#and supplemental papers that let me look at them in a new light

[shywhumpauthor]

I want to slap Noah

No particular reason

Just feeling mean

Me too, Anon. Me too.

Pen and Paper

Maybe three weeks or so after Branding

Surveillance Masterlist

Cw: descriptions of past amputation and hand whump, starvation, abuse, threats, details of injuries

Noah sat in Declan’s office, tucked in the corner as if no different from a piece of furniture. His chin rested on his knee, legs curled to his chest with his arms wrapped around his shins to keep himself tucked.

He wasn’t restrained, not physically. A loose shirt hung from his shoulders, the drawstrings of his pants pulled tight. Declan had been a bit more generous with meals, recently, going from occasional bowls slid through the gap in their cell door to twice a day. Not that the food had gotten any better, still the same nutritional mush that tasted like dirt and tap water, but at least he was no longer woken up in the night, pains of hunger so strong they made him nauseous. Well, not as often as he used to, anyways.

While the crap kept him alive, enough vitamin supplements emptied into the same pot of whatever porridge mush that he wouldn’t keel over, it did nothing to slow the rapid weight loss that had set in. In only a matter of weeks, months, any shred of muscle he had managed to build up over hours upon hours of training and exercise withered away into skin pulled taut over a skeletal frame. The joints of his elbows, knees, shoulders poking awkwardly through his clothes.

Declan wasn’t paying him any attention. Sitting at his desk only ten or so feet away, he busied himself in folders and files, a laptop open to a dim screen, tip of a pen scratching away at a mountain of papers.

Noah didn’t move for a long time. He stayed curled up until his legs started to cramp, at which point he finally opted to stretch them out a bit, leaning his back against the wall. The shift, though subtle, after such a long time of absolute stillness in his surroundings, drew Declan’s attention.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you getting bored over there?” He questioned, head tilting to the side just slightly, a mocking tone dragging across each word.

Noah looked up, biting the inside of his cheek as he gave his head a small shake. His throat still sore from the branding, he didn’t trust his voice not to shake or crack.

Despite his jeering tone, he didn’t appear to be giving off any other emotion, only a dead boredom as he drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk, but Noah knew all too well the man’s ability to mask what he was really feeling, a game of charades which he always won.

“I asked you a question, Noah. You know how I feel about responding.” Declan hummed, swiveling around in his chair to turn completely towards him.

“Sor- nn,” Noah raised a hand, turning his head as a dry rasping cough scraped against the inside of his throat. “No.”

“No what,” The man prompted, his nice dress shoe tapping once quickly against the floorboards. That was something else Noah had noticed, he hadn’t really taken account of but he had seen and stored the information somewhere in the haze of his mind—the new carpet. A throw rug, a light accented beige pattern right in the center of the office, covering a good portion of the floor. Close enough that if Noah stretched his legs out, he could just graze the edge of it. Really, it added to the office, whatever new feeling Declan seemed to be going for. Comfortable, almost cozy, like a home work space rather than an industrial quarters in a compound made solely of cement and steel. If he closed his eyes, let the distant warmth of the fireplace wash over him, Noah could almost imagine that he was in some other place, some warm, safe little living room far away from this damned hell.

But he wasn’t.

“No sir,” He mumbled, gaze shifting away before the shame could settle in. It was self preservation, that was all. He wasn’t giving in, or submitting in whatever twisted way Declan wanted him to. He just couldn’t deal with another round of torture just yet, and some inkling of reason told him that with Declan’s recent… trip, he wouldn’t tolerate very much. His recent craving for any ounce of power he could drag certainly left Noah for the worse.

Declan clicked his tonight, his gaze honing down on him until Noah itched to shrink back, fighting away every ounce of instinct that willed him to cower.

There was nothing good behind that man’s state.

Finally, after an agonizingly long moment where Noah didn’t dare to even breathe, Declan spoke.

“Come here.”

Noah tensed, the muscles along his back rippling with a shudder at the two words, the tone of the man’s voice that gave him chills. His expression didn’t read any malice, but Noah knew better than to trust the appearance of security.

“Noah, come here.”

And then Noah made one of the worst possible mistakes he could have in that moment. He hesitated.

“Now.”

And then he was moving, shuffling forwards to stand on shaking legs. His feet sank against the plush carpet, a comfort turned to dreadful anticipation as he made his way over to the man’s desk.

“Go on, sit.” Declan waved him down, reaching to grab Noah’s elbow and push him when he didn’t move fast enough—but really, there wasn’t much aggression behind the action. It wasn’t a rough shove, more like a tug prompting him to sit right by the foot of Declan’s chair.

“You haven’t done any writing lately, have you?” The man asked as he leaned forwards, picking a black ballpoint pen from the intricate little holder he stored all his pens, pulling the cap off easily and setting it aside.

“No, sir..” Noah swallowed, fighting back the nausea paired anxiety beginning to creep through his gut. His gaze fell to his hands and the sickening feeling worsened. Most of the mutilated flesh had scarred over in mangled twists of raised skin where the fingers had used to been, but every couple of days a bit around the remaining knuckles would split open like a blister, oozing blood and stinging pain.

He supposed it could have been worse. After the brutality, Declan must have called in a doctor or something, someone professional to treat the amputations. It was clear that Declan hadn’t been coming from nowhere—he had honestly kept his work quite neat, leaving a bit of flesh around the base of the removed joints while using something to scrape out the cartilage and bone matter beneath so it could be cleanly stitched.

The worst of the damage had been centered around left hand, which Noah was sure had some sort of ill intention that would be revealed to him eventually. Of course, everything Declan did was purposeful, even if at that time the purpose had appeared to be just plain sadistic desire.

On his left, he was missing his middle completely, though that was the wound that had healed the most well so far, the swelling from the infections he had been battling back for weeks finally gone down. His pinky had been cut from the second joint, leaving him with only his ring and index working right—after Declan had broken his thumb. His right was a bit easier off, with only his pinky and the top of his ring cut off, so in relativity… the whole situation sucked. He had just relearned how to use a fork and how to hold a cup, but everything he touched felt uneven and wrong.

Declan shuffled some of the papers on his desk, picking a sheet with only a few lines of writing and turning it over to a blank back. He neatened their rest of the papers before turning his head and passing the sheet and the pen to Noah.

“Draw something,” Declan said, dropping the paper before Noah could even grab it—which he quickly fumbled to pick up again. “Doesn’t matter what, just keep it appropriate. Would you like a folder to write on, or are you fine with the floor?”

Noah picked the pen up from where it had rolled a small distance away, it felt wrong in his hand.

“Wh.. why?”

The slap caught him off guard. It wasn’t one of Declan’s typical slaps, with a force that would have sent him reeling back, but a quick backhand to his face, snapping his head to the side despite the lack of effort. A warning, stinging across his cheek.

“You have no right to question me. If I give you an order, you follow it. I know you know this, Noah,” Declan frowned.

“Sorry,” Noah muttered, resisting the urge to raise a hand to his face. “Sir,” he added hastily, upon Declan’s sharp look. Sir. Fuck him.

There were a few long seconds where the man didn’t move, his glare piercing.

“Even now, I still see your potential, Noah. Anyone else in my position would have given up on your pathetic, traitorous ass months ago and left you to rot in the cells until the next demonstration. But not me.” Declan turned his attention back to his laptop, and Noah thought he was done, but he continued a moment later. “I’ve known there’s something more in you than that misguided loyalty you’ve been clinging to. And I know that one day, you will realize just how wrongly placed your devotion is. You will realize that this, what I am doing, what we are doing, will be far stronger than what your organization ever amounted to. If there’s any hope of you ever sitting behind a desk here again, you’ll need to learn how to use your hands again. So draw something, before I cut off another one and have you use the blood as ink,” he ended firmly with the threat, letting the words settle like ice to the pits of Noah’s stomach.

There was… a lot to process from what Declan had just said. Which he could do later, in the sanctum of privacy, where he could work out what exactly the man meant.

Draw something. He should be able to do that.

————————————————

I kinda gave up towards the end, I’ve spent so long on this it isn’t funny.

But if anyone else has any Noah content they’d maybe like to see…

Tag list: @pickleking8 @blood-enthusiast @t0rture-me @sparrowsage @enigmawritesstuff @whump-me

[nickgerlich]

Nice Model

While our initial reactions to AI-generated text have been mixed at best, ranging from concerns about accurate writing to fears among academics that they might be duped by machine-written papers, it is now proving possible that AI can be used for good.

Of course, we can still use our ChatGPT and Bard to write thank you notes and cover letters. But now, we can also leverage AI’s strengths with images that have been customized by users themselves. Levi’s is among the first to use AI to supplement the use of human clothing models, and instead rely on machine-generated images tweaked by users themselves.



And if I were a model, I would be scared right about now, too. This could displace a lot of primping, posing, and strutting people.

Levi’s latest effort allows users to effectively build their own model online so that it best resembles them, from skin tone to body type, and myriad other variables. You thus get to see clothing visually displayed on a “model” that more closely resembles you.



There are other considerations as well, most notably Levi’s commitment to DEI, which stands for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. While it has long been possible to accuse companies of biases in their use of models, now you can make your own. Talk about inclusivity! While there are state governors spending sleepless nights trying to figure out how to dismantle DEI initiatives, along comes a company announcing its intent to swim upstream.



Furthermore, Levi’s sees AI models as contributing to their sustainability commitment as well. Simply put, AI demands fewer resources, and once the online shopping experience is over, the avatar can vanish. What is uncertain at this time is whether your personal avatar can be stored for later use, so you don’t have to re-create it.



Levi’s has partnered with Lalaland.ai of Amsterdam to create the new AI models. Lalaland.ai is a digital fashion studio, and their work is so good that it is difficult to pick the AI model from the real one. Take a look at the photo comparing the two, and try to pick the AI. Good luck. I’ll let you know the answer at the end.

Selling clothing online has always been a challenge, because fit is a critical issue. While AI models do not solve all of the problems, it goes a long way toward helping answer the age-old question, “What will this look like on me?”



Companies have tried their hand at virtual models for much of this century, but with little success. Just last September, Walmart announced it was launching Virtual Try-On whereby customers could upload a photo of themselves, and then garments would be superimposed upon them.



Join me in saying, “Eeeew. This sounds creepy!” I would not want to do that. Walmart does not need a visual of me. There are plenty of photos of me on the interwebs, and if Walmart really wanted to see what I look like, they could just Google it. Never mind that I don’t buy much beyond groceries at Walmart, I would not be willing to do this. And that goes for any other retailer. You may as well put cameras inside fitting rooms.

