My mother insists that I write you to formally thank you for speaking on behalf of us at the Wizengamot. Without your testimony, we most certainly would have faced time in Azkaban.
So: thank you.
If you were expecting any heartfelt words of gratitude, then you’ve mistaken me for those hero worshippers who submit their amateur poetry about you to The Daily Prophet. Even as a child, I could write better poetry than that.
Hoping to never speak to you again,
Please pass my appreciation on to your mother. I sincerely hope she is well.
As for you, I don’t need or expect your gratitude. That’s not why I helped you. You wouldn’t understand this of course, but those of us who have a heart, help others simply just to help others.
I also happen to enjoy and appreciate the notes people leave in The Daily Prophet for me. I’ve never heard any poetry from you, so I wouldn’t be so quick to throw stones.
Wishing you horrible misfortune,
Don’t give me that load of crock, Potter. Even heroes have ulterior motives.
I also highly doubt you enjoyed last week’s poem: “I see Harry Potter’s emerald eyes, they sparkle and shine, all magic defies.” What does that even mean?
Seeing through your media-trained lies,
Malfoy. You only think I’m lying because you can’t comprehend anyone’s perspective but your own.
That poem was heartfelt and thoughtful. I have a copy of it on my fridge - that’s a muggle appliance.
Summary: You’re new in town and after parking in Billys spot he takes an interest in you.
Authors Note: There will be at least one more part to this. i just didn’t wanna make it too long. No real spoilers in this part. I binged the second season the day it was released and have watched it three times since lmao. Billy is the worst but i just wanna bang him like one time okAY and i haven’t stopped thinking about him/Dacre since.
Disclaimer:I do not condone Billys behaviour nor do i intend to romanticise his racism or abuse. Billy is an asshole, no denying that. Dacre Montgomery is hot af tho.
The music was blaring as Billy pulled into the school car park at his usual fast speed. He was about to take another drag of his cigarette when he slammed on the brakes, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the steering wheel. In his usual car park sat an unfamiliar black Mustang SVO. There was barely any spare parks left at this time of morning but he had never had to worry before. Everyone knew that was his park. Billy’s nostrils flared as he let out a breath and Max gripped her skateboard a little tighter. He drove forward and suddenly swung his Camaro into an empty park and yanked the keys out of the ignition. “Don’t be late today.” He said sternly as Max opened her door. She rolled her eyes, and was thankful he missed it before slamming the door and heading into school. Billy stepped out of his car and took a drag of his cigarette. He let the smoke fester in his lungs as he closed the door behind him. His lips parted and he blew out a cloud of smoke as he stalked towards the strange car. Who did this douchbag think he was? He glanced through the window of the car as he walked to the front but saw no incriminating items inside. It didn’t matter. Billy would find them. With a final puff of his smoke he stubbed it out on the hood of the Mustang and strode into school.
Billy gripped the wheel in anticipation, his tongue darting across his lips and when he found the park empty he smirked. Four days. For four days he had arrived every morning to find that damned mustang in his park with no sign of the driver and it was always gone before Billy could confront the driver after school. But not today. Nobody messed with Billy Hargrove, he made sure of it. So this morning he had left early. In fact he was the only car in the car park but that didn’t bother him. He would wait until the car showed up and finally he could give the douchebag a piece of his mind. “There’s not even teachers here yet.” Max complained in the passengers seat. Billy ignored her and turned the music up louder. He could just make out a groan above the music before Max got out of the car and skated off towards the entrance. Slowly the car park filled up as more students arrived and finally, he saw it. The black mustang pulled into the car park and Billy smirked, turning down his music as he let out a cloud of smoke. The sun was shining down on the windscreen of the car and he couldn’t yet make out the driver. But he clenched his fists nevertheless and opened his door. His boots hit the pavement and he stepped out of his car, letting the door fall shut behind him. He turned slowly, shaking out his shoulders as he went and when his eyes fell on the driver he stopped. This wasn’t just a douchbag. It was a girl. He pushed out his lips and leant against his own car as the girl gathered her things and got out. She wore a tight black dress that cut off at the thighs and a denim jacket. Even her hair had been teased for maximum volume. Confidence radiated from her and thanks to a light breeze he caught the scent of her sweet perfume. Feeling his gaze on her back, she turned and glanced in his direction. “Can I help you?” He smirked, amused by the sassy tone in her voice. “You’ve been parking in my spot.” She raised an eye brow and put her hands on her hips. “Didn’t realise there was assigned parking.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm and he enjoyed the way she was challenging him. She clearly didn’t know who she was talking too. Still, she was pretty, so Billy thought he’d go easy on her. “Well, now you know.” He flashed her his winning smile. The one that always made the girls swoon. Only this girl didn’t swoon. Instead she rolled her eyes and he could have sworn he heard her mutter “Loser” before she turned her back and walked into the school. Billy took a drag of his cigarette. Who did this girl think she was? She hadn’t seemed the least bit phased by him and he wondered what a girl like her was doing in Hawkins. There was something about this girl that did something to him and he had always liked a challenge.
