn’t that stupid? I see him everyday.” Iris shakes her head. “Not stupid at all. You said you have tonight off right?” At your confirmation, she asks, “So what are you still doing here?”

Good question. “I’ll be right back,” you say now. Iris lifts her mug of tea in approval, her eyes sparkling as you rush out to the patio area. The gang is still chatting with Alex, who has her head on the shoulder of a handsome man as they sit amongst the low benches and chairs. “Kris?” The lighting expert looks up at you, her head tilting when she takes in your possibly wild expression. “I think I’m gonna go.” “Are you okay?” she asks, standing to give you a careful look. You nod. “I just…” You struggle to find the right words. “Want a little time.” Kristin’s gaze softens. “Sure. Let’s sort our bill and go, okay? We can Uber if we’ve missed the last train.” “You don’t have to–” you start, but she shakes her head. “Set up starts early,” she says, waving away your protest. Kris leans down to speak to Parker, who thankfully gives you enough grace to not even look up at you before he too, is on his feet.  “I think we’re gonna call it,” he says casually to the group. “And we have Sinclair. We’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast?”  There are nods and goodbyes all around. As Parker and Kristin pay their tabs with Pete, you find Iris in the same place, accepting a kiss on the cheek from a short, older man with a weathered face and kind eyes. 

“If I were just forty years younger,” he says, and her lips quirk like it’s something she’s heard before. “I’d absolutely say yes, John.” Her smile widens when she catches sight of you. “Ellie! Headed out?” You nod, and it’s oddly wonderful to have a stranger seem proud. “It was so amazing to meet you.” Iris pulls you in for a hug. “Go get him,” she says in your ear, squeezing tight. You look back once at the door. Ben is wiping the counter on the far side of the bar, and glances up. You lift your hand in a wave, which he returns. From her seat, Iris throws her head back in laughter with the same man, the sound just a touch louder than the music and the hum of conversation. Ben looks over at her, smiles, and goes back to work. * Shawn looks so pleased to see you that you nearly blurt it out right then and there. But then his eyebrows lift in confusion, and he taps his watch. You’re back early. “It just occurred to me,” you say, feeling slightly breathless, “that this probably looks like a booty call. Do people still call it that?” Shawn looks like he’s tempted to laugh, but you stumble on. “But I don’t care. I wanted to see you.” He blinks. Sober you would blush beneath the warmth of his gaze. “I probably also sound drunk,” you continue. “Which I’m not, entirely. I’m a little tipsy. But still perfectly in control of myself.” More or less. He’s going to laugh at you again. Before you can drop too far into mortification, Shawn pulls you in by the wrist. You can feel the tequila warming you through, emboldening you. It’s freeing in a way, the fact that he can’t speak and you instinctively stop wanting to either; you say enough, you think, dragging Shawn down by the collar, and so does he, pinning your hips against the door with both hands. Your mouths meet in the middle and well– Talking’s overrated, isn’t it? (You have enough presence of mind to set an alarm, this time.) You tiptoe back to your room at 12:37am, when midnight became ten more minutes, and then ten more, and so on and so forth. It’s burned into your brain, that look in Shawn’s eyes, as he sat up against his headboard and you knelt between his open legs, pulling yourself up so you looked down on him in a thrilling flip of your height difference. You’re grateful this shirt doesn’t wrinkle and there’s no visible proof of Shawn’s fingers having found their way under it, ascending the tower of your spine and making you shudder nearly as hard as he did when you seized his curls and tilted his head back for a kiss. He bumps into the bottom of your bralette and not-quite-drunk you is glad that despite how nice it looks, it’s not so easy to get out of. You know, and Shawn does too, judging by his smile, that anything beyond his gently wandering hands is probably a bad idea. It doesn’t stop you from trembling as he traces the lace around your back, over your ribs, keeping your eyes the entire time and making no move to pull it off or touch you beneath it. Even though both the tipsy and sober halves of you want him to. You wish, slipping into your dark hotel room, that you’d been just drunk and brazen enough to simply yank your top off, like in one of those smooth movie moments, but of course you hadn’t been.   But that’s okay, you know, taking care not to drop the bottle of water Shawn had pressed into your hand between goodbyes at (against) the door. Tonight was not the night. You still have someday. * @stanmendes88: SOMEONE TRIED TO ASK HIM ABOUT RED WHAT THE FUCK. WHY ARE PEOPLE LIKE THIS??? [The horizontal video focuses mostly on Shawn, sitting with both legs dangling off the stage. At the edge of the camera, perfectly manicured pink nails wrap around the microphone. “I was wondering what your relationship with your crew is like?” “They’re the best,” Shawn replies easily, leaning back on his palm. “I’ve never worked with more hardworking and dedicated people.” “Anyone in particular?” the girl presses. He stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry?” Someone further behind the camera whispers, “Oh my god.” The girl is still holding the mic, even though her question is up. “People think you might be closer with certain members of your crew than others.” Heads are whipping back and forth like they’re watching a ping-pong match. The camera trembles as it zooms in on Shawn. “People think a lot of things,” he says, his tone measured. His eyes are flinty, the curve of his mouth frozen in place. “But considering this question doesn’t really seem about me, I think we should move on.” An audible murmur flits through the assembly of gathered fans. One face in view is shooting manicured girl an extremely judgemental look. “Hi Mr. Shawn.” Coos and ‘aww’s’ overtake the room as the camera turns to a little girl, no older than eight, as she smiles up at Shawn from the front of the room. Everyone’s attention turns to Shawn, who has hopped off the stage to crouch down in front of the new speaker. “Hi, sweetheart.” likes: 32; retweets: 6] * “Ellie, there you are.” You nearly drop the kit. Shawn’s manager looks strangely incongruous in the doorway of the spare dressing room, where all the extra, smaller pieces of fragile equipment are going to live over the next two nights. The O2 is one of the most intimidating venues you’ve ever seen; even tracing your steps back to this room for one of Kelsey’s lenses had been an ordeal. “Shawn’s two doors down,” you blurt, thinking he’s just mistaken, but Andrew doesn’t move. “I’m looking for you, actually.” Your stomach plummets. Dread takes root around your lungs, making it hard to speak. “Did you need something?” You haven’t broken any of the rules since you left Manchester. If anything, after news of the day’s Q&A spread, you’ve been avoiding Shawn entirely and he’s been giving you slightly forlorn, but understanding glances all day. But he’s due onstage in less than ten minutes so you’re in show mode now; some awful part of you is grateful for the distance. “No.” “Am I–” You scramble to put down the lens. It’s foolish to think he doesn’t know, this man who’s been part of Shawn’s life longer than anyone else on this tour. “Am I behaving unprofessionally?” He shakes his head. Your heart thumps in your throat. Andrew sighs. He looks tired, you think. You can’t imagine how much work it takes to manage Shawn’s success and all the wild layers that come along with it. “You’ve been identified on Twitter. You and Ava both, actually. Started sometime last night, confirmed just a little while ago.” You do drop the (thankfully empty) kit this time. Andrew steps further into the room as you manage to sink into the only chair without falling. “Do we–” You can feel a knot pressing on the question, but you force it out. “Do we know who...” Did she tell? “No,” Andrew admits, like it annoys him. “Not yet, anyway.” You’re glad you managed to sit down; the room feels like it’s tilting. “I suppose two years was longer than anyone expected us to be able to pull this off,” he continues. You can’t tell exactly by Andrew’s tone whether he’s upset, nor can you work out how you feel. Should you be scared? Relieved? “Ava was busy with meet and greets, but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible so you were prepared.” Prepared? Prepared for what? Legions of girls (and boys) to eviscerate you? “Um,” you start, and then stop. You have no idea what to say. “Okay.” Shawn’s manager gives you a look, as though he can’t decide if he should be satisfied with this non-reaction. “We can talk about it more later,” he says. “Let’s just get through tonight.” Andrew’s almost out the door before you call, “Wait.” He turns, and you nearly lose your nerve. You remember what Iris told you, what she reminded you that you’re capable of. Be brave. “I feel like I should