As long as customers are comfortable manipulating the AI engine to create their own avatars, this is likely to fly. The push to achieve DEI goals is laudable. And when it comes to sustainability, this will do more than just go light on resources. It will save money in the long-run. Models aren’t cheap, nor are the photographers who shoot the photos and videos.



I suspect we are just on the cusp of where this AI thing will take us. We only thought—a few months ago, mind you—that this would be the end of us all. This is a model I can live with.

Dr “It’s The One On The Left“ Gerlich

Audio Blog

[palmface48]

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[philomaela]

Is there any characterization of the Ragnarssons in the show that you think is close to the ones in the saga?

Disclaimer: I need an easy way to refer to Ragnar’s saga, the tale of Ragnar’s sons and the Gesta Danorum book 9, since I do believe those texts are the core influence on Vikings. I’m going to refer to those texts as the main trio.  Yes, that is the best name I could come up with lol.

I guess if I had to pick… I would say Hvitserk and Bjorn? However, it’s not necessarily because what Hirst wrote for those two is so in line with the main trio, but rather because they are less fleshed out compared to their brothers. While they do things and have a certain level of characterization, most of their actions take place while the brothers are acting as a team, rather than acting as individuals. The result is that the bulk characterization often rests on things that can be ascribed to the Ragnarssons as a whole, rather than on them as individuals. So you have more wiggle room with them, you’re not contradicting anything instead you’re just supplementing, if that makes sense.

On that level, both Hvitserk and Bjorn are regarded as honorable-ish, passionate men who are great warriors. Bjorn also has a desire for maternal affection/praise that is implied by one of his verses in Ragnar’s saga. Bjorn in the Gesta Danorum is also a strong leader who inspires loyalty in his Kingdom and he’s very close to his father, choosing to fight beside his father against his half-brother Ubbe. All those things are in line with his characterization in the show imo.

However, I should add… as is the case with everything on Vikings… Hirst isn’t just drawing from the main trio, he’s drawing from other sources that sometimes contradict the narrative of said trio (even those texts sometimes contradict each other lol!). For example, Ragnar’s adventures in Paris come from contemporary French sources, not from the main trio. And it’s not incorrect to do that, it’s a valid storytelling choice! I just think the way it’s done sometimes leads to some problematic elements.

I know you didn’t ask, but I find it fascinating how Hirst has (imo, obviously) essentially given Sigurd, Ivar and Ubbe the opposite characterizations of the ones they had in the main trio. So, I want to go into detail about that, I’ll put it under a cut because it’s slightly off-topic and also this is already too long lmao.

Sigurd:

This one I’ll mainly be talking about Sigurd as he stands in Ragnar’s saga and the tale of Ragnar’s sons. So, do you want to know what the key is to understanding Sigurd’s characterization in those texts? It’s that he is Aslaug’s son. He is a living symbol of his mother’s proud lineage, his birth saves her marriage and reveals her true background to the world. Sigurd, Aslaug’s youngest son, earns her the respect she deserved, but could not get while she was known as the daughter of peasants. While Aslaug loves all her sons (including her stepsons), to me the text makes it clear that Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye is her favorite. And Sigurd is a mama’s boy in through and through. When his brothers are refusing their mother’s advice to go to war, he speaks up on her behalf, even though he is only 3 years old. In the tale of Ragnar’s sons, Aslaug is given Sigurd’s sword and shield when he dies and raises his children, one of whom is a daughter named after Aslaug. (TBF, the translation I’ve read says that Aslaug gave her own name to the girl, but due to some weirdness in how facts are revealed in the story, I’m not sure if she did this before or after Sigurd died…)

Anyway, the thing about Sigurd as he stands in Vikings… his “origin” is totally different! Aslaug is known as a princess the moment she enters the story, she makes the prophecy of Sigurd’s eye due to anger at Ragnar making fun of her. In fact, the snake in Sigurd’s eye is treated ambiguously, rather than a straightforward blessing linking him to the Volsung line. So in this world, where Sigurd’s birth is not a transformative point in Aslaug’s story… well, he’s not quite linked to his mother in the same way, is he? Sigurd is not her precious boy, instead that spot is reserved for her “new” youngest son, Ivar the Boneless. She gives most of her affection and attention to the son who needs it most and so Sigurd grows jealous and resentful of Ivar. Rather than being a great king who rules justly, as in the Gesta Danorum, he’s seems somewhat petty and spiteful and since he dies young, he never has a chance to grow beyond that.

Sigurd goes from a favorite son and mama’s boy, to a resentful, less-favored child. Rather than inspiring (a small level of) jealousy in his brothers, he is jealous of his brother. Rather than being precocious, he’s just petty and in terms of the narrative, he dies before he has a chance to be anything else. These core character changes imo, come from the decision to change Aslaug’s origin story and as a result, erasing the original narrative importance of Sigurd’s birth. Oh sure, Sigurd’s still got a snake in his eye, but it’s purely aesthetic, it does not carry the same thematic weight and importance that it did in Ragnar’s saga.

Ubbe:

The changes to Ubbe’s characterization are similar to Sigurd in that his origin story is completely changed and this subsequently changes his characterization. For Ubbe, I’ll mainly be discussing the Gesta Danorum, though Ubbe is briefly mentioned in the tale of Ragnar’s sons (as “Husto”) all that is really said about him is that he’s one of Ragnar’s illegitimate children. But anyway, in the Gesta Danorum, Ubbe is indeed Ragnar’s illegitimate son, born out of an affair with a woman of lower-birth. As far as I can tell, this class difference creates some resentment in Ubbe, because there is a line about how he respects his mother more than his father. Later, Ubbe’s paternal grandfather convinces him to stage a rebellion against Ragnar. Ubbe asks his half-brother Bjorn for help, but Bjorn prefers to fight by his father’s side. Interestingly, Ivar picks neither side, claiming that there is no honor in fighting against family. Either way, it’s Ubbe and his grandfather against Ragnar and Bjorn. Ragnar wins and kills Ubbe’s grandfather for inciting the rebellion and Ubbe eventually is captured. After Ragnar’s son Hvitserk dies, before Ragnar leaves to take vengeance, he forgives Ubbe for his rebellion. After that Ubbe disappears from the narrative.

Now in Vikings, Ubbe’s origin is again… completely different! Rather than being the an illegitimate son whose mother was of a much lower social class than his father… now he’s the legitimate son of a princess and an earl/well regarded hero! He’s not an only child anymore, now he’s an eldest son, with many younger brothers to look after. As well, his father isn’t a king whose achievements lay in conquest and forging an empire, but rather a king whose dream was to find farming land. So he transforms from a resentful and ambitious son into a responsible, unambitious son. Power is given to him so easily, he doesn’t need to take it by force and rather than taking away his father’s empire, he aims to fulfill his father’s dream.

So much changes for Ubbe once he becomes Aslaug’s son, you could say his fortunes are completely reversed! It’s funny in a way, Ubbe in the show complained about Margrethe having so many ambitions, perhaps because of his princely upbringing. However, Ubbe in the Gesta Danorum has a far more troubled background and the way he straddles class lines makes him far more ambitious and willing to challenge the societal norms.

Ivar:

So… Ivar is unique case, because I don’t think his “character flip” comes from the changes in his origin, like with the other two, but rather in Hirst borrowing from multiple other sources for Ivar. The dichotomy that comes from reading sources about Ivar are fascinating, you get the sense that the Ivar of the Great Heathen Army and the Ivar of Ragnar’s saga were two very different people lol. In sources such as the Íslendingabók or the writings of Adam of Bremen, Ivar is an evil pagan, the cruelest of all tyrants, continuously waging war, killing and torturing christians. But, interestingly, Ivar is not “boneless” in these sources, no mention is made of him having a disability (unless there is another source I am forgetting?). Now, in Ragnar’s saga, Ivar is very different. He is born disabled, the result of his father ignoring his mother’s prophecy. He is the eldest son and all his brothers follow him because he’s the wisest and most clever of them. He is so well-regarded, that when his brothers try to go to war without him, they’re not able to gather that many forces. He takes vengeance for his father without technically ever going to war and he rules well, watching over England even after he dies. There is a line in the tale of ragnar’s sons about how he didn’t lack cruelty, but… it seems like he is only cruel under very specific circumstances.

So, Ivar’s “origin” is changed a little bit, he goes from the eldest son to the youngest, so he has to fight for control against his brothers. He’s less responsible and more resentful. However, it seems that unlike Sigurd and Ubbe, whose new characterizations follow largely from changes in the story… Ivar’s personality in the show is the result of grafting his characterization from various other sources onto his backstory in Ragnar’s saga. Now, we have an Ivar who was born disabled and is a cruel, angry Pagan. Ivar does inspire loyalty… but as a tyrant, he also inspires fear in the people he rules over. Now, he kills one brother and gladly goes to war against the others, something he refused to do in both the Gesta Danorum and Ragnar’s saga. He’s still clever, but now he’s impatient and has rage issues, rather than being able to maintain a level of calm and work on long term plans like he does in Ragnar’s saga.

I… struggle, with this change more than with the others tbh. There’s nothing inherently wrong with changing an origin or pulling from multiple sources, but in the implication and effect they have on the story. While I don’t really care that Sigurd isn’t a mama’s boy or that Ubbe is a responsible son in the show, I’m not sure if I appreciate the decision to keep the disability of his Saga characterization but to cast him as a cruel, monstrous tyrant, as he is portrayed in other sources. It feels especially egregious when his brothers are painted as more noble and fighting against him. I wonder if there was maybe a middle line that you could have walked, either by making Ivar a little less gleefully evil or by making his brothers a little less virtuous.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 63: Hair

After the war, after his eighth year at Hogwarts, after training to be an Auror, after quitting that soul-sucking job, and after accepting the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, Harry started to let his hair grow out. It wasn’t intentional at first, not really, he was just unbelievably busy teaching. But after a few months, his hair, which had always had a mind of its own, had grown long enough that the wavy-curls brushed his jaw.

He'd looked at himself in the mirror one morning and heard his Aunt Petunia's voice in his head, scolding him and telling him that only girls had long hair. He told that voice in his head to fuck right off and kept growing his hair out.

Not that it mattered what anyone else thought, but nearly everyone had said that his hair suited him. The exception, as it so often seemed to be, was Draco Malfoy. It wasn't as that the Potion's Professor had said outright that he didn't like Harry's hair, but his eyes were always slightly narrowed as though his hair was doing something offensive just by existing. Harry couldn’t understand it.

It all came to a head one afternoon, Harry was in the staff room grading papers and generally minding his own business, when Malfoy marched in and plopped down a pile of his own parchments on the table to mark, “Do you mind if I work here, too?” he asked.