You dropped your bag to the floor and slid behind the desk next to the window. Classmates were chatting as the room filled up for class and you played with the pen in your hand as you glanced around. The guy from this morning walked into the room and almost instantly all the girls giggled and flicked their hair in unison. You rolled your eyes as he leant across a desk in the front of the class and started flirting with the girl sitting there. You turned your attention to the window and absentmindedly played with your hair as your mind drifted. The shrill laugh of a girl got your attention and you looked to see the guy from this morning laughing with the girl in front of him. Only he kept glancing at you, almost as if to make sure you were watching and he ran a hand through his hair. He leant forward and said something to the girl, though you were too far away to hear but he stared at you while he spoke, the edges of his lips turning up into a smirk. “Bye, Billy!” You heard her purr back to him, flicking her hair and fluttering her eyelashes so much you thought they might just fly off. You rolled your eyes as ‘Billy’ strutted through the class room and when he reached your desk he trailed his fingers across it. “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare, Princess?” He smirked and walked past you, letting his hand brush against your shoulder before he sunk into the desk behind you. His cologne drifted and you hid your face as you took in his scent. God he smelt delicious, even if he was an asshole. You had to admit, he was ridiculously good looking. You weren’t blind, he was fucking gorgeous. But you had seen guys like him in every town you had lived and they were always the same. The same cocky alpha dog routine, thinking they could get away with whatever they wanted. You hated to admit that you usually fell for the act, but not this time. At least that’s what you told yourself as you stared out the window, thoughts of Billy Hargrove running through your mind.
The rest of the week was uneventful. You had passed Billy a few times in the hallway and he had done the same thing every time. Licked his lips, ran a hand through his hair, smirked, and walked past you. Sometimes with a “Hey, Princess.” and sometimes not. God it was driving you wild, though you refused to admit it. It was no secret, the feud brewing between Billy and Steve and since you had moved to town you had gotten to know Steve quite well. It wasn’t just the rivalry either, his ego or Billy’s reputation with the other girls in school. You had seen Billy with his sister one morning in the car park and although you hadn’t been close enough to actually hear the words spoken, it was clear by the body language that Billy wasn’t exactly being a loving brother. So when you arrived at the Halloween party to see him chugging beer from the keg you rolled your eyes. The crowd around him chanted his name and you grimaced as he let out a cheer. “That’s how you do it, Hawkins! That’s how you do it!” He yelled. You watched as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stuck a cigarette between his lips. His friends pushed him into the house, still chanting his name and cheering victoriously.
A few hours and a dozen drinks later you were leant against the wall, taking a break from all the dancing you had been doing. The music lowered slightly and Carol moved into the centre of the makeshift dance floor. “Who’s ready for spin the bottle?!” She was met by wolf whistles and cheers of agreement. The room cleared out slightly and you pushed off the wall, deciding to get some fresh air. Before you could get there however, you were blocked by an arm leaning against the wall. “You not playing?” Billy asked, a coy smile on his face. “Sorry to disappoint.” You shook your head. He chuckled and licked his lips. He leant closer to you and you saw his eyes linger over your body before meeting your gaze. “Cmon, What are you scared of, Princess?” You glanced at the circle forming on the floor and back at Billy. Maybe it was the booze talking or maybe it was the chemistry sparking between the two of you. Either way, you found yourself smirking back at him. ”Fuck it.” You grabbed the beer from his hand and finished it in one swig before sauntering off to join the circle. Billy raised an eyebrow and followed after you. You watched as Carol and some guy you didn’t know went off into a closet for seven minutes, the rest of the group talking and laughing in their absence. Next was Carl’s turn and his bottle pointed to the girl next you you and she squealed in excitement. Slowly the bottle made its way to you and you took a deep breath as you leant forward and gave it a spin. Oohs and Ahhs erupted as the bottle stopped spinning and pointed to no other than Billy fucking Hargrove.