apologize. And possibly thank you.” For the first time, you see a crack in Andrew’s infallible professional veneer; his expression  crosses somewhere between confusion and laughter. You press on. “I know it hasn’t been easy, dragging me along all this time and keeping me a secret. I understand why it had to be done, to protect Shawn’s image. I’m sorry that you had to deal with so much. I’m sorry if–” You swallow. You can’t be sorry for having feelings, really. Nor would you be. “I’m sorry if our...our relationship caused you stress or difficulty.” “Ellie…” Is that remorse in his eyes? Is it even real? Does it matter? You muster a weak smile. “This has been the most amazing two years of my life. And I owe it to you, more than anyone. I just wanted to thank you, for this opportunity.” You gesture at the room. “And for allowing me to get to know him.” Andrew looks at you for a long time, long enough that you’re effectively brought back down from nervous confidence to plain old nervousness. “It’s my job,” he says finally, “to look out for Shawn.” Andrew levels you with a gaze that’s probably meant to be neutral, but feels cutting anyway. “What’s done now is done. This is nothing against you personally. I know you care about him, and I know he asked you to come to New York and Kelsey wants you on the rest of the tour, but considering what’s been going on…” Your heart sinks. “You need to think about what’s best for him. And his career.” Andrew leaves you sitting there, reeling. It’s not until your phone buzzes in your pocket that you remember you’re supposed to be getting back, but the buzzing doesn’t stop. Hannah wants to Facetime. Slide to answer. You almost drop your phone. But you don’t accept the call. * Shawn’s been anxious about the London shows since the dates were announced practically a year ago. The crowds here, he’s told you, are some of the best in the world. All he wants to do is to live up to their expectations. It’s why you push everything else out of your mind and make sure to take your spot, the same place you ended the Manchester show, so that you’re one of the last people to look into Shawn’s eyes before he hops over the last step onto the stage. You can’t even shout over the noise. You wish you could touch him but you don’t dare. You can do this. I believe in you. It’s going to be amazing. He’s a little nervous, still. But as Shawn turns away, you wouldn’t know it from the way he bounds up, guitar slung over his shoulder, to truly the most deafening screams you’ve heard yet on tour. After TNHMB and halfway into Lost in Japan, you know he’s alright. You can hear it in his voice. You should be with Mike on the floor; you can see Kelsey onstage, capturing, as she likes to, the first few moments of every show from as close as possible. But you only make it halfway up the catwalk, caged in on all sides by the press of bodies and the screaming and the waving hands. Your heart starts to race, your breath not quite coming as slowly as it should. Flashes of the crowd outside the hotel overtake you. You have to tighten your grip on your camera lest you drop it; the strap around your neck feels weightless, invisible. I can’t be in here. You can see Mike in a distance that’s only a few feet but feels like eons, staring at you. Your vision is blurring. Just don’t run. You manage a somewhat normal pace, spinning on your heel back towards mainstage. The walkie clipped to your hip crackles almost incoherent noise under the arena thrum. “–llie...catch her–” You brush past both Cam and Paul, past ground crew, weaving half-hazardly and miraculously not bumping into anyone, laying your shaking hands on the very back door just as someone calls your name. “Ellie!” Bursting into the static, mostly silent light of the backstage hall is so shocking you almost fall. “Hey.” Sam’s voice is alarmed. “Are you okay?” All you can do is shake your head. Sam wraps his hand around your arm. “C’mon,” he says, and leads you down the hall. You wonder where he’s taking you, until the guitar hand is shoving a door a open with his hip. Shawn’s cologne still lingers. Sam pries your camera from your hands. He is the only person besides the band that Shawn allows to handle his instruments. You should know him better, you think. From here, the din has faded to an almost faint white noise. “Just try to breathe,” he says, pushing you down gently onto the sofa. Pablo sits in his omnipresent place in the corner of the room. You point. “Can you–” you croak, gasping. Sam doesn’t ask questions. Soon enough lavender fills the air and you force as deep an inhale as you can manage, doubled over your knees and staring at the floor in an effort to get the room to stop falling in and out of focus. The dark, double knotted laces of his shoes appear in your field of vision. “Do you need a distraction?” Sam asks. You nod mutely. “Can you...can you name all the tour stops we’ve been on so far? In order?” “Lisbon,” you start, your chest heaving. “Barcelona. Madrid. Berlin. Brussels.” “Good,” he encourages. “Keep going.” You rattle them off. You stumble between Amsterdam and Stockholm. “And Oslo.” “You got it. Next?” “Montpellier. Paris. Dublin. Leeds. Birmingham. Manchester.” You don’t mean to wince, but it happens anyway. Your heart is still in your throat, but at least it’s slower now. “And where are we tonight?” “London.” You ease yourself upright and accept the bottle of water he offers you. “Thanks.” “Maybe you should sit this one out,” Sam suggests. You shake your head. “He’s been talking about these shows forever. I can’t miss it.” The guitar hand – he can’t be that much older than you, really, so how is it that you’re falling apart? – considers you for a moment. You meet his gaze. You didn’t cower with Andrew; you refuse to back down now. Sam glances at his watch. “At least hang here for a few songs. I’ll come get you before Bad Reputation.” You blink. Sam grins now, a little teasing. “You tell him you don’t have favourites, but we all know that’s a lie.” If you weren’t coming down off a panic attack, you would blush. “Okay,” you relent. “Thank you.” “You’re shaking,” he points out, and drags Shawn’s black Givenchy hoodie off the chair he’d left in on. Sam rolls his eyes at your hesitation. “It’s just me, Ellie. Come on. What am I gonna do, rat you out?” You wince again. His eyes are gentle now; what is it about your feelings for Shawn that makes you feel so scared? “You’re safe, alright?” He’s right. You know it, despite your trembling hands. You drag the sweater over your head, shivering in adjustment to the soft warmth of it, inhaling the even more concentrated smell of Shawn, beneath the cologne and the deodorant. You’re safe. “I’ll be back in a bit.” Getting up from the coffee table, Sam points at the bottle in your hand. “Drink all of that.” “Sam–” He stops. You hate how frail your voice sounds. “Please don’t tell. I’m okay. I don’t want anyone to worry.” He doesn’t pity you, thank god, but even his empathy feels like more than you can bear. “Mike called over the comm. I was just only person who managed to catch you.” Apparently you can still blush after all. “Oh.” Sam smiles. He, like Ben, is objectively very handsome. You would have thought in another life, but you can’t imagine one with Sam that doesn’t also involve Shawn. You’re stuck in his orbit; there would be no contest. “Just the crew channel,” he says, a reminder. “So you might be good, at least for now.” It’s a relief; the thought of Shawn being even momentarily distracted from the show is all Andrew needs to prove his – unspoken, yet crystal clear – point. Your stomach twists unpleasantly. Sam leaves you alone with Pablo and engulfed in Shawn’s hoodie, both of which give you comfort. The most fragile part of you wants to stay here. But Shawn’s out there. You finish the bottle of water, and turn off Pablo. Maybe fifteen minutes later, when Sam returns, you’re already on your feet. “Let’s go,” he says, holding his hand out for a fist bump. You hug him instead. * Shawn strums for what seems like a long time on B stage; Youth, Perfectly Wrong, and Life of the Party are all over and the crowd waits with bated breath to see which acoustic track they’ll receive tonight. “Before anyone accuses me of stealing,” he says, “Taylor told me to do this.” Laughter echoes. “She says that unique experiences have a singular power, and that every person who listens to our music has unique lives. Even though you probably all know the setlist and which guitars I use when, every crowd I’ve played on this tour has been different.” Shawn looks out at the arena, his smile brilliant. “And you, London, will always be one of the most incredible I’ve ever played for.” It’s a wonder that he hasn’t gone deaf yet. “So I wanted to give you something special. This song means a lot to me, and I’ve always been so floored when I get to learn what my music means to you. I’m truly humbled to be a part of your lives and to be there for you in tough times. Morgan, thank you so much for sharing your story with me. This is Hold On.” “No fucking way.” The girl closest to you clutches at her companion, true wonderment in her eyes. “He never does this live!” The sound of thousands