"Not at all," Harry said, gesturing to the place Malfoy had already decided to occupy. He looked down and marked his place on the paper he was struggling through before looking up at Draco and pushing his hair out of his face.

Draco rolled his eyes and gave his head a little shake.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, very clearly looking at Harry’s wild curls.

He sighed, “Out with it.” It had been a very long day, in Harry’s defense, and he just couldn't take another minute more.

“It’s nothing,” Draco insisted, even as his eyes flicked over to where Harry’s fingers were toying with the ends of a strand of hair.

“What have you got against my hair, Malfoy?”

(Read more below the cut)

“Oh, it’s back to Malfoy is it?” he asked, voice light and teasing. “I haven’t got anything against your hair,” he repeated.

“Come on," Harry urged, "You think because your hair is cut short and is always a perfect quiff that it’s better than mine?” Harry asked, and he knew it was childish but he couldn’t stand Draco thinking mean things about his hair for one more instant. “Do you think I look like a girl?”

“What?” Draco asked, sounding startled. “Of course I don’t think you look like a girl. What are you even saying? My father always had long hair, if you remember,” Harry flushed, knowing that was indeed the case. “And while my hair does, as you said, always look perfect,” he added with a smirk, “Your hair is very nice as well. Very healthy, the curls suit you.”

Harry felt his neck grow warm at the compliment, “Then why are you always glaring at it?”

“Because you’re always fussing with it. When you’re anxious or grading papers, it seems like it’s in your way and there are a million things you could do with it so it wouldn’t hassle you so.”

“Like what, cut it?”

“No, don’t be an idiot,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

“Then what?” Harry muttered, petulantly pushing his hair out of his face once more.

“Like a plait, or a bun, a twist, a half bun even. There are also a myriad of products that could help you.”

Harry chewed on his lip, shoving his curls back behind his ear and thinking about what the other man was suggesting.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Draco muttered. "Here," he snapped, standing up and moving around the table near Harry.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked.

Draco's fingers slipped into his hair, "Trust me."

I do. Harry thought as Draco's fingers started weaving through his hair. It felt surprisingly nice, actually, and Harry found his eyes drifting shut.

"There," Draco said and Harry opened his eyes to see that he'd conjured a mirror and was holding it up for Harry to look into. He'd braided part of his hair back, clasping the hair that was always in his face and pulling it back into a barrette while the rest remained down around his shoulders.

"Thanks," Harry said.

"No problem," Draco replied carelessly as he sat back down to grade papers.

Harry went back to marking his own and they graded in silence for quite a while until Harry spoke up, "This is actually pretty nice."

"Hmm?" Draco hummed, scratching out something a student had written and writing a note in the margins.

"Having my hair back," Harry replied.

Draco looked up at him, giving him a little smile, "You have perfect hair for braids and buns, lots of volume."

"This would be good for teaching," Harry mused, "Especially on days like tomorrow when I have my older students practicing dueling."

"I could stop by in the morning before breakfast," Draco offered, "put it in a braid or something?"

"I wouldn't want to impose-"

"It's no imposition," Draco interrupted. "Honestly, I'll be glad not to watch you fiddling with it all day."

-----

And so began their tradition of Draco stopping by Harry's rooms before breakfast. Harry made coffee for both of them and they enjoyed the quiet together while Draco did something with Harry's hair.

How he would do Harry's hair each morning was always a mystery but every day when he showed him the finished result, something warm and pleased unfurled in Harry's chest.

After about a month of this Draco asked him one morning, "What's your hair care routine like?"

Harry shrugged, eye's closed as Draco's fingers worked through his curls, "shower, shampoo, conditioner," he replied. "Every other day usually."

"That's it?" he asked.

"What else is there?" Harry replied, too relaxed by the way Draco's fingers were moving through his hair to get worked up by his indignant tone.

"Potter, do you know what I did while you were training to be an Auror and all that nonsense?”

“Err? Your potions proficiencies?” Harry ventured.

“Well, yes, obviously,” he said as he tucked some hair up into what Harry suspected was becoming an elaborate bun at the base of his neck. “But I also developed potions for a beauty company. Especially potions for healthy hair.” Harry felt a hair pin sliding into place, “when Minerva offered me this position I almost didn’t take it. I had several offers from businesses who wanted to fund my research and allow me to build a brand for them.”

"Really?" Harry asked. "I didn't know that."

"Yes," he replied, "And you are literally killing me. We're going to start doing weekly conditioning masks for your curls. Spa night," he demanded. "Every Saturday."

"Alright," Harry agreed.

"I'll bring the hair care and skin care supplements."

Harry hummed, "Alright. What should I bring?"

"Dinner."

-----------

So they did. Spa nights on Saturdays and Draco every morning to do something different with his hair, and he loved every moment of it.

Harry had never been a morning person but for the first time in his life he found himself looking forward to being awake and out of bed each morning. He was happy and his hair seemed to be, too.

It seemed impossible, but Harry's hair had grown and grown and grown in the past five months since Draco had started all of this. His wavy curls reached halfway down his back by this point and Draco never seemed to tire of coming up with new ways to do his hair.

One warm Sunday afternoon in May, Harry invited Draco for a picnic and Draco had given him a pleased smile and said yes.

They found a quiet spot on a hill and ate lunch while they chatted and laughed as they watched students goofing around and generally just having fun.

"Merlin," Draco laughed as a group of second years rolled down the hill, sending up puffs of dandelions in the wind, "Were we ever that young."

"Honestly?" Harry asked, glancing over and tossing the curls that Draco had left loose over his shoulder, "I don't think so."

Draco frowned at him, "Even before you knew about Voldemort?" he asked.

Harry laughed and looked at the kids who were skipping rocks over the lake, "Especially then."

Draco moved to kneel behind him, taking down the part of Harry's hair that he'd put up earlier that morning, "Tell me about it?" he asked softly.

He hummed, "Not much to tell, really," he replied.

Draco's fingers started at the hair just above his right temple, "Tell me anyway?"

"Well this," he sighed as Draco started braiding, "Would never have been allowed. Long hair was for girls."

"Pfft," Draco huffed.

Harry smiled, "they," he swallowed, the words still somehow causing him bitter grief, "they didn't want me."

"What?"

"Just," he shrugged, "They had their own child and I was just a burden dumped on them. I wasn't allowed to be a child, I was there to do chores and not get in the way. Everything about me was wrong from my skin color, to my hair, to my eyesight, to my accidental magic."

"That's horrible."

"Yeah," he agreed, "But it was a long time ago. And I turned out alright."

"You did," Draco affirmed and Harry saw him pluck a flower from the grass beside them.

"Were you allowed to be a kid?" Harry asked.

"Sort of." Harry saw flowers zip past him and into Draco's outstretched hand. "There were things that were befitting of Malfoys and things that weren't. Anything that was appropriate for an heir of a noble pureblood house was fair game."

"Draco?"

"Mmhmm?" he hummed.

"It's been nice defying my childhood with you."

When Draco spoke he could hear the smile in his voice, "Likewise, Harry." He tied off the elaborate seven-strand braid he'd been working on and put it over Harry's shoulder to show him to flowers he'd woven in.

"Beautiful," Harry murmured, brushing his fingers over the array of flowers.

"Yes, you are," he replied.

Harry's gaze snapped up to find Draco watching him closely. "There's another way that I'd very much like to defy my upbringing with you," he ventured, clinging to every shred of Griffyndor bravery he'd ever possessed.

"Oh?" Draco asked with a little smile.

He nodded and reached out to cup Draco's cheek in his palm, "Can I kiss you?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Draco replied, leaning in and pressing his lips to Harry's as he buried his fingers in Harry's hair.

And if several groups of students caught sight of the two of them kissing on the hill, well, no one was surprised.

-----------

ahhhh! Sorry friends. This one got a bit out of control. I was just feeling a lot of feelings about Harry having long hair.

Side note, if anyone feels inspired draw Draco doing Harry's lovely flower braid (and I'm not saying it has to be @pato-roldnart but I'm obsessed with your art) I'd love that more than anything.

AHHHHH pato-roldnart did the thing! Look at this GORGEOUS art. I'm in love, please go look at it!

Anyway! I hope you guys enjoy it even though it's long! <3 Thanks for the prompt anon!

Day 62: Clothes | Day 64: Shower

[mandoalorian]

The Secret Of The Wish [Max Lord x F!Reader] SEX POLLEN

Summary: You’re a new intern for the Wall Street Journal, sent out to interview Maxwell Lord, a businessman who has suddenly found financial success in the oil drilling industry. When you ask him what does he owe his success to, he gives you a surprisingly honest answer: through the power of the wish. You make the mistake of humouring him, and playing along with his little story until he proves to you just how powerful wishing can be.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT (sex pollen in the form of wish granting therefore there is automatic dub-con) unprotected p in v, male oral, handjob, tit play, butt play, spanking, cockwarming, creampie, degradation, praise kink, office sex, power-shift, dom/sub dynamic, implied age difference, mutual pining.

Word count: 4400>

Masterlist

REBLOGS appreciated! 🤍

Black Gold Cooperative was booming with business. Even the outside of the building was swamped with hundreds of people who were desperate to get inside and speak to Mr Lord himself. Luckily, you were a journalist for the esteemed Wall Street Journal and your position in the company had earned yourself an interview with the successful CEO. The entire world had thousands upon thousands of questions for Maxwell Lord, and you were the lucky intern who got to meet with him on this humid Wednesday afternoon.

A tall blonde woman who you assumed was his secretary, led you to his office. All his employees seemed to be young, attractive and wore only the best designer clothes. It was almost intimidating. You couldn’t mess this up. You were conducting an interview with one of the most successful people alive - this could actually be your big break in the industry. Taking a deep breath, you made an attempt to swallow away your nerves before making your way into his own private office.

It was extensive in size, with large plants and statues in every corner and on every surface. Honestly, you found his taste in furnishings to be quite tacky. You knew it was just his way of bragging about how wealthy he was without actually saying anything. He was neck deep in paperwork and he hadn’t even noticed you were just standing there, in his office. Your eyes flicked across his messy desk, taking in the sight of multiple opened bottles of vitamins, colourful smoothies and other supplements. You made a mental note, not exactly pinning the salesman as a health freak. You’d been standing there for longer than you’d anticipated and he still hadn’t looked up, so you cleared your throat and prepared to grab his attention.

“Mr Lord… I’m here on behalf of Wall Street Journal, we’re doing a segment on Company Sudden Search....” you began to introduce yourself but a roll of his eyes and a flimsy yet disapproving gesture of his hand cut you off.