“Bobby, you can’t keep doing that to him.” Bob raises his eyebrows, putting down his fork. “Doing what, Alicia? Corralling our son into talking about his crush?” “Exactly.”
Or, A fic about Bob and Alicia noticing Jack’s feelings for Bitty before even he does.
Bob Zimmermann is kind of messy, only a bit of a smart ass, and just a tad hard of hearing. Yet even without perfect hearing Bob can’t miss the affection in his son’s voice when talking about a certain line-mate.
Bob Zimmermann is many things, but he is no idiot.
“Did you get that paper done for your…what was it again- american pie class?”
Bob looks over his shoulder just in time to see Alicia send an appraising look from the couch. He catches a hint of a smile.
He winks back and she rolls her eyes in return.
Bob turns again to the large window, the white light blinding him for a moment. The large expanse of grass is still littered with snow, lining the way down to their lake. A blank sky hugs the horizon.
“Women, food, and American culture, Papa.”
“Right. So how’d you do on the paper? Did Eric help you out?”
(Revised Prompt): Miraculous Ladybug, "So you're saying in a class of over a dozen people NO ONE CAN AGREE ON WHAT LADYBUG AND CHAT NOIR LOOK LIKE?!"
“So you’re saying in a class of over a dozen people NO ONE CAN AGREE ON WHAT LADYBUG AND CHAT NOIR LOOK LIKE?!” Kim bellowed.
Marinette face planted against her desk and groaned. Tikki hadn’t been kidding about her identity being protected by magic.
“Listen,” Chloe screeched above the din, “I’ve been rescued by her the most and I am telling you her hair is shoulder length and slightly wavy no matter what little miss blogs-a-lot says!”
“You also said she is taller than you, so clearly your opinion is worth nothing,” Alya shouted back.
“All the people I like are taller than me,” Chloe retorted, “isn’t that right Adrikins?”
“Please leave me out of this,” Adrien said. So far he was the only other person in the room who looked just as miserable about this class squabble as Marinette felt. His head was cradled against is crossed arms as he stared listlessly towards the door as if wondering if he could make a run for it. She could kiss him for that. Not that she wouldn’t take any excuse to kiss him. Maybe she should suggest they both sneak of somewhere to make out while their classmates argued. Marinette smiled at the daydream. As if she could ever actually pull off something so bold where Adrien was concerned.
“This is stupid,” Kim complained “we have photos we should know every detail about what they look like.”
“I’m pretty sure there is some sort of magical element that keeps us from properly retaining the information in a way that might jeopardize their identities,” Max theorized.
“If Ladybug had magic power over her appearance you would think she would have attempted to look more attractive,” Lila said flicking her hair behind her shoulder. “Instead she is such a short thing with dull black hair and beady dark little eyes.”
The class burst out into another round of shouting as Chloe and Alya both attempted to dive atop the Italian girl, only barely being held back by Kim and Nino.
Marinette wondered briefly if anyone would care if she just threw herself out the window. She was about to attempt to sneak off to the bathroom when she heard Adrien talking quietly to himself.
“Blue,” he murmured softly.
Marinette’s breath caught in her throat.
“Her eyes are blue.”
(I am no longer taking sentence prompts just finishing the ones I have left)
Andrew slips through a slit in the crowd, brushing through the sleek trains of expensive gowns, rich wool suits jackets catching on his own. He’s on his second flute of champagne, and the tartness keeps him focused. His attention is on the flavour and the rim of the glass and the warp of faces through it. His earpiece crackles and whispers.