of voices harmonizing with Shawn will never fail to give you goosebumps. You wish you knew where Morgan was in the room, but the feeling only heightens when you arrive at the last pre-chorus. And so I said Mo, stay with me Everything will be alright The O2 roars. The pause in the song stretches, as if he too is searching for the girl with the incredibly perfect handwriting. You blink a rush of tears from your eyes. “Morgan, what the fuck!” You whip your head around. It seems inconceivable; the O2 seats twenty thousand, and hundreds more are crammed onto the floor. But there she is, pressed against the barrier a third of the way down the catwalk. You have no idea how you missed her. Her stillness in all the chaos around her is striking. I don't know what You’re going through But there’s so much life Ahead of you So you just gotta hold on Kelsey has always let you have B stage; Shawn enjoys looking right into your lens at least once or twice a night, so pointing at Morgan from the bottom of the stairs isn’t quite as hard as you’ve have thought. He turns his head. All we can do is hold on, yeah Yeah, you just gotta hold on Just hold on for me Fans have fully embraced the tour aesthetic and taken to giving Shawn flowers as he returns to mainstage (your Instagram is now peppered with flatlays of his shirt and single stems from various tour stops), and tonight he accepts a bright yellow tulip from a shaking girl. You walk backwards carefully, stopping in front of Morgan so all you have to do is nod towards her when Shawn makes a beeline in your direction, Cam hot on his heels. The composure you can see Morgan’s been trying to hang onto wavers when he reaches over the barrier to pull her into a hug, lingering a lot longer than he’s meant to. You squeeze down on your shutter as tightly as you can tell Shawn’s holding her. You can’t hear over people screaming his name when he pulls back, but you can see the words on his lips as Shawn presents Morgan with the tulip and takes both of her hands in his. Thank you so much. He says something else, leaning close to her. She nods, her eyes wet and overbright. Unlike a lot of other fans he’s interacted with on the catwalk, she doesn’t reach for him when he peels away. Shawn has to take the rest of the stretch at a run, grabbing at hands and reaching for high fives even as he and Cam blow past you. Morgan has dissolved in tears into the girl next to her. You need to follow Shawn before you do the same. “Ready to dance, London?” he asks, sounding a little out of breath, and the band launches into Queen. You think you’re imagining a chorus of voices calling your name, but it keeps happening. “Ellie! Ellie!” You turn. Three young girls wave frantically from the floor. Stunned, your arm waves back without explicit instruction; they burst into screams, grabbing at each other in excitement. The world doesn’t end. No one is shooting you daggers with their eyes. This is fine, you think. I can do this. * “I can’t do this.” “What can’t you do?” Ava asks, leaning over. You lift your phone to show her the two hundred follow requests on your Instagram that have appeared since you decided to turn your phone off yesterday. Hannah won’t stop calling. It’s cowardly, possibly, but you’ve also realized that you have no idea what you’d say to her that isn’t an accusation, or anything you’re prepared to hear, especially if it’s a confirmation of her betrayal. “Holy shit.” “Hey,” you complain. “What happened to ‘language’?” Your sister just shakes her head. “I’m just surprised it took them till tonight to find you.” “That’s really helpful, thanks.” Ava shrugs patiently. There isn’t much to be done, really. Your account is still private, and no one can force you to delete it. You marvel internally at the perseverance of whoever initially discovered your account; you don’t use hashtags on your photos, and as Shawn pointed out to you last year, there are dozens upon dozens of ‘Ellie Sinclair’s on the app. And of course, you’ve never appeared on Shawn’s account (upon pain of death, as Charlie dramatically puts it). You sigh. “Well that was fun while it lasted, I guess.” Ava offers you a sympathetic look. While you haven’t left the hotel since returning from night one besides a trip to EAT with Charlie, Paul’s sudden desire for fresh air hadn’t escaped your notice. Thankfully, it was a lot easier to ignore people shouting at you when you were shielded by two hundred pounds of hulking, stoic muscle. Shawn didn’t go down to meet the crowd today either; Andrew insists on voice rest even more when you do multiple shows in the same city. But the second London show is over. Shawn had treated the entire band and crew to drinks in the hotel, and now you’re staring at your suitcase trying to figure out this nagging feeling that you’re forgetting something. “Don’t panic,” Ava says, toothbrush in her mouth. “We don’t fly out till tomorrow afternoon.” You don’t reply, too wrapped up in your thoughts.   “What’s up with you? I would’ve thought you would be out celebrating with everyone. First leg of the tour is over! You get five days off. In a row.” You haven’t told her – or anyone, for that matter – about your conversation with Andrew. And besides a few questioning concerned glances, no one has brought up you fleeing the arena to have a small panic attack in Shawn’s dressing room. You don’t know how long you can keep up the charade. “Just tired.” Though he’s respected the rules you’re still technically bound to (even the thought of hiding it now is laughable), Shawn definitely knows something’s up. You’d claimed exhaustion last night easily enough, but you can’t avoid him now. Not when everyone else conspicuously called it a night early, leaving you to follow your sister, who waved cheerily at Shawn as you left the hotel bar twenty minutes ago. There is no grand and drawn out goodbye; you’re meant to be getting on the same flight tomorrow. Your stomach twists when you think about it for too long. A text chime surprises you out of your reverie. Shawn: Hey El it’s me. You left a sweater downstairs. You: Oh thanks! I almost forgot you had my number. Are you on your way up? Shawn: Haha you gave it to me the night IMB came out, remember? I figured you didn’t want to deal with Instagram. I’ll be at your door in ten seconds. You stare. You forgot, sometimes, how in tune he is with any social media involving himself or his fans. It’s disarming, too, to know that he’s probably seen what you have, that your handle has been found. That the accusations are already flying. That so many people you will never meet seem to hate you already. (You hadn’t had any illusions about being immune to online vitriol, but it’s hard to realize you’re not as strong as you want to be.) Perfectly on cue, there’s a knock at the door. “Hey you,” he says with a smile. Despite the depth of your anxiety, Shawn will never fail to settle something in you. “Hi.” You can’t physically cling to a feeling, but you can lean into his space. Even without real touch, you’re safe. You have to keep reminding yourself. His smile is a little more crooked than usual. “Are you drunk?” you ask. Shawn shakes his head. “I wish. But I hate flying hungover, so I stopped after a few.” “How responsible of you.” He just chuckles and holds up one of your favourite green hoodies. You thank him and launch it in the general direction of your bed. You miss, of course. Ava gives you a curt thumbs down. Shawn’s smile widens. “Wanna hang out? I’m so excited to sleep in tomorrow.” God, he’s adorable. It’s so curious, how he can be the eye of your anxious hurricane one minute and the bright, warm sun that banishes your doubt in the next. “Yeah.” Shawn leans further into the room to flash a grin at Ava. “Okay if I steal your sister for a bit?” She rolls her eyes at him from her bed. “You guys are seriously making me feel like one of those really old rich grandmothers who needs to approve everyone her grandchildren dates. Stop.” “Does that make me Nick Young?” you ask, delighted. “Amazing.” “Who?” Shawn looks from you to your sister as you both dissolve into laughter. “I’ll explain later,” you assure him, patting him gently on the chest. He catches your fingers in his, holding them firmly. It’s the first proper contact you’ve had since the night before last and you both know it. You look away first; Shawn’s gaze heats your cheek as you look back at your sister. “Night. Love you.” “Hey Shawn,” Ava calls. He stops after having pulled your hand from his chest, holding it so he can lead you out of the room. “Congratulations. I know we said it already, but it bears repeating. This leg was amazing.” The flush of his ears will never cease to make you smile. “I’m really proud of you.” He blinks, and then twice more, his impossibly (annoyingly) long eyelashes brushing the swells of his cheeks like the beat of graceful butterfly wings. Shawn looks, just for a moment, overcome. You squeeze his hand instinctively. “Thanks Av,” he says, something gravely in his voice. Her smile is fond. “Night, kiddo.” Shawn glances down as if to double check you’re still there. You tighten your grip on his hand and together you step out into the hallway, making the short journey down the hall to his room in relative silence. “TV?” he offers as you step out of shoes. “A movie?” “Whatever’s fine.” You’re sure you won’t be able to focus on it anyway. E4 is playing a Brooklyn Nine-Nine marathon. You’re both caught up but it’s always an easy rewatch. By some unspoken agreement you sit pressed together in the centre of the bed, your head tucked against his neck and Shawn’s arm wrapped around your shoulder. It’s terrifying to remember that no one will knock on the door tonight, and that you have nowhere to be in the morning. Shawn gives you till the end of the latest Halloween Heist before he says, “Okay?” His gaze is as soft as his question, like you could lie right to his face and he’d let you. “You seem...” You brace yourself. “Far away.” You can’t lie, but you can’t quite say your manager wants us to – to what? Break up? Can you break up with someone you were never really with in the first place? “I think so,” you manage at last. “These past few days were just…” It’s your turn to pause. “A lot.” Shawn keeps your eyes for several moments before he sighs a little. “I don’t think I made it any easier for you.” Well that’s not what I was expecting. You shift up so you can look at him properly. “What do you mean?” Shame isn’t something you’ve ever seen cross his face. “The Q and A. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I feel like I made it so much worse. And the crowd–” “Stop.” You reach for his cheek so he has to look at you. “Stop apologizing to me, okay? None of that was your fault.” Shawn’s jaw sets beneath your hand, like steel. “It’s not my fans that made you so anxious that you had to leave the show the other night? That grabbed you in public?” You try to cover your flinch. But your fingers slip and land on the comforter. I can’t believe he saw. “You can’t blame them for me having a panic attack,” you retort. You realize your mistake too late when his expression goes from tense to wildly concerned. But you don’t let him interject. “And what was I going to do? Stroll down to your meet and greet and say, hey Shawn, this girl you’re taking a photo with grabbed me in broad daylight and demanded I produce you like a freaking magician? And wasted her Q and A question trying to be a nosy brat? What would you have done?” You didn’t mean to start almost yelling at him. Shawn looks, more than anything, a bit shocked. You want to reel back, abashed, but he catches you before you can go too far, his hand covering yours. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, unable to look at him. “That was so unfair of me.” “I mean…” His fingers twist your hair back. The understanding you force yourself to recognize just piles on your contrition. “I don’t think so. It probably didn’t help that I literally haven’t been allowed to talk for like three days.” Shawn’s lips quirk like he’s trying not to smile. It makes you want to lean forward and kiss him, which you know, wouldn’t probably be productive to this conversation. You’re both capable of being serious adults.   You still want to. “I can’t believe that girl,” you say instead. “Did she think you were gonna go, yeah her name’s Ellie and we kissed before breakfast this morning?” Shawn breathes a laugh. Tension unfurls a little in your stomach, though not enough that you can feel genuinely relaxed. “Okay,” he says, sliding his fingers up your wrist. “So maybe I couldn’t have done anything. But I still wish you’d have told me about it. Even if I couldn’t say anything.” His eyes have gone tender again. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to deal with all this–” Shawn lifts his phone, and then gestures out to London on the other side of his window. “by yourself.” Andrew’s words ring in your ears. You need to think about what’s best for him. “I didn’t want to distract you,” you admit cautiously. His eyebrows draw together. “These dates were so important to you and I...” You trail off, but Shawn seems resolute. “Tell me.” You cringe even as you say, “I feel like you have bigger things to worry about than some people calling me a clout chaser online.” He frowns. “You’re important.” Shawn ducks his head, drawing you in by the elbows. “You’re important to me. God El, you have no idea how badly I wanted to tell that girl to get the fuck out of the arena and tear her ticket in half.” You stifle a snort, shaking your head a little even as he presses his forehead against yours. “That’s a bit dramatic. And you would never. But thank you.” “Would’ve gotten the point across,” he replies, almost a grumble. Shawn sneaks a hand beneath your top and traces some indistinguishable shape against the bare skin of your hip. Before you can react beyond a shiver he shifts, twisting to open his body to yours and dragging you into him. Your nose bumps into the V between his collarbones as Shawn wraps himself entirely around you. “I’ll stop apologizing,” he says, “But I’m here now, okay?” You swallow a sob, breathing through it. But you still feel small when you say, “Kay.” Shawn tightens his grip and you feel your body go nearly boneless against him. You hook a finger over St. Christopher, laying against his t-shirt, and run the bend of your joint back and forth across the chain. For a few minutes you just sit like that, the tv still playing softly. “I can still hear you thinking,” he murmurs. In your pause, Shawn continues. “You don’t have to tell me. But I want you to know that you can.” You have to take a deep breath before you can force the question out. “Are you sure it’s okay that I come to New York?” “Yeah,” he replies. “Of course. We’re not doing promo till like, Wednesday so we have a few days to hang out.” Shawn leans back and glances down at you, seeming unsure for the first time. “I was thinking of sitting down with Andrew and telling him, you know, officially. Even though I’m pretty sure he already knows about us.” Your stomach lurches. “I figure he’d appreciate the gesture. I’m sure he’d want to like, strategize or something.” Shawn meets your eye carefully. “Are you okay with that?” You know you should tell him. But the last thing you want to do is ruin this. You can’t speak, so you nod. His shoulders relax. “So I have a question,” he continues. “Isn’t clout like, when you have a lot of power?” You nod. You watch Shawn turn this over in his head. “I don’t think I get it. Chasing clout? Do they think you want popularity or something?” You shrug. “I guess? I mean the last girl you were even sort of tied to is now engaged to Justin Bieber, so.” His face pinches until he sees your vaguely teasing smile. “Are you just using me El?” Shawn asks. You shrug again, enjoying the joke. “I can see it,” he says. You would never call Shawn cocky or pompous, but he knows how to pretend. His lips curl. “I’m a catch. You’re lucky.” “Shawn Peter Raul Mendes,” you gasp and he laughs, catching your wrist before you can whack at him. His (annoying, attractive) musician’s reflexes catch your other arm too. You wonder if he can feel your pulse thrumming beneath his palm. Shawn’s eyebrows lift, like a challenge. You attempt to wriggle away, but he holds fast – not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that you’re stuck. You’re determined, suddenly. You’re not sure quite how you manage, but you bear all your weight forward so he has no choice but to lean down onto the bed. Your knees land on either side of Shawn’s waist and he stares up. You’re not sitting on him, exactly, but you’re hyper aware of the place where your hips would probably slot together. And even though he’s technically still holding you by the wrists, bracing you so you don’t fall, that smug little grin is gone. A flash of desire zips up your spine. “I should go,” you blurt. His grip on you tightens, just for a second. “Stay.” You can see that vulnerable edge, beneath the dark caramel. It occurs to you, with a jolt of feeling even deeper than wanting, that Shawn has possibly missed you these past few days as much as you’ve missed him. “Please stay.” “I should change,” you protest weakly. “And brush my teeth.” “You can borrow a shirt, if you want,” he replies without missing a beat. Shawn’s hand is ridiculously warm on your thigh. “And I have an emergency toothbrush in my backpack.” “You keep an emergency toothbrush in you backpack?” you ask, partly to distract yourself from his fingers moving up and down your leg. Shawn looks absurdly pleased to be pinned beneath you, which isn’t helping. “I keep two in there, actually. Just in case.” You roll your eyes. “What do you say El?” His smile is adorably small, like he’s trying to contain the boyish eagerness you can see crinkling around his eyes. “Want to make out and fall asleep watching tv with me? Want to call up room service in the morning and just laze around?” You’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life. You lean down, and Shawn releases you. You brace one hand next to his head to anchor yourself, and then rake the other through his curls. He leans into your touch even as you trace his cheekbone, his jaw, over his ear. You kiss him and you can feel him craning his neck when you pull back, still chasing you. “Yes,” you murmur. “I say yes.” (part thirteen)

#shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes #wsitd #IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S HERE #I WANNA CRY THIS PART WAS SO MUCH WORK

[just-some-sad-kiddo]

I think one of the things I’m going to miss most about being a kid is those days in class where everybody is just having fun. You can hear the laughter rippling through the air from all the way down the hall until a teacher puts their finger to their lips and the students follow suit. That’s what happened today. We played a game of Kahoot to aid us in preparing for the upcoming test on chemistry and materials. The class was given permission to make our usernames anything we wanted which, in hindsight, is a terrible idea for an eighth-grade classroom.

I made my name Samsung Fridge. We were not allowed enough characters for me to put my full preferred name; “Stainless Steel Samsung Smart Fridge.” The questions were not difficult for me since I’d already completed my study guide and I got first place with ease. I am probably more excited about it than I should be, but it feels good to be a winner every now and then.

~~~

I always say that I wish that I was 18, but what I really want is the privileges that come with being an adult. I am terrified of growing up. When you become an adult not only are you expected to know everything, but you are expected to leave behind things like cartoons, sleepovers, nerf guns, and other things like that. I realize that these things are trivial but they're important to me and I’m going to miss them.

~~~

I’m back to being myself in English. The last few weeks were difficult and I´d been very quiet. Usually I’m the one that spits out some random bullshit and people laugh. Itś hard to tell if I’m actually funny because as far as I know, my humor only appeals to either middle schoolers or 40 year old women.

Anyway, I’m glad things are going back to normal. My “Friends” still wont speak to me but if they want nothing to do with me than I don´t need to speak with them either. I have other people in my life who are happy to be my friend and honestly, that’s enough.

I’m not going to lie, however. I am still very salty about the situation with Galaxy. On top of that, I sit next to them at lunch. They’re still in that annoying ass group chat with nearly half the 8th grade. Apparently they all wanted to invite me back and I would not be opposed to eavesdropping in on their conversations but I'm not sure if it would be the most mature thing to do. On the other hand, when has the maturity level of an action ever dictated whether or not I would do it anyway? Yeah, it hasn't. Not yet.

I can't believe l’m letting some assholes dictate my feelings like that. What's the point? The longer I take getting over it, the shittier I’m gonna feel in the end.

~~~

On the bright side, I’m going skating with Isaiah, Ava, Ruby, and Eden on Wednesday. ~~~

We had a fire drill today during Social Science. It took up quite a bit of time during class so we didn’t get to finish the class assignment.

~~~

I had the principal deliver a note to Ms. Smith, telling her that I really miss her class. She really was one of the only teachers who wasn’t absolutely fed up with my behavior, not that I blame them.

She sent me a message back that said “Thank you so much for sharing! That has made my day! Please tell Cas that I truly loved creating a classroom where he could be authentic, quirky, intelligent, and creative—I will seriously never forget some of those animations, stories, or projects. Truly outstanding and wonderful!”

I’m so happy to hear back from her

#easybreezy

[dragonbat2011]

Reaching Out ‘Til We Reach the Circle’s End—Chapter 6

For earlier chapters: https://dragonbat2011.tumblr.com/post/621379453957865473/reaching-out-til-we-reach-the-circles-end-toc

(Or read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326794?view_full_work=true)

Rumple had known that his cover wouldn't hold up for long, but he certainly hadn't been expecting a confrontation this soon. He knew exactly the kind of man he had been, the same man he still was, deep down. And that man had learned early to tamp down any show of spirit, any display of temper, any hint of anger or resentment. That man cringed and groveled and kissed boots, hating himself for it, but knowing that it kept him alive and it kept him and his son safe. At least, it had until now. "I'm here to help," Rumple said. "Truly." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the contract. "A pledge of good faith?"