“Yeah yeah, I know,” he grumbled, taking a swing of his green juice before fastening the cap back on the bottle and pulling a face of disgust. If he thought it tasted so bad, why was he drinking it? Maxwell took a minute trying to compose himself for the interview. He’d waited his whole life to be interviewed by the Wall Street Journal and no matter how bad his migraine was… he couldn’t mess this up.

In fact… there was something about the way Maxwell Lord looked in this moment. His bottle blonde hair was sticking up in random places, probably due to the beads of sweat that laced his forehead. His tie was pulled open and his suit jacket was crinkled, yet he still made the effort to keep it on for whatever reason. He didn’t look like the persuasive, bright eyed salesman on the television, that’s for sure. You supposed all those studio lights could make anyone look different, but that didn’t necessarily mean he looked bad. He didn’t look sick as such, just a little disheveled. He kept rubbing his temples as if he had a killer headache. You considered asking him if he was okay, but that wasn’t why you were here.

The prolonged silence made Max Lord look up at you from the many papers on his desk. He was frowning, and if one thing was clear, it looked like he was having a bad day. It looked like he could do with some major stress relief. The first two buttons of his pinstripe shirt were open, and his collar was wonky, and honestly? You had to fight the urge to stalk over to him and help him out. You imagined running your fingers through his golden hair, caressing his face and letting your hands wander down his chest. You imagined whispering dirty little things into his ear until he ached for you. There was something about teasing a higher-up that you just couldn’t resist. Nevertheless, you cursed yourself for the inappropriate thoughts. You were a young intern for one of the most successful journalism companies… and shit, he was the CEO of what had suddenly become the richest organization in the world. He was a powerful man, more powerful than you knew. It would be foolish to mess around with a man like Maxwell Lord.

Maxwell took a shaky exhale and done what he could do best. Fake a smile. Feign confidence. Pretend like he was okay... like he had it together. He promised himself that he would not lose control of his power— he couldn’t— but this moment was only the start of his descent into madness. He never knew how hungry he could get... how satisfying his power could be, until he met you.

“Come here sweetheart,” his frown curled upwards into a smirk and his eyes began to gleam again, just like they did on his famous infomercials. His voice became a little louder, and a little more confident as he stood up and padded around his desk, pulling out a chair for you to sit down on. You hesitated, his change in attitude wasn't lost on you, but still, you obliged, and shuffled into the golden plush chair. The material was so soft and you struggled to suppress a moan. “Everything okay?” he asked you, placing a large ring clad hand on your shoulder and giving you a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah I just… I’ve never sat on anything so comfortable.” you confessed, shuffling around. Maxwell’s eyes lit up with desire at your comment and his gaze fixated on your face.

“Really?” Never?” he chuckled lightly, brushing his thumb against his lower lip as he took in your appearance. Just the shape of your perfect body was enough to initiate something primal in him. The tightness of your blouse and the vision of your short pencil skirt that cut off mid-thigh already had his cock straining against his tailored suit pants. “I can think of at least one more comfortable thing in this office for you to sit on.”

You’d be lying if you said you were unfazed by his little flirtation. If any other middle aged man had said something so crude to you, you’d have snapped back with something witty to put them in their place. But Maxwell Lord wasn’t any man and his charm alone had cast you under a spell. Your knees were weak and you felt like putty under his touch. Even when he removed his hand from your shoulder, you felt completely and utterly submissive to him. 

You cleared your throat and opened up your notepad. “I’m just here to ask you a few questions…” you told the businessman, biting your lip nervously. Maxwell nodded and sat on the edge of his desk, waiting patiently for you to get started. “So uhm, Forbes is reveling in the fact you’re self made… but not much is known about your past. We don’t know about your family or where you come from… is there anything relevant you’d like to share with the world?” you asked curiously.

And for the first time, Maxwell Lord broke his gaze with you and looked down at the carpeted floor. “There’s not much to say, really.” he said, but there was something in his tone of voice that indicated he wasn’t willing to provide any further details. Hoping you hadn’t struck a sensitive cord with him, you glanced back down at your notepad to ask him another question.

“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but not much is known about your personal life. A handsome, wealthy man like yourself can’t be single, right?” you asked, even startling yourself over how over bearing you’d begun to sound. Maxwell let out a chuckle and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I’m single, yes. Tell me darling, is this Wall Street Journal or US Weekly?” he joked, and you felt a flush of heat radiate your cheeks. You knew better.

“I’m sorry. It was an unprofessional question,” you quickly backtracked. “Do you uhm… do you have a pen… I could borrow?” You asked awkwardly, feeling a little irked over how flustered his simple presence had made you. You'd been so nervous to actually meet with Max Lord, you'd even forgotten to bring something to write with. You were so embarassed. But Maxwell was hardly paying attention to your lack of organization, and instead he just smiled and grabbed a gold encrusted company pen from his desk. “Thank you.” you said timidly. “Can I ask you something?”

“That’s why you’re here… isn’t it?” he retorted playfully. 

“The interview is about Company Sudden Search and for some reason there are no questions about your company… just you,” you frowned apologetically. You hadn't come up with the questions, one of your executives had. You were just there to look pretty and milk as much information out of him as you could. “I guess the world is curious about you, Mr Lord. More curious about your private life than this empire that you have created. But Black Gold Cooperative had been off the grid for many years only prior to this week and now suddenly you’re the wealthiest company in the world. You’re the richest man in the US. And data shows absolute no correlation towards that. Your purchased oil wells were dry until one day they just weren’t. It wasn’t gradual, but Mr Lord, we are living during the Cold War and oil is as scarce enough as it is. How… how did this happen? You must know something.”

As you rambled on, Maxwell stared dead into you. You hadn’t been asked to say this, this was coming from your own interest. You had done your own digging about this (just like any successful journalist would), snooping into Maxwell’s business and finding out exactly which oil fields he owned and how much oil was in them in the first place. This wasn’t coming from the Wall Street Journal. This was coming from you. Maxwell never expected to be confronted with such a question. You were practically trapping him, but the way you could swindle the truth out of him was an attractive quality of yours. Not many people could get the truth out of Max Lord.

Maxwell chuckled lightly. He could tell you. It wouldn't make much of a difference. Besides, you’d be foolish to believe the truth. You’d think he’d gone insane. Had he gone insane? These damn migraines… he was drunk on power… his mind had become corrupt with the idea of fortune and success. And he needed this interview to go well.

Maxwell grinned, as charming as ever, and took both of your hands. “I made a wish.” he told you, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You paused, unsure what to make of his comment. Was he making a joke? It didn’t sound like he was joking. In fact he sounded more serious than ever. “Like… upon a star?” you asked, giggling only slightly in attempt to make a judgement of whether or not he was just messing with you. Maxwell smirked and nodded his head. He’d expected that you wouldn’t believe him.

“On my journey to self fulfilment I locked into a secret, the secret of the wish. So I wished for it. Or, someone wished for it for me…” Maxwell explained, talking in tongue twisters. His fingers brushed over your knuckles. As you listened to him, he noticed the way your eyebrows knotted together in bewilderment. He was definitely serious about the wishing thing. But if he wasn’t going to be honest with you, then maybe this interview was more trouble than it was worth. Just as you were about to break away your contact with his hands, he continued. “Tell me what you wish for you and I will show you how it works.”

That was quite the proposal coming from him.

You blinked. “Uhm…” He stared at you, waiting for you to come up with some kind of answer. You supposed that you could always just humour him. “So you’re like a genie?”

“I’m Max Lord, sweetheart, and I can make your darkest fantasies come true as long as you just say the word.” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

The sexual tension between you both was undeniable, and it had been since you had entered his office. His already chocolate brown eyes had darkened considerably with lust. You pursed your lips together into a fine line and you tried your very best to ignore the fact that your lace panties were damp with arousal. You knew he was powerful. Strong… sexy. You’d been in his office for barely five minutes and he already had a hold on you.

“I suppose I’d want success in my career. It’s hard… being taken seriously, as a woman in journalism. It would be nice to just feel respected amongst my peers.” you confessed.

“The people at Wall Street don’t respect you?” Maxwell asked, and you swore that for a split second he sounded genuinely concerned.

“Uhm… I feel like I’m not really at liberty to discuss that. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.” you scrunched up your nose.

“Because you deserve respect, miss Y/L/N.” Maxwell promised you, his hand sinking down to caress your thigh. You gasped under his touch and looked up at the ceiling. “Is this alright… me touching you like this?” he cooed, tracing circles over your pantyhose.

“Mm.” you mumbled in agreement, your eyes fluttering shut as his fingers dipped under the hem of your skirt.

“So if you could wish for one thing… one thing at this very moment in time, it would be for success in your career? Is that true?” Maxwell quizzed, eyeing you up with curiosity.

No.

It wasn’t true.

In fact your career— this interview— was the last thing on your mind.

Fuck.

Silently, you shook your head. “So darling, tell me, what would you wish for?”

You sighed in defeat, remembering that you’d just humour him. It wasn’t exactly professional but he wasn’t helping you out either. Just go along with it, you told yourself. You finally looked back down at him and saw that his lips were moist from where he’d hungrily licked at them, his eyes fixated on your breasts and the way he could just about see the lace print underneath the thin material.

“I’d wish for you…” you shakily exhaled. And that caught his attention. His gaze flicked up to meet yours and he waited for you to continue. “I’d wish for you to let me use you to get what I want. You’re rich… powerful… wealthy…” A gust of air distracted you and a breeze blew through your hair. The windows weren’t open, the fan wasn’t on, and Maxwell looked completely and utterly spent over your revelation. It had just came out of nowhere. There was a few beats of silence and Max looked you up and down.

“What do you want?” he croaked meekly. He removed his hand from your thigh and his whole demeanor changed in a split second.

When you noticed how stiff his manhood was, and the way his precum had already leaked out onto the grey material of his pants, it stirred something up inside of you. He wanted this too, that much was clear.

And now, the roles had reversed. You were no longer the shy intern interviewing the big name CEO, you were a sexy journalist who’s nipples had hardened significantly and you had this fresh yet welcoming air of power to you. There were two people in this office and yet suddenly, you were the one in control.

Maxwell’s perfect, plush lips had parted and his dark eyes followed you as you stood up from your seat. He looked down at the wet patch from where you were sitting and gulped, imagining just how great it would feel to slide his fingers through your folds and feel your arousal himself.

All for him.

“I think you know.” you replied softly, sitting him down in the golden chair that you had once made yourself comfortable in. You pulled off his crumpled suit jacket and discarded his tie, throwing it haphazardly onto his already messy desk, and then sunk down to your knees, spreading his legs apart.