He can see his mark on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by servers and liars and pretty things. One of them is all three, Andrew can tell: a waiter’s vest, a seam of over-applied foundation, and bright blue eyes.
He’s distracting, flighty, a rubber band pulled all the way back. He looks like the memory of a case file, and a name occurs to Andrew one second before Kevin hisses it into his ear.
“It’s fuckin’ Charlie Pilot. Don’t engage, Minyard, we’re not here for him.”
Andrew doesn’t make any effort to reply, just takes another pull of champagne. He’s not really watching the troupes of entertainers or the clockwork security or the velvet and silk blooming under bowing chandeliers. He’s not even watching the man he’s either going to rob or kill, who’s laughing and weedy, red in the face from the alcohol. He’s stuck on Pilot – next to his target, holding a heavily stocked tray of appetizers, his expression pleasant and empty.
He’ll be an irritant to what should be a straightforward plan, if he keeps hovering. Andrew takes a loaded step forward and the voice in his ear complains.
“Don’t even think about moving in until Pilot leaves. He’s probably doing reconnaissance for Matt. I bet he doesn’t even know about the file.”
Andrew watches Pilot’s face tick, the way he blinks like he’s on a timer, the way he’s worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.
“I bet he does,” Andrew murmurs, and he drains the last of the champagne. He plucks his tie pin away from the fabric and drops it in the empty glass, leaving it on a passing tray.
“What— what the fuck Minyard, we’ve lost visuals. Do you hear me? Andrew? Andrew?”
Andrew weaves through the rest of the golden crowd, ignoring the buzz of Kevin’s reprimands in his ear. He finds a new spot on the outskirts of the crowd where Pilot has installed himself.
“Do you know how fucking expensive those cameras are? You’re such a piece of shit operative,” Kevin says. “When you inevitably come back without the intelligence and without our equipment, it’s costing usto keep you around, do you realize that?”
Andrew’s more focused on the way Pilot’s shoulders are turning to face him, the slim line of his tailored pants, that eyelash-thick smudge of un-blended make up.
“Shrimp?” Pilot offers, swaying the tray in his direction.
“No,” Andrew says, but he stays uncomfortably near, feeling along the edges of his boundaries without finding any seams. Pilot’s composure is still and reserved as a frost-ravaged garden.
“Have a good evening then,” Pilot says graciously, turning back towards the host that Andrew should be sizing up but hasn’t even looked at. He glances at him for a sliver of a moment, finds himself uninterested, and looks back at Pilot.
Andrew catches him suddenly by the arm, but relaxes his grip just as quickly, caught off guard by his own impulsivity. His own disguise is just an invitation and sun bleached hair; he isn’t playing a character like Pilot is. He’s neutral for a living, but Pilot is a new weight on his scale, unbalancing him so that he can’t quite settle at zero.
When their eyes meet, the polite, curious waiter snips out of existence. Charlie Pilot stares at Andrew, with eyes like the bluest part of a fire.
“There’s a conflict of interest,” he tells Andrew calmly. “And your interest will lose.”
“I’m not interested in anything,” Andrew says broadly.
“Hm,” Pilot says, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie,” Andrew says. He’s always saying it; it’s a novelty that employers enjoy and enemies challenge, amused.
Pilot raises his jaw, mouth twitching. “No, you wouldn’t, would you.” His eyes flicker to the side of Andrew’s face, where Kevin is breathing furiously through his earpiece, then down to the grip he still has on his forearm. He lowers his tray down until the rough edge is pressed to the root of Andrew’s hand threateningly. “You’ll want to let me go, Andrew, or you’re going to end up needing a longer armband.”
Andrew feels genuine surprise squeeze his fingers around Pilot’s wrist. He hadn’t noticed the black fabric extending a whiff beyond his crisp white sleeve. He lets go, and Pilot tucks his shoulders back, satisfied. His hair is too dark to match his freckles, Andrew notes quietly. It is, perhaps, what the make up was meant to cover up.
“You are not going to win, Charlie,” Andrew says. “We’re the more capable team.”