His younger self was still frowning, but he reached out and gingerly accepted the rolled-up scroll. As he unfurled it and began to read, his eyes widened. "How did you…?" His voice trailed off and his eyes grew hard once more. "So, you do mean to take him."

Rumple blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, no," his younger self said, his voice cracking a bit. "I saw the way you looked at him last night, for all you tried to hide it, and I wondered, but with this…." He shook the contract for emphasis. "Only three people knew that this document existed: myself, Fendrake, and my wife Milah. And she was lost to me years ago. I'd thought her dead, but if you've come here to—" Abruptly, he turned away. "We were happy together once," he said bleakly. "Before I was called to the front. Before I… Well, never mind that. I've heard tell that when a love dies, the lovers may well move on to another, but when they do, they often to gravitate toward those who remind them in some way of their first. Well, even I can see the resemblance, but you'll forgive me if I'm not flattered."

He could scarcely believe the turn this conversation was taking. "I-I'm not—"

"While things were never right between me and Milah after my return," his younger self continued as though Rumple hadn't spoken, "I know she loved our son. She'd never have left him if she hadn't been abducted. And I suppose, once she was free, she decided that she'd have a better life without me, so she never returned. And, I surmise that she's found h-happiness with you." Rumple tried to pretend that he didn't hear the sob in his younger self's voice. "Well, how can I blame her? For trying to do better and for wanting our son with her? But since she's been gone, Bae has been everything to me. And if you're thinking that now you've voided that contract, I'll just settle down with someone new and have another child to replace the one you mean to carry off, then you have no idea what it means to be a parent!"

It was a good thing that the band of ruffians who'd accosted her yesterday had been so unnerved by Rumple's little display (or so excited by the acquisition of her pendant) that they hadn't noticed her earrings. And an even better thing that she'd removed them before approaching the tavern last night and had the sense not to wear them in the open today. Unlike her pendant, the earrings weren't magical, but they were eleven carats worth of the finest emeralds Oz had ever produced. Zelena knew that if she needed to, she could sell them, but she'd need to find the right time and the right buyer.

With bandits about, it certainly wasn't going to be safe carrying large amounts of coin. And the sentry's reaction to her innocent queries had told her that a stranger looking to sell something as valuable as those gemstones was certain to arouse suspicion. She'd need to find someone who wouldn't ask too many questions. Or better yet, make the acquaintance of someone trustworthy who could handle the sale, perhaps in return for a cut of the proceeds. One thing was certain, though: she wasn't about to hand them over in exchange for tourist information or the privilege of looking up some information that ought to be common knowledge! Were there no schools in this Frontlands place? Were there no libraries—libraries open for any to peruse without having to petition some ducal flunkey for permission?

Well. Once she learned the way of things here, she had no doubt that her fortunes would take an upturn. She just needed to find her mother and show her that there were other ways to acquire power without becoming royalty!

Dismay rolled over her. She didn't have any sort of power right now, thanks to that Charlotte wench. But perhaps there was a way to get the pendant back. Or perhaps there was some other way to regain her magic. For pity's sake, she'd been using magic before she could walk; surely losing the pendant couldn't take that away from her permanently! Well. She could think about that after she'd found what she sought. Meanwhile, it was clear that she wasn't going to last long without some local currency; bartering hours of washing dishes for dinner and a room for the night was only a stop-gap.

She realized that she was fast approaching a market stall with a number of clearly serviceable-but-not-new garments dangling from its awning. Thoughtfully, she removed her cloak and approached. "I was wondering whether you'd be interested in buying this off me?" she asked with a hopeful smile when she caught the owner's eye.

In an earlier time—though later than this one—Rumple might have laughed aloud and at length at the sheer ludicrousness of his younger self's imaginings. As it was, he couldn't quite keep back a guffaw as he exclaimed, "What?"

"No," his younger self said, flushing a bit. "Please, don't play the fool. And don't think you can play me for one either. You've been a bit too familiar with things—and people—with which you've no reason to be. And what rich relation chooses to neither stay at lodgings befitting his status, nor make his presence known to those he seeks, but chooses instead to bed down with animals? And any fool can see you've a greater interest in Bae than you do in me. So, if you haven't come to take him from me, then why are you here?"

"To save him," Rumple replied, looking his younger self dead in the eyes. "And save you from losing him, I hope."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if they haven't already lowered the draft age to fourteen, they'll do so in the next three months."

His younger self's eyes when wide and near-soundless cry escaped him as he half-doubled over. "You're certain?"

"I am. So, if you mean to flee with him or send him away, now's the time."

It was the wrong thing to say, and Rumple realized it the moment he saw his younger self's eyes narrow once more, and his face twist again in uncharacteristic rage.

"Send him away?" his younger self repeated. "With you, you mean? So, you are here to take him!"

"No," Rumple insisted. "I'm here to protect him! And you."

"Why? If you are my uncle, why magically appear now? You might have learned of my existence somehow, though how you could have known to make inquiries and track me down is puzzling, since you wouldn't have even had my name as a starting point. But if you're here to protect Bae, then that would mean you knew about him before you even came here. How? Who are you?"

"I told you," Rumple said, holding his hands up in a placating fashion, more than a little unnerved by the hysteria in his younger self's voice. "I'm—"

"No more lies! No evasions! I-want-the-truth! Tell me!"

"I'm you!" The words erupted from his throat and were past his lips before he even realized he'd answered. There was no way to call them back now.

For a moment, both men looked at one another, with near-identical stupefied expressions. Then, his younger self took a staggering step backward, stumbled, and nearly fell onto his stool. The look on his face could now best be described as stunned disbelief, as he tilted his head inquiringly toward his houseguest.

"I'm you," Rumple repeated more gently, nodding as though to confirm his words. "I'm you."

The cloak fetched two silver and Zelena strongly suspected she'd got the worse end of that deal. Still, one coin not only gained her access to the guild records, but even the services of a youth named Gragur who was presented to her as an apprentice clerk.

"I'm sorry, Goodwife," the teen said, coming to her table with an armload of scrolls. "There is no Princess Ava in the Northern Kingdom, presently. I even thought, well, not all spellings are standard, so I checked to see if maybe she spelled it with an 'E' or even an 'I'; pronunciations vary, too. But apart from the dowager queen Eva, daughter to Count Humboldt of the Eastern Escarpment Lands who married into their ruling house two generations ago, there's no Royal of that name there now."

"Dowager queen?" Zelena repeated. That couldn't be right. Ava… or Eva, no matter how one spelled it, had been a princess, but she'd become queen of Leopold's kingdom, not her own.

"Apparently, she's well-liked," Gragur said, unfurling another scroll. "At least, some of the minor nobility, them as hopes to curry favor with their higher-ups, have been naming some of their daughters after her. But as yet, no princess."

"Well… well, what about King Xavier of Eagle's Peak?" Zelena asked testily.

Gragur shook his head. "The king of Eagle's Peak is his Majesty Henry II, whom some call the Eagle's Talon." He frowned. "I believe…" He unrolled another scroll. "Yes, his third son is named Xavier, but he's unlikely to be crowned king with two brothers ahead of him and both with heirs of their own. Oh!" He pointed to another entry. "The crown prince, Francis does have a son by that name. Might he be who you mean? If so, it seems as though you're a bit early."