You began to palm at his erection through his pants, involuntarily licking your lips as your fingers danced around his growing bulge. “Ngh- fucking tease.” he groaned, his eyes snapping shut the second he felt you begin to work at removing his belt. You pulled down his zipper and reached into his pants, pulling his cock free. He wasn’t enormous, but definitely above average, and thicker than you’d ever taken before.

“You just need someone to make you feel nice, don’t you?” you cooed gently before licking a stripe up the base of his cock. “All this stress from work… huh? From making people’s wishes come true.”

“You… you have no idea.” Maxwell grunted, his cock twitching in your hands as you pressed a sweet little kiss to his head. His slit was still leaking with precum and you were desperate to get a taste of the CEO. You gave him a small kitten lick, relishing the saltiness of his seed. He was delicious.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Sure, Maxwell was hard before you’d even made the wish, but holy crap, he didn’t expect for this to actually happen. And neither did you. You assumed he was lying, just like he lied about everything else in his life. Afterall, who was going to believe a man who told you his success was owed to wish granting? 

“Mr Lord… you’re so big.” you sighed longingly before making an attempt to attach your lips around his cock. He looked down at you and let his hands grip the back of your head as you sucked on his sensitive tip. 

Who would've guessed that a good blowjob was exactly what Max Lord needed to feel better about himself?

Max felt like he was in heaven. He was already seeing stars. He’d been granting peoples wishes left, right and centre. He wasn’t necessarily touch starved but it had been a good few weeks since he’d gone without sex; his only motivation being to find and harness the power of the dreamstone. But you were giving him the best head he’d ever had in his life. It was like everything was pent up inside of him. His balls were tight and he was achingly hard and in a moment of pure lust, he thrusted his hips deep into your mouth. The sudden movement had you gagging and a trail of saliva mixed with his precum dripped down your lips. You pulled off him, gasping for air but quickly wrapped your lips back around him and taking his length even further than before. If he filled your mouth this good, you wondered how he’d feel filling your pussy.

“Not gonna last… fuck!” Maxwell cried, his cum shamelessly spurting into your mouth. His load was massive and he doubled out of you, the remnants of his seed spilling against your lips and down your chin. His heart was beating rapidly against his chest as he took in the appearance of you, down on your knees, in between his legs, with his milky white cum all over your pretty face.

Despite his orgasm, Maxwell was still hard. He still craved more. More of a release from you. It must’ve been your wish that created this desperation that dwelled inside of him.

“More,” he pleaded, his eyes round and doe-like. “Please, I need more.”

“Say less.” you whispered, unbuttoning your blouse and pulling down your skirt and pantyhose so you were simply just standing there in your white lingerie set. You looked so pure and innocent, and yet you were in absolute full control of this situation. You were the one dominating him.

“You said you wish to use me, so use me.” Maxwell begged as he extended his arms and made grabby fists, desperate for you to come over and help him out. 

He was right. This was your wish. You could play along with this for as long as you wanted. You removed your panties, unclipped your bra and discarded the garments, letting your breasts fall free. Maxwell’s jaw dropped at the sight of you and you stalked over to him. You straddled him and sat on his lap.

With one hand, you wrapped your fingers around his cock again and began to slowly jerk it, beginning a handjob which was more than pleasant for him. With your free hand, you grabbed onto his shoulder and steadied yourself, before stretching your body and pressing one of your breasts into his mouth. His lips latched around your tit immediately and he began to suck on your nipple as you continued to rub his cock. You moaned with pleasure, tossing your head back as his tongue worked at the hard little bud.

You subconsciously found yourself riding his thigh, dragging your dripping wet cunt along his expensive pants and making an absolute mess of them. He experimentally flexed the muscles in his thigh a few times, trying to gauge a reaction out of you and see how you liked it. His teeth grazed your breast and he let himself get a little too excited, peppering love bites all over your chest.

“Yes, that’s it,” Maxwell groaned. “Take what you need sweet girl.” he praised.

You whimpered when he flexed his thigh again and you felt yourself begin to reach your climax. You clenched around nothing and his cock was throbbing in your hand. You knew he needed more too.

You let go of him and he pulled his mouth off your tit with a ‘pop’. You cupped his face with both your hands and adjusted yourself slightly, this time so the tip of his cock was pressed against your entrance. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for his stretch before sinking down onto his length, settling balls deep. “Fuck… Fuck fuck fuck,” you chanted, your eyes squeezing tight shut as he filled you.

“Move.” he gasped, biting down on your shoulder. You whimpered and tugged on his golden hair, sending him into an absolute frenzy.

“Fuck, Mr Lord… oh god please, you’re so fucking big.” you cried, tears of pleasure pricking your eyes. He wanted you to move, sure, but this was your wish, and you were more than happy to just sit on and warm his cock for a few minutes.

Your walls were tight and perfect around him, just like he’d imagined. You brought your finger down to your cunt and began to rub at your clit as his cock stretched you out. Your moans of gratification echoed throughout the extensively sized office and you felt your juices drip down his cock.

“So good,” he whispered. “Move, please.”

“Mmm,” you couldn’t even fumble out words, and your vision was nothing less than a haze.

He rubbed the pad of his finger against your puckered asshole before sliding it in. Your body tensed up at the intrusion but God did it feel good. “Fucking move.” he growled, biting down on your earlobe as he began to thrust his index finger in and out of you.

Maxwell brought a hand down to cup your ass and he gave you a rough spanking. “Move.” He repeated, this time his tone a lot more demanding and less polite than the first time.

And just like that— he was in control again.

You obliged, not wanting to irk him any more, and began to bounce on his cock. “Greedy bitch,” he grunted, spanking you again. “Fuck… thinking you can use my dick for your own pleasure, huh? Everything comes with a price.” he hissed as you rolled your hips over his manhood.

“Oh Mr Lord.” you sighed with every movement, as his cock pressed against that sweet spot inside of you.

“You just couldn’t resist it, could you?” Maxwell asked rhetorically, a villainous smirk crossing his lips. “One great wish and you wish to ride my fucking cock," He had a point. People had come to him wishing for Porsche's, political power,— and you, with your whole chest, had wished to be the one who could pleasure him. Help him let go. “Shit baby, you take me so well.”

Despite his growls of degradation you knew he wasn’t going to last long, if the way his cock throbbed inside of you was anything to go by. You didn’t mind though. He could disrespect you all he wanted. You were more than happy to be Maxwell Lord’s little cumslut. His little whore.

“G-gonna cum, oh fuck, please.” you screamed, pressing your fingernails into his back as you rode out your high.

“Yes,” he moaned wantonly. “Soak my cock.” And with those three words, you came undone, sat on top of the richest and most successful CEO in the world. “Are you safe?” he asked, his hips bucking up into your sensitive core.

“I am.” you confirmed, and without even asking for permission, he spilt his seed inside of you, ruthlessly painting your walls with his cum.

He kept his cock inside of you until it softened and slipped out, and you mumbled something incoherent at the loss of his fullness. Maxwell watched your chest as you heaved, making every attempt you could to catch your breath. He pressed a sweet kiss into your collar bone, and then up your neck and along your jaw. You relished the feeling of his lips against skin; post coital bliss fostering your every thought.

“You’re a good girl,” he whispered, rubbing the curve of his nose against your neck. “I grant you your wish, and in return, I give you the utmost success in your career.” he sighed, and for the very first time Maxwell Lord said something completely and utterly selfless. It was through no gain to him whatsoever. You didn’t deserve to be looked down upon by your peers and employers, he knew that much. And if he had the chance to change that, he sure as hell would. 

“You will achieve things no journalist has achieved before, you will be rich, and be the first to seize every opportunity.” he said in between kisses.

To you, he was just whispering sweet nothings into your ear, humouring your larger-than-life dreams and ambitions. But if there was one thing that Maxwell Lord admired in a woman, it was her aspiration and goals. If you were brave enough to waltz into his office as let him cum all over you, you definitely deserve this. At that moment, you had no idea that Maxwell Lord would change your life forever...

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[theyreonlynoodlesmike]

Coin Toss (Star x Michael, Poly!Lost Boys x Michael)

Warnings: cursing, mentions of bloodlust

Word Count: 1.9k

A role reversal fic where Michael is a full vampire that spots a new girl on the boardwalk

When Star came to Santa Carla, she thought she knew what to expect. She'd lived in countless cities. She'd hitch-hiked up and down the entire west coast ever since she's left home the day she'd turned eighteen. She'd had nothing more than a suitcase full of necessities, the clothes on her back, and money she'd been saving since she’d gotten her working papers.

Now, that very same suitcase was tattered and patched up as best as it could be, and her most recent ride had wished her luck when they dropped her off in the beach-side town. For a trip with no exact destination in mind, it was as good as a place to stop as any. It was almost dark, and Star knew better than to accept rides after the sun set. So, she counted her cash, bought the cheapest room she could find, and began her search for a steady income. At least, for a few weeks. She knew that if the search turned out to be fruitless, she could always scalp a few townies with some of her less treasured possessions. They wouldn't know the difference between real vintage and fake if she slapped them with it, and most town folk were used to exuberant prices anyways. She could sell the ring off her finger for twenty-five bucks if she needed to, and, in 1987, that could, at least, get her food for a couple of days. 

Star also knew better than to entertain a distraction like a boy. She was supposed to be looking at the help wanted posters stapled to the bulletin boards, not catching a Jim Morrison look-alikes stare. 

He had a dark brown mullet and stubble dusting a cut jaw and a handsome face. He was wearing shades, even if it was nighttime. She'd only seen his eyes the second time she'd glanced over, and it'd only been a fraction of a second. She thought she'd felt someone staring, and she'd watched as he pulled them down his nose and how his lips curled up into a smug smile. She expected his eyes to be red and glassy, as that was the only reason she thought he'd need the shades. Instead, for a flicker of a second, she saw that they were clear and blue. While she was the one who had caught him staring, somehow he made her feel embarrassed. The flush rushing up to her cheeks caused her to quickly turn her head, her curls bouncing as she reached out to rip off the first piece of paper her hand made contact with. She didn't even register what it was as she tried to recover. 

He was obviously a biker, as the machine he sat on and his friends besides him gave it away. He was flanked with two on either side, and, while all of them were attractive, the middle brunette had caught her attention first. They were punks, or, at least, his friends were. The middle one only wore a t-shirt and jeans, with the only thing giving him a bit of an edge being the leather jacket he wore. She'd known both good and bad when it came to that type, and briefly recalled a biker gang that had given her a ride all the way from Oregon to Washington. And the others that were the reason she carried a knife in her bag. It wasn't the most impressive bike out of the line, as his bleach haired friend was sitting on a Triumph. But it was better than nothing, which was what she had. She glanced over at him once more, and caught his eyes again.