Pilot smiles indulgently. “‘Charlie’,” he repeats, mouth curling around the name. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been Charlie Pilot.” He jostles his tray from one hand to another, and loosens his collar with his freed hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much farther ahead we are than you. If you’re looking for information, we already have it. If you’re trying to find the connections this place has to the Yakuza, we’re the ones undoing them.”
“Who’s we? I don’t remember seeing anything about loyalty in your case file. You’re just a runner.”
Pilot looks briefly bothered by this, and he juts his chin again. “I’m loyal to whoever’s doing the work that needs to be done.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?”
He looks down, at Andrew’s empty hands, at the hip where he’s hiding his gun. His expression is warped and sad when he looks up, like the real filling in his strange costume is finally oozing out.
“You can call me Neil,” he says, and drops the whole tray of food so that it clatters and rolls into the host’s feet. There are gasps and yelps, partygoers dodging and stooping to catch the runaway platter. Andrew looks impulsively down to track its progress, and when he looks sharply back up into the knot of activity, Neil is gone. Of course he is.
He doesn’t have time to think about where he might have disappeared to, just steps neatly into the opportunity that’s been afforded to him. He uses the distraction as a doorway directly into the offices behind the coddled host.
Kevin is asking repeatedly for updates, and Andrew fishes the earpiece out and tucks it into his breast pocket. He likes to be alone for this part, when the most important door closes behind him and everything makes as much sense as a ticking clock.
He keeps thinking of Neil’s reaction to ‘runner’, of the vulnerability trussed up in his persona. He finds himself sick to his stomach wanting to know what his real hair colour is.
He tries every door in the polished row of them, finding all of them locked. He picks the lock on the door farthest from the burble of the ballroom behind him, and cracks into what looks like a room built for business arrangements and drinking. There’s a snifter next to a half dozen tumblers on a cart along the wall, and extensive cabinets under the desk.
He feels his way along the underside of the desk, and opens each drawer, idealistically left unlocked and unprotected. He finds useless information and shady information and heaps of anonymous, unlabeled tapes.
He finds the safe in the floor, facing up patiently under a wingback chair and a panel of floorboard. He stoops so that he’s face to face with it, shrugs his jacket off like a dead skin onto the floor, and puts the heart of a stethoscope to the face of the safe.
He’s sweating, spread out surreptitiously on the floor, but the safe is flimsy. It cracks in under an hour, the party wilting two rooms over, pressure taking him by the hair. Andrew flicks the door open impatiently, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck.
It’s filled top to bottom with paper, and he reaches for the first file, carding his fingers through the spill of sheets.
Got you, it says. Over and over again, in unassuming little typescript. And on the next page, got you.
Andrew’s fingers flex. The next file is the same, and the next. A million taunting, twirling repetitions: got you.Got this. Got here first.
The safe was already cracked. The list of names was already stolen. Neil’s face winks and swarms when he closes his eyes, furious. If you’re looking for information, we already have it.
He roots around for the bud in his pocket and pops it back into his ear. He leans back, splayed away from the spill from the safe, the stacks of failure. He enunciates clearly into the microphone sewn into his collar.
By popular demand: Peter finding out you’re pregnant.
Just in time for mother’s day!
Peter shut his eyes and looked away as he held back
your hair. He wasn’t doing the best job at it. A few strands had fallen in your
face, but he was too busy trying not to throw up himself, to bother tightening
his grip. He’d been in disgusting situations before. He’d grown up around
dozens of men who didn’t know what it meant to shower. He’d been covered in god
knows how many different types of alien muck. He’d been peer pressured—while drunk—to
eat all sorts of strange foods…and he was fine with it all. But when it came
to vomit, he could hardly hear the word without inwardly gagging a little.
Thankfully, none of his current shipmates tended to
get ill; save for one occasion when Drax caught the A’askavarian flu. Peter
physically locked him in the bathroom for the duration, and took to sleeping in
the cockpit, as far as possible from any noises. It was a rough few days for
his stomach—and Drax’s—but they both managed to survive, no thanks to Rocket’s incessant
But this situation was different. There was a
difference between friends and girlfriends, and that meant holding your hair back,
rather than flicking a band in your direction and running away, like he so
desperately wanted to do.