Zelena started to glower, but whatever retort she'd meant to snarl died on her lips. "A bit early," she repeated in an undertone. "A bit… Gragur?" She asked in a rather different tone of voice, "Do the merchants here treat with other realms? Might you have records from those lands as well?"

The youth nodded. "It's not as frequent, Goodwife. Finding passage between worlds is a costly affair and magic beans used to be far easier to procure. It does happen periodically, though."

"Could you show me any records you might possess here from Oz?"

Twenty minutes later, Zelena was stumbling out of the hall of records, her stomach churning as she felt as though she might faint. Although Gragur hadn't been able to provide detailed maps or genealogical tables, as he had for the kingdoms of the Enchanted Forest, he had shown her a trade agreement that had been signed between the Duke of Tower Cliffs and the Gillikins of Oz, just 'two years ago,' according to the young clerk. At first, Zelena had been annoyed. The Gillikin land was, ironically enough, Oz's 'northern kingdom'. And they had no business entering into trade agreements with anyone without clearing them with her first! She'd started reading the agreement to find out the names of the individuals who had brokered it, resolving that she would have quite a bit to say to them on her return—Oh. Of course. In this time, she wasn't yet the ruler of Oz. How could she have forgotten? She smiled a bit at her own folly, as she read on. But then, she'd come to the last paragraph, and the line, 'Signed and dated in the fifth year of His Majesty, King Pastoria of Oz,' and her smile dropped. The fifth year of... Pastoria? The name was vaguely familiar from the history lessons learned at her adoptive mother's knee. But his reign wasn't recent. He hadn't sat on Oz's throne since— Her blood suddenly ran cold. There had to be some other simple explanation for—

"Are you certain that this is only two years old?" she demanded. "It hasn't been misfiled?"

Gragur blinked. "I-I don't see how it could have been, but I'll inquire," he'd said. A few minutes later, he returned, escorting a woman some ten years Zelena's senior to her table.

"You're most fortunate, Goodwife," Gragur said, smiling. "I've the honor and fortune to present to you Mistress Ilona, one of the signatories to the agreement before you."

The richly-attired woman looked at her curiously. "I'm not sure why it's a concern to you, Goodwife, but yes, I was in Oz nearly twenty months ago and that trade agreement has been quite the boon to his Grace's armies. We may yet see the ogres routed by winter, if the shipments continue."

Zelena forced herself to smile, as she pushed back her chair. Then she bolted, pretending she didn't hear those two calling after her.

A bit early, Gragur had said. He'd spoken truer than he could have guessed! She was more than two hundred years early! She knew nothing about this period of history and nothing about her earlier antecedents. Her knowledge of her family tree began with Cora and she had no idea of the names of her grandmother or grandfather, let alone anyone who'd come before that.

She didn't even know her father's name; it had never been important before. But if she'd come this far back in time, then any chance encounter, any word she spoke, any action she undertook might somehow interfere with any one of the crucial meetings that needed to take place among all of the ancestors whose lineage she would bear. If she—even accidentally—killed one of her great-great grandfathers… If she paused to talk to her great-great-grandmother and inadvertently delayed her, so that she never met the man she should have wed… The slightest error, the slightest misstep, and she might erase herself from existence.

She'd gone back in time to change her past, but it had never occurred to her that in so doing, she might obliterate her future! And she couldn't very well ensure that her ancestors' lives continued unmolested when she had no clue who they even were!

She wanted to scream or sob or... she didn't even know what. But perhaps, she could figure it out on her long walk back to that inn. Because going by the way he'd reacted yesterday, it was very likely that she'd find Rumple in that area. And while she wasn't fool enough to confront him when he had his magic and she had none of her own, she knew that if she could discover his specific whereabouts, if she could discern what he was planning... Then she might yet be able to turn things to her advantage.

The temperature was beginning to drop, and she wished she still had her cloak, but she pressed her forearms to her sides and gripped her elbows as she turned to begin the long walk back to Pen Marmor.

#ouat #ouat fanfiction #char: rumpelstiltskin #char: zelena #char: fendrake #divergence au #papafire

[supermovielover-blog]

[Movie Review] Seven Days in May

Seven Days in May is a taut, intelligent thriller about an attempted military takeover of the United States government which has been beautifully brought to Blu-ray by the Warner Archive.

Seven Days in May (1964)

Released: 01 Mar 1964

Rated: APPROVED

Runtime: 118 min

Director: John Frankenheimer

Genre: Drama, Romance, Thriller

Cast: Burt Lancaster, Kirk Douglas, Fredric March, Ava Gardner

Writer(s): Fletcher Knebel (novel), Charles W. Bailey II (novel), Rod Serling (screenplay)

Plot: United States military leaders plot to overthrow the President because he supports a nuclear disarmament treaty and they fear a Soviet sneak attack.

IMDB rating: 7.9

MetaScore: N/A

Disc Information

Studio: Paramount

Distributed By: Warner Archive

Video Resolution: 1080P/AVC

Aspect Ratio: 1.78:1

Audio: English 2.0 DTS-HDMA

Subtitles: English SDH

Rating: Not Rated

Run Time: 1 Hr. 58 Min.

Package Includes: Blu-ray

Case Type: Standard Blu-ray Case

Disc Type: BD50 (dual layer)

Region: A

Release Date: 05/02/2017

MSRP: $21.99

The Production: 5/5

I’m suggesting, Mr. President, there’s a military plot to take over the government. – Colonel Martin “Jiggs” Casey

Seven Days in May is a taut, intelligent thriller about an attempted military takeover of the United States government which has been beautifully brought to Blu-ray by the Warner Archive.

The President of the United States, Jordan Lyman (Frederic March), has recently negotiated a nuclear disarmament treaty with the Soviet Union, a treaty which has deeply divided American citizens and is strongly opposed by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General James Mattoon Scott (Burt Lancaster). The Gallup Poll shows that the approval rating of the president has sunk to a new low, and a demonstration in front of the White House has broken out in a brawl between Lyman supporters and those who are opposed to the treaty.

In the meantime, the president is meeting with his most trusted advisors: his appointments secretary Paul Girard (Martin Balsam) and Senator Ray Clark (Edmond O’Brien) of Georgia. There are serious and justifiable concerns about the Soviet Union’s willingness to abide by the treaty, and there is likely to be some pain experienced by an economy with has been on a war-readiness footing since the end of World War II. The continual bashing of the treaty by the charismatic General Scott, Senator Frederick Prentice (Whit Bissell), and rabble-rousing television commentator Harold McPherson (Hugh Marlowe) has helped to turn the tide of public opinion against the president.

Scott attends a contentious hearing before the Senate Armed Forces Committee with his assistant, Marine Colonel Martin “Jiggs” Casey (Kirk Douglas), after which they discuss a Top Secret training alert which has been scheduled for the following Sunday. Scott reminds his assistant that only a relatively few military officers and the president know about the alert, and even the Congress is being kept in the dark.