He'd kept his glasses down, and it seemed his eyes hadn't left her in the seconds she'd looked away. She could hear his friends jeering and racketing, but it almost seemed to fade as she really caught sight of those ocean blues. She watched as he clicked his jaw, an amused smile on his face, but Star almost registered none of it. She didn't even register the way his friend slapped his shoulder, or the fact that it wasn't just his attention that she'd caught now. The sounds and lights of the boardwalk almost seemed to fade away, and an almost foreign thought danced around in her mind. I should talk to him. If she was able to focus on anything, she would've noticed the oddness of the thought. Sure, she knew that she could have fun sometimes. But never the first night in a new place. Still, her feet were almost aching to step forward. She hadn't even noticed that the overly-packed boardwalk was weirdly sparse in this area. As if the locals knew better. Usually, a decision like this, and like most, was like throwing a coin in the air.

It wasn't until the brunette pushed his glasses up that she was able to pull her eyes away, and she glanced down at the paper in her hands. It was a missing poster, and, in her shock, she dropped it. It was enough to dispel the previous thought from her head, and she reminded herself of just how many missing posters she'd seen on her walk. She dared to cast the group of bikers one more glance, before she decided that, good or bad, she needed to keep her head down for awhile. 

***

"Swing and a miss, Mikey." Paul laughed besides him, and Michael scoffed as he readjusted his grip on his handlebars. They watched as the girl Michael had been trying to reel in walked away, getting swept up like a leaf in a current by the ever-moving stream of Santa Carla's crowd.

"You're getting better." David said to him from the other side of Dwayne, but Michael didn't want his encouragement. He wanted dinner. He'd been turned for over a month, and he still couldn't get mind-tricks to stick. The second he thought so, David said besides him, "It takes time, Michael." And he didn't know if it was the hand Dwayne put on his shoulder or those words that made him snap.

Michael was known to have a short fuse even before he became a blood-thirsty creature of the night. They remembered the first night how he'd punched David clear across his face. Vampirism didn't make his anger issues much better, and, even with some herbal supplement from Paul, Michael had a hard time keeping himself calm when his thirst was acting up. 

"Fuck that. I'll get her my way." He said, shaking off Dwaynes hand and nearly taking the handlebars with him when he pushed himself off his bike. The boys didn't even try to stop him. Michael was like a freight train at the best of times, and it was only by sheer luck that David was able to steer him in the right direction most of the time. As Michael walked off, Marko called,

"And what's your way, Michael?" And the brunette only replied with a single finger as he disappeared into the crowd. It earned a round of laughter, but David shook his head and sighed out a mouthful of smoke. 

"Maybe he'll learn." Dwayne said, his voice half hopeful. David shot him a look. He doubted it, but he didn't bother stating so. He crossed his arms, leaning forward on his bike. He could feel that Michael was out there, smell him, but he couldn't see him. He was lost to the crowd, and, unless he wanted to do a mental tap, they'd have to wait for him to return. With or without the girl. 

But it wasn't Michaels failure that bothered him. He and Michael, well- They had something. The same thing he had with the rest of the boys. And yet- he'd seen the way Michael had looked at her. David guessed that it wasn't just bloodlust propelling him forward, pushing him towards finding the girl. Perhaps it was a different kind of lust altogether. After a moment, he blew out another gust of smoke and said,

"Who knows? Maybe his way will work." And his tone was only slightly bitter.

***

"It's a ripoff." She turned, startled, and saw the boy from before. He'd pushed his glasses up and away from his face, and he smiled to reveal a row of pearly whites. She gave him a shy one in return as she asked,

"What?" And he pointed at the earring station. She'd been considering applying. While she hadn't used the machinery before, Star had steady hands and was a quick learner. He was backing away, just a few steps, and Star betrayed herself by following. 

"If you want your ear pierced, I'll do it." He offered, and Star let out a soft laugh at the suggestion. She watched as he flicked his own piercing, and Star tilted her head. Perhaps he was more of a punk than she thought. She pushed back her hair, revealing her already pierced ears.

"Should've asked me a few years ago." Star said, and she watched as the boys scoffed out a laugh. He shook his head, before he asked,

"What's your name?" And Star found herself smiling and giving it to him despite herself.

"Star." She answered, and the brunette gave her a smile. It was similar to the smile he'd given her on his bike. A certain level of smugness to it. Perhaps it didn't deter her as much as it should've. 

"I'm Michael. You lived here long, Star?" He asked, and Star tried not to think of the way her name sounded when he said it. Star looked ahead, her hands out in front of her. The boy was right besides her now, and she was almost positive that if she let her hands loose at her sides he would take the opportunity to brush their knuckles together. Maybe she wouldn't mind.

"A few days." More like a few hours. But she wasn't going to tell him that. Not if he turned out to be some psycho killer freak. 

"Staying long?" He asked, and she noted that he almost sounded hopeful. She decided to lie a little, and said,

"Maybe. I'm visiting some friends." She said, and he hummed. It was a half-truth. If she counted the ocean as a friend. When it came to human beings, she didn't know a single one on this side of the continental united states.

"Wanna make some more? Get something to eat?" And there it was. He'd slipped it in so seamlessly, she was almost impressed. Both had it's pros, both had it's cons. And she wouldn't really know all of them until the coin fell. She gave him a smile, and brushed her hair behind her ear. They'd been walking with no destination in mind, but she could see that they'd headed back exactly where she'd come. She could almost see his friends and their bikes.

As much as she needed to find a job- as much as she knew this was probably a bad idea- she never turned down a free meal. It definitely helped that there was something she liked about the boy. With the way he smiled at her, she could tell that he was probably thinking the same. When she looked into his eyes, she felt different than she has before. Nothing faded out, but she still felt the same flutter in the pit of her stomach. Maybe, just maybe, she'd stay in Santa Carla long enough to find out what it was. And just like that, the coin was caught. It was smacked on the back of her hand, and it was time to see which way she'd sway. It was time to call it. 

"Okay." 

[stevenbasic]

Sitting alone in the small chair in front of her desk, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was already being submissive, that he was acting contrite, before the meeting even began. He’d been cowed by what happened last night, and could swear the girls were looking at him funny when he skulked into his office this morning. Did they all know already?? What happened with Randi? It all made him nervous, and he knew it did nothing but undermine his authority and make him look weak.

And then there were the stream of aggressively confident posts Melissa had put on Instagram last night, and those he’d woken up to. “I’m proud of being a woman”? #simpforme, #motheryourman, #getready?  “there’s gonna be a lot more of it”?? #stronger #bigger #successful. And - the baby-bird thing??? Jesus. It was like he was watching her spread her wings and he felt, this morning, like he was just cowering in her shadow. 

She’d texted him this morning, said she’d wanted to meet with him in her office at 9, and had cleared the patients from his schedule. It was 9:05, looking at his watch. Every moment that went by felt like another nail in the coffin of his control of the office. I can’t let this happen, he tried to steel himself, I have to somehow show that I’m in charge.

But then, he heard it. The unmistakable staccato of her heels approaching down the hallway - click-clack-click-clack, echoing like gunshots - was heavier than one would expect in the corridor. The sound made his heart start to race. Why am I so nervous??  The Instagram posts and the events of last night - the girls in his apartment, him stupidly letting Randi once again have her way with him - had him on edge. Plus, he slept lousy. What did Melissa want to meet about?

click-clack-click-clack. She was almost there. 

Remember, he told himself, she works for you. 

But as soon as she walked in, when she entered the room and seemed to draw all light to her, he immediately felt himself to be in the presence of a more powerful person. Reflexively, he stood, and tried to keep from gaping. Oh my god she’s huge, he balked, astounded by her height. The only reason she hadn’t had to duck to get through the doorway was because she’d had such large, eight-foot doors installed.

“Good morning,” she said, her smile ebullient, happy to find him here and deferentially waiting for her, standing at attention, “Oh, so chivalrous! I like a man with good manners.” She watched his face as he took in her outfit, her figure, how tall she was in her new shoes. Immediately she knew she’d chosen right: the aggressively low-cut pink sweater, the high-waisted, dark grey pants that helped make her look both hippy, authoritative and even leggier than usual. And then there were the shoes. 

“th-those are some heels,” he admitted, his obsequious gaze finding the safest place to linger: her feet and the black, patent leather pumps which made her...oh my god...he couldn’t bear to think how tall she’d be. 

“Yeah huh?” she smiled, appreciating the crack in his voice, the submissive body language he was already assuming, standing there for her. She moved towards her desk, making sure to step as close to him as possible. “My friend Abby dropped them off for me this morning. They’re eight inches.”

“w-wow,” was all he could manage, dwarfed as he felt as she - standing well more than a foot taller than him - passed by. He knew he’d already started acting the simp, taken off his guard by her appearance, and was too dazed to resolve himself otherwise. 

“They make me almost six-foot ten,” she stated, seeing how flabbergasted by her height he seemed. Something inside her urged her to step back closer to him, stand above him, demonstrate how big she was and make him feel small. That feeling made her tingle dangerously, rushed blood to her chest, and it was a hard instinct to fight back. But instead she knew she should proceed carefully with him, start business, and so she moved behind her desk. “You’re waiting for me to sit, aren’t you?” she asked with an approving smile, “such a gentleman.”

“Oh, haha, yeah I guess…” he said, still finding himself awkwardly standing in place, fidgeting. 

“Looks like your mother trained you right," she responded, and immediately saw the wince in his expression. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she cooed, as he cast his eyes aside, “I forgot. Forgive me?”  She watched him nod, wanly. It was obviously, even to this day, a tender subject with him. I have to remember, she thought to herself, poor thing didn’t have a proper mommy. 

"Well, every girl likes a respectful man,” she continued, with a munificent smile. Standing behind her desk, she felt the authority the office’s place of power gave her. “Especially one who knows his place in front of the alpha female. But no...sit.”

He looked at her as if confused. She was waiting for him patiently, like she was testing his resolve. Reflexively, though, he began to sit, and felt immediately emasculated as she remained standing. 

“Good boy,” she said in approval, allowing mischief into her smile for the first time. Oooo this is funn, she caught herself musing. 

The shock of that - the infantile little praise, the talk of “alpha female” - was not one he’d expected. She’d played around like this last week, at the beach conference...but hearing it here in the office was another thing altogether. “We’re - haha - w-we’re still doing that?” he asked, looking up at her, feeling a dark shiver of self-abasement and secretly marveling at the perfect hourglass her trim but wantonly full figure cut above him, silhouetted against the white wall behind. 

“oooo remember, sweetie,” she replied, “we’re alone, it’s just you and me.” With that, on cue, she tapped a button on her desk and the door to the office closed behind him; she liked the startled look that brought to him. “We don’t have to worry about what anyone else thinks and just fall into our...natural roles,” she purred, putting her hands on the desk to lean over towards him. She smiled as his eyes predictably darted to her cleavage. “We’ll just let nature take its course,” she stated, “How does that sound, Dr. J?”

“Oh, uh…” he stammered, temporarily spellbound by the sheer volume of bosom she’d put on display. This sweater, he found himself thinking, she wore this on purpose. And just as he was almost able to tear his gaze away from her breasts, she casually squeezed them together and his eyes remained fixed, for more than a moment too long. Letting nature take its course, he thought, might end up with my face buried up to my ears. 

And so she had him speechless, already; that got her grinning. She brushed away an imaginary nothing from the swell of her right beast, keeping his gaze fixed right where she wanted it. Melissa knew what she needed to say in this meeting, the words she had prepared to get him to do what she wanted. But, gauging his reaction, she was seeing already that she wouldn’t have to work too hard. Her tits could do the heavy lifting. 

“Enjoying the view?” she asked, after finally drawing her fingers away from her chest and immediately causing him to look away. He flushed red, caught staring.  ”Omigosh you’re so cute when you’re blushing,” she giggled, only to cause a wave of jiggles to joggle through her chest, drawing his hapless gaze for another brief second. Her breasts were just so big, the huge soft swells of her cleavage the main attraction in the room and a magnet to his eyes. 

She laughed. “So, you know why I’m dressed like this, right?” she asked, a wry smile acknowledging the blatant aggression of her outfit, “the heels, the tight pants…” For a moment she looked down at her own chest, then locked eyes with him. “...the boobage?”

“Uhhhh….”

”You know what I'm going to ask for, of course?” she continued, becoming struck by how adorable he was in his tongue-tied, defenseless denseness. 

“A-a raise?” he asked, struggling with all his will to keep her gaze. 

Her laugh was deep and sultry, one of a woman pleased. “No haha but…” she said, as she then gathered her arms under her breasts, cradling them to exaggerate their size, “…could I get one if I asked really nicely?”

Oh my god, he thought, as he felt his dick start to stiffen, no. this is...too much. But he didn’t have the will to protest, scold her. “Y-you know money’s been tight…”

“Haha I’m joking, you know I’m teasing!” she laughed, enjoying the bewildered look on his face and standing up straight again, “I know your numbers are down. But that’s why we need to talk, about Abby…”

Abby, he thought, she’s the sales-rep friend...from that weird pharm company. He’d resisted meeting with her from the beginning, unwilling to waste precious time on another salesmonkey pushing snake oil. He’d been inundated with their brochures, ignored countless phone messages, avoided their research papers in his email, and still he had no idea what their product really was. It seemed like they made one thing and one thing only: some sort of supplement for women of childbearing age. His was a geriatric practice! Why would they want him to be part of some clinical trial? It really made no sense and he’s really wanted no part of it. 

But he knew Melissa felt otherwise.

Indeed, she knew getting a meeting together was important to Evolution Pharmaceuticals, really the main reason Abby had sent her the posting for this job in the first place. Abby had encouraged her to go for the position even though it was frankly above her abilities. But it was something, a challenge, a job maybe she could grow into…

...and now she fully intended to, in spades. 

Melissa leaned in further again, over the desk towards him, her suddenly soft doe-eyes seeking his out. “Remember..it’s just you and me,” she sweetly cooed, putting her full breasts once again on obvious display for him, “nobody’s going to think less of you if you agree to this…” She allowed her chest to slowly push forward, her shoulders back.  “...just let nature take its course.”

She knew he heard the encouragement in her voice. Her beauty held real power that she knew how to use, and she intended to put him at ease. In the moment, she knew he didn’t even realize that it was already working. Her eyes searched his and saw something they were looking for.  A warm smile formed on her lips and she continued to let her body do all the work. His eyes all but unabashedly on her tits again, this was already happening just the way Abby said it would. 

“So...about meeting with Abby...” she began, letting go just the faintest waft of her pheromones, to drift across the desk, just enough to-

“yes okay I’ll do it,” he answered, without even having to be asked. 

What?? Haha omigod. 

“You...will?” she beamed, her smile becoming a sudden, dazzling grin. It can’t be that easy, can it? Admittedly a bit surprised she was immediately struck by one self-aggrandizing thought: she loved being this beautiful...and this big. She loved the feeling of being stronger and more powerful than those around her. She loved how her body, her buxom sexuality, could be so simply and so extravagantly too much for people; how it reduced them to putty in her hands, paralyzing them for her with nothing more than a smile and a look. And, what’s more, she was beginning to realize what else she could accomplish, given the time. She knew, secretly, that the bigger she got, the more Melissssy there was, the easier it would all become.

So bring it on, she thought to herself, give me more.  She had to keep herself from laughing. Who needs an associate’s degree when you wear an I-cup?

“Ok I’ll call her, put it in your schedule right away,” Melissa said in victory, knowing she had to be gentle and watching as he had begun, it seemed, to sheepishly shrink into the chair below her. This was emasculating for him, she knew, capitulating like he was in his utter defenselessness. It gave her a thrill, she had to admit, flexing her authority here in the office, dwarfing him like this, dwarfing a man. She knew it was possibly unfair, that she’d had the deck stacked against him by coming at him with all this in his most fragile moments...but it needed to be done, and she would show him it was all for the best. And, she thought slyly, she would someday make it up to him, make him forget how little she’d just made him feel. Unless, of course, he likes that sort of thing... 

But in the meantime-“, she knew she had other work to do, and as the saying goes about the hot iron and the striking-

“Let’s talk about new staff,” she said innocently, “I want to hire twelve more girls.”

“T-twelve?” he blurted, shaken a bit back to himself, “Really? Didn’t we lose just, like...five?” 

“It was three, and then three part-timers,” she corrected him, “But I want to bring on twelve full-time people. A nurse practitioner, maybe a PA, a nurse Nurse Asstha...Attess…”

“Aesthetician?” he helped, even through his disarray.

“Yes, that..!” she giggled, “I’ll learn how to say that someday!” Twirling her hair girlishly in between the fingers of one hand, she stood again. “New providers, they’ll all need support staff, plus we have to replace the girls in accounting,” she listed, now starting to step away from behind her desk, “and we need a new supervisor for the front desk, unless you think Audrey is up for the job…?”

He paused, a bit confused, watching as she lazily stepped towards him. Was she actually asking for his opinion? Wait...he thought, why am I surprised by th- This was obviously getting away from him too quickly. “Uh, sure, but…” he began, “are you positive we can handle so many ne-”

“Oh, sweetie,” she cooed, now standing right next to him, above him, noticing how he’d reflexively turned his chair to face her, “we can handle it no problem. Maybe it’s just you that’s having some trouble?” She looked down at him, her employer, and mused on how anxious and small he looked. She reached down to tenderly push a wayward lock of hair behind his ear. “Besides...don’t you want to see us grow?”

What did she mean? “W-well, yes, of course,” he agreed, fighting the urge to turn his head, nuzzle his face into her soft hand as it continued to stroke his temple, above his ear, “of course I want the p-practice to do well. To, uh...grow.” His thoughts drifted to a day, maybe not far away, of an office she’d built for him, of being surrounded by more women than he could count, all young and beautiful, all doting on him...and of course, all beholden to her. 

Is that what she meant by wanting to “see us grow”?

“So, uh, sure…” he said, knowing again it was another little surrender, “hire whoever you want…” He knew this was reckless, foolish even, and could only hope beyond hope that this money from - what was it? Lean In? - would be enough. 

Melissa - thrilled again but now keeping her grin in check - saw the doubt in his face. She understood this was hard on him, watching the reins of his business being taken by another, and knew she should...reward him.

She stroked his hair - oooo he had such nice hair - and thought to herself. 

It was just like Abby said. This was a man, she considered, remembering the type of pictures he’d been hoarding on his computer, who needed a strong female figure. This was a man, remembering what he’d told her about his childhood, who craved a woman’s constant attention, unconditional affection. This was a man - it almost made her giggle - who needed a mommy. 

Just last night in DM Ms. Zazanetti - oops, I’m supposed to call her ‘Sara’! - had told it to her straight, made her understand. It's not taboo that he’d been stockpiling pictures of beautiful, ultra-bosomy, giant women on his computer, but rather the reasonable needs of manchild who never really had a childhood. He had told it to her himself, the night at that bull-riding bar: that he “never really had a mother.” And she’d heard it from Rina - who come to find out used to work here, and was one of his old flings - he’d lost her at a very young age.

Omigod the poor thing!

She knelt down in front of him, heart growing in her chest as she looked deep into his eyes. The desperation, she knew, ran deep in his mind, looking for fully blossomed women. His breast obsession was  a consequence of what he missed as a child, a toddler, an infant - being coddled, nurtured, loved. And, she reminded herself, it wasn’t just pictures of random huge, big-breasted women he’d had on his computer. There were also countless pictures of her. It was a significant moment, when she’d realized what she represented to him, what she could strive to be for him - even if his male pride keeps him from ever really expressing himself, admitting what he needs. 

#motheryourman, remember?

Still gazing at him, wondering what he was thinking, she smiled to herself. Well, he’s not “your man” but - haha - close enough, right?

“You’ve been doing such a good job, being so strong,” she said to him, tenderly, taking one of his hands into both of hers and resting it on his lap, “especially with everything going on.”

”uhhh...what do u mean?” he asked. There was - good god - so much going on. But...looking into her eyes, he suddenly knew what she meant.

“When were you going to tell me? I had to hear it from Marisela,” she said, sounding a bit sad that he would not confide in her, about his troubles at home...or, rather, what used to be his home, “I thought we were friends…”

========================================

Thanks to GTScity reader @sherlock for inspirations and ideas - they really helped the post coalesce. And to FantasticMrMoose - fans may notice that a few passages are all but stolen right from "Sexy Lexie": awesome story!

[appples]

Oh, Cats (4/10)

pairing: Aizawa x Reader (OC)

genre/warning: 18+

words: 1535

summary: An average girl with a cat quirk starting over in a new city, as typical as usual. Until it’s not. You drop into someone’s life unannounced and not necessarily wanted.