Casey then goes to the Joint Chiefs communications center to review the classified messages which have arrived that day. A talkative junior officer points out to him that Scott has sent out an unusual message on classified channels about a betting pool for the upcoming Preakness Stakes. The recipients of the message are all high-ranking military officers, and only one, Vice-Admiral Barnswell (John Houseman), the commander of the Sixth Fleet, has declined to participate. Casey shrugs it off, figuring that rank has its privileges, but shortly thereafter he bumps into an old friend, Colonel William “Mutt” Henderson (Andrew Duggan). After exchanging pleasantries, Henderson mentions that he is now the Executive Office of ECOMCON. Casey is momentarily taken aback because he has never heard of ECOMCON, even though his position in the Pentagon requires him to know about all military commands. Henderson naturally assumes that Casey knows all about ECOMCON, so when his friend inquiries about the command’s staffing he replies that there are 100 officers and 3,600 enlisted men stationed at a base near El Paso.

Casey is baffled and troubled about the fact that he has been left out of the loop regarding ECOMCON, and he is mildly annoyed a few minutes later when Scott’s aide, Colonel Murdock (Richard Anderson), quizzes him about whether he said anything to Henderson about the alert. Casey then casually mentions Scott’s Preakness pool, and Murdock almost flies off the handle. This unexpected reaction prompts Casey to begin making inquiries about ECOMCON, but he finds that the Pentagon operator has no phone number for a command by that name. At a party that evening Senator Prentice lets slip to Casey that he knows about the alert. Late in the evening Casey decides that he had better drive to General Scott’s house to report this, but when he arrives he discovers that Senator Prentice’s car is parked there.

The next morning Casey, suspicious about what he saw last night, asks his boss if he didn’t sleep well. “Got to bed too early,” lies Scott. “Slept from 8:00 to 8:00. Too much sleep.” Following a meeting of the Joint Chiefs, which Casey does not attend, he has a brief chat with Scott, who is leaving for New York to give a speech. Casey then notices a scrap of paper has been left on a table, which he instinctively picks up. It is a handwritten note which mentions ECOMCON and an airlift which is scheduled for Sunday, the day of the alert. Casey is persuaded that something is amiss, and he risks his career by asking for a meeting with President Lyman.

Burt Lancaster is imposing and thoroughly convincing as General Scott. Kirk Douglas recruited Lancaster to appear in the film, and reportedly he came to regret that Lancaster got the meatier role, but Jiggs Casey is more complex and in some respects the more interesting character of the two. Frederic March is excellent as the unpopular president who has less than a week to find out if there is anything to Casey’s suspicions. The always reliable Edmond O’Brien is superb as the hard-drinking Senator Clark, a performance which earned him an Academy Award nomination. Martin Balsam is equally effective as Paul Girard, and John Houseman is fine in the small but important role of Admiral Barnswell.

Also getting star billing is Ava Gardner as Eleanor Holbrook, a Washington socialite who has a past with both Casey and Scott. The depiction of Holbrook in the film is a considerable departure from the novel by Fletcher Knebel and Charles W. Bailey II. In the novel she is in her late twenties and living in New York City, and she willingly provides Casey with some information which proves to be important in the story’s ultimate outcome. Gardner plays her as an older woman, and while the interaction between her and Casey is interesting, in the end it does not amount to much.

The film’s often electrifying script is by Rod Serling, and in most respects it is true to the novel. A few scenes have been compressed – for example, the novel begins on Sunday but the film opens on Monday, which required moving the Preakness Stakes from Saturday to Sunday or it would have been Six Days in May. The chronology of the ending also has been changed, making it more tense and dramatic.

Seven Days in May is directed with skill and intensity by John Frankenheimer, whose previous film was the highly controversial The Manchurian Candidate. He had a reputation for being a demanding director who always knew exactly what he wanted, which apparently suited Lancaster. They had previously worked together on The Young Savages and Birdman of Alcatraz, and would so again on The Train.

The premise of Seven Days in May is that democracy is a fragile form of government. Its viability depends upon the willingness of those in power to peacefully turn over that power to others when the electorate so decides. In the United States it requires faithful adherence to the Constitution, even when that document gets in the way of policies which many might strongly support. President Lyman eloquently states his feelings on the subject:

There’s been abroad in this land in recent months a whisper that we have somehow lost our greatness, that we do not have the strength to win, without war, the struggles for liberty throughout the world. This is slander. Because our country is strong, strong enough to be a peacemaker. It is proud, proud enough to be patient. The whisperers and the detractors, the violent men, are wrong. We remain strong and proud, peaceful and patient. And we will see a day when on this earth all men will walk out of the long tunnels of tyranny into the bright sunshine of freedom.

That sentiment undoubtedly strikes some as hopeful and others as hopelessly naive. Regardless, this country’s democracy has survived for nearly 250 years, and Seven Days in May is a timely reminder that preserving it requires eternal vigilance.

Video: 5/5

3D Rating: NA

Frankenheimer preferred to film in black & white, and this sparkling Blu-ray transfer helps us to understand why. It is framed at 1.78:1 and is delivered in 1080p via the AVC codec. The picture is very sharp, with the unavoidable exception of some brief dissolves. Black levels are solid, shadow detail is excellent, and contrast is strong. A natural level of film grain has been retained to give Seven Days in May a natural film-like appearance.

The superb cinematography is the work of Ellsworth Fredericks (Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Sayonara). President Kennedy was fond of the novel and gave permission for Frankenheimer to film the opening protest scene on location in front of the White House, while the president was away for a weekend. He also gave permission for the set designers to come in and sketch the interior of the White House, which gives the film a strong sense of authenticity. The shots of Paul Girard boarding an aircraft carrier were filmed aboard an active carrier, USS Kitty Hawk, in San Diego (doubling as Gibraltar).

Readers are encouraged to read the laudatory comments of our resident film restoration expert, Robert A. Harris:

A few words about…™ Seven Days in May — in Blu-ray

Audio: 4.5/5

The DTS HD-MA 2.0 soundtrack is flawless. Dialogue is crystal clear, ambient sounds provide some realistic effects, and Jerry Goldsmith’s pulsating score, particularly during the opening credits, makes it clear that this is a very serious film.

English SDH subtitles are available.

Special Features: 2.5/5

The extras on this Blu-ray disc consist of the original theatrical trailer (which is rather long with a running time of 3 minutes, 42 seconds) and a very informative commentary track by director John Frankenheimer. We are fortunate to have the commentary track as it was recorded in 1999, just three years before he died from complications following back surgery. Both extras apparently appear on the 2000 DVD release of Seven Days in May.

The director goes into great deal about the film’s production, discussing everything from filming locations to camera angles to the actors. I was surprised to learn that he had done a considerable amount of prior work with Rod Serling on television dramas. He also tells the story about how he decided to have the first scene of the film on a Monday but then realized that the story would end on Saturday. His friend Charles Lederer came up with the idea of having the Preakness Stakes run on a Sunday so that the story would cover a full seven days. Nobody seemed to mind, even though horse racing wasn’t done on Sundays in 1964.

Overall: 5/5

Seven Days in May is a top-notch political thriller with a cast which features some of Hollywood’s finest actors. I enjoyed the story so much that I re-read the novel immediately after I saw the announcement that the Blu-ray was coming out.

Source: https://www.hometheaterforum.com/seven-days-may-blu-ray-review/