Walking past the UA gates, you felt invincible. Since your confrontation with Aizawa, you launched into training in the evenings; self-confidence inflating rapidly. This was the first time you had left UA without hiding any of your features. Although you didn’t often go, if at all. Feeling like you don’t need to hide was still a very new sensation. People always looked as you walked by, but fewer than you remember pointed. It’s not often cat feature quirks manifest in this particular way. The heavier cat-like influence was more common, resulting in realistic heads of paws.

Out of all the things you could have missed the most, it was merely sounds of everyday life. People were so happy and oblivious to what heroes had to do to protect them. Without a plan, you wander the streets. Meandering in back alleys, meeting some local cats. Hours passed before you knew it and started to look at going home. Abruptly a bad feeling washed over you as you stood still. Unaware until now, there had been a coordinated effort to try and funnel you to a specific location where you currently were. How could I be so naïve to think this wouldn’t happen? People don’t change. Looking around and surveying the area gave you a brief advantage. You saw something racing towards you on the ground and jumped to the side. As you jumped, you saw it was a tentacle; aware, there must be a second coming soon. It wrapped itself around your ankle and pulled you backward, you tried slashing at it, but it made no difference. Knocked down, you try to break free. Another man emerged from the shadows holding his hands forward in front of himself. Nets eject from his fingertips, ensnaring you further. Finally, the third accomplice appeared, pleased with the finished task.

“Bind her hands, watch she doesn’t scratch you” the three men laughed above you. The tentacle began to move its way up to your legs, searching for something.

“No, stop! Please stop!” you were trying to kick at the tentacle with your free leg, but it only continued to rise. Inching closer and closer to your underwear, snatching at them in attempts to pull them down. There was a swift thick, wet sound. You looked down at the tipoffs, the tentacle still hanging on to your panties, now detached from the arm it belonged to.

“Ahh, what the fuck, man?! That was my fucking arm!” The tentacle man was screaming over his loss.

“It’ll grow back.” Aizawa emerged from the shadows. Unfazed, he practically danced in front of you. Releasing his capture weapon, he sent it around the man's throat with the net finger quirk, then another around the third man. Aizawa crossed his arms over, sending the two men crashing into each other. Having wounded the last man already, Aizawa bound him with the capture weapon. You were still on the ground when he walked up to you, standing up, avoiding his gaze.

“T-thank you.” You squeaked. “I was in a little over my head.”

“What the fuck happened” he snapped at you. Until this point, you had never actually seen Aizawa angry. You thought you did but had now been shown how incorrect you were.

“I just wanted some time away from UA, a -and they followed me” your words shook as a response to the ordeal you had just been through.

“If you can’t protect yourself, maybe you shouldn’t be leaving campus. What if a student saw you and decided today they were going to be the hero? What if they were hurt or killed?” Staring at the ground, you bit your tongue in an attempt not to cry.

“Did you even think of that?” He had moved closer. His shouts grew louder and more accusatory in tone. “Did you?!”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t give a fuck, how sorry you are.” He paused and collected his thoughts, pinching the bridge of his nose. Stepping back from you as he realized how close he had gotten. “If you can’t take care of yourself off-campus, then maybe you shouldn’t be teaching,” his words stung like the tears in your eyes. You knew he was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You were too weak to keep yourself safe, so why should you have any agency over students. You’re supposed to be protecting them, not the other way around.

“Just go back to campus. I will take these guys in and leave you out of the incident report. Neither you nor the school needs the extra attention right now.” You nodded your head and turned to leave, digging your claws into your fists as you stiffly held them by your sides.

Aizawa watched you leave before returning his attention to the task at hand. He hadn’t realized how furious he was with you at first, and it caught him off guard. It wasn’t logical. But how could you be so careless, had your time at UA really taught you nothing? What if he hadn’t shown up or showed up too late? The thought made him sick to his stomach. There were reasons why he didn’t have close relations with most people in his life. Aizawa always tried to maintain enough distance between the two of you, but it didn’t seem to be making any difference. He still refused to admit to himself how much he cared about you, instead following the safe route and shutting you out.

To get ready for the workweek, you had come up with responses to just about any question someone could ask about the injury’s leftover. Most of the noticeable abrasions you were easily able to hide under clothing. Unfortunately, some around your neck and face were a little trickier. Your colleagues left you alone for the most part, merely asking how you were g. It gave the impression that these sorts of things operate on don’t ask, don’t tell policy. Once the initial discomfort went away, you were left with your classes with Aizawa. You would have just about traded for anything else right now. Neither of you went out of your way to speak to the other, interacting as minimally together as possible. Thankfully it did provide some reprieve. At the end of one of your shared afternoon blocks, you had to turn over some marking you had completed, making eye contact as you place them on his desk. He stared up at you. Tired would be an understatement; he looked exhausted. Eyes redder than usual, and his facial had was longer than you had ever seen him let it go. Ripping your hands away from the paper, your fingers yearned to reach out and touch him, but you turned towards the door and left before your heart could overrule your mind. Despite having walked away from Aizawa, you could see your last conversation with him on replay.

“What if a student saw you and decided today, they were going to be the hero. What if they were hurt or killed?”

“If you can’t take care of yourself off-campus, then maybe you shouldn’t be teaching.”

Could you have had made the wrong decision when taking this job? What were the students even gaining from you being there? Sitting back down at your desk, you start to seriously consider quitting your job. Brows furrowed deep in distress. After turning your computer on, you make quick work to find a resignation template. Writing it made you feel good, like you were in power, that this was your decision to make. Finishing it, you read it over. It kind of felt like you were running away. This wasn’t supposed to be about you. It was for the students. Your feelings for the final decision should take second priority.

Forging on, you sent the document to the printer, waiting for the finished product. Holding it in your hands made it feel much more real, heavier. Sighing, you lean on the nearest desk. Something rustled as you leaned up. Without realizing it, you had sat at Aizawa’s desk. It was full of papers with coffee ring stains and empty jelly drink containers—a reminder of his bad habit you had picked up. You hated cooking, and the supplement drinks weren’t the worst. Aizawa knew what these kids needed better than anyone. And he spoke the truth about your lack of self-reliance and ability being a hindrance to them. It started to feel like your head might burst. You had been thinking about this so hard over the last few days. Is it okay to continue believing that I add value to their education, something because of who I am and cannot be replaced with someone else? With another sigh, you look up at the ceiling, lights screaming at you. But what was really bothering you, what were you avoiding?

Of course, it was Shouta. You wish you could take back how you felt, gather it all together in your arms and pull it back in. Sometimes it bordered on hating how you felt. Giving someone that much power and influence over yourself only ever ended in anguish. Then what do you do? How do you continue to move forwards and push past these obstacles? What is it that I can’t stop myself from falling for? Could it be something I’m searching for and missing in myself?

Your eyes closed as you stood up from the desk. Opening them, you walked back over to your desk and began to open your bag.

“I think there should be…Aha!” you withdrew two jelly pouches. Assessing the flavors, you chose your preference and placing the other on Aizawa’s desk, separate from the empties. The poor guy really did need to talk better care of himself. At least you seem to hold that advantage. Feeling a little more optimistic, realizing that Aizawa was also human. He didn’t have everything covered all the time. You left work for the day reviewing and reanalyzing everything you had just thought about.

[rainbowbutterfrosting]

Chapter 14 - History

This is chapter 14 of the Dream SMP multichapter fic @dramaticsnakes​ and I wrote together! I hope you’ll enjoy!

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Ghostbur, Tubbo (briefly)

Word count: 2,842

Cw: discussions of death, tension between characters, (verbal) fight

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

Wilbur opened the book carefully, almost afraid the knowledge would vanish right in his hands if he didn’t. It felt weightless as he walked to the table, sitting in the same chair he sat in during the interview. The first page was blank, but after turning to the next page, he saw a table of contents. He mostly skimmed it, the idea of reading being much more exciting than the process itself.

“Local opinions on L’Manberg’s end” caught his eye. He flipped to page 138 and read the beginning. It stated the interview each person was given, explaining how everyone received the same questions on (mostly) the same day. Some bits seemed scattered, as if they were just quick notes jotted down, and the writing wasn’t consistent. It was possible Tubbo had gotten some help writing it all down. Wilbur also remembered how some books had apparently been destroyed, so this likely wasn’t an entirely finished product.

They started chronologically of when they were taken, most of the people at the beginning saying that they weren’t affiliated with L’Manberg, but still felt the despair of those who were. A few questioned his motives along with how long it was planned out. 

Wilbur easily skipped over those, the boringness of them making him yawn. A small smirk came across his face when he saw Dream’s name. He read the statement supplied, “I’m not gonna lie or fluff it up, Wilbur was an idiot. He didn’t know how to run a nation at all, but he was so hungry for power that he assumed he could. I would say it’s sad that Wilbur blew it up, but good riddance to that cry for attention.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. No wonder he declared independence against him. He truly didn’t understand the restrictions the world put on him. It really wouldn’t have been difficult for Dream to let them be their own nation, but instead, he had to childishly declare war. Though regardless of the past, Wilbur didn’t hold many hard feelings against the man. Not after what Dream had done for him. He read the next statement. A small look of disgust came across his face when he saw it was Eret.

“I know my history with L’Manberg, but I still wish it didn’t come to this fate. Wilbur was a good person. Perhaps he slipped off the deep-end near the end there, but he held kindness close to his chest. I know I… betrayed them, but I shouldn’t have. If I could go back and change it I would.” A small supplement at the end added that the confession was taken the day of L’Manberg’s explosion.

Wilbur looked at the words for longer than he should’ve blinking at them as if they’d been a trick of the light. A good person? They might have interacted so long ago, but he hoped they would at least remember the bare minimum of who he was. A good person, perhaps once, or at the very least an attempt at one. Though Eret’s words were far too hesitant and sympathetic, and Wilbur couldn’t quite get himself to grasp them. He remembered seeing regret in Eret’s eyes, that Wilbur quickly shoved away. He remembered the hope he once had for when Tommy started pursuing other things. Hope that Eret could act as a vice-president in his place. Or even before that happened, they could be a treasurer or anything that would have helped them in the wars. Perhaps they could have even helped in the elections, using his charm and charisma to ‘woo’ the neutral voters. But in the end, Eret had found a better deal, and throughout the 13 and a half years, Wilbur had found it increasingly difficult to blame her for that.

He let his eyes drift across the page, skipping a few nobodies that just happened to be nearby, before reading Tommy’s. A small note was made to the side saying it was taken three days after the explosion. “I can’t fucking believe him. We fought together for- for- I don’t know how long! But he... we had L’Manberg again and he- he’s gone. I wish I felt bad that he’s dead and shit but it was his decision for all of that to happen. Not a single person pushing him towards that. The war- our lives aren’t even over yet, but he had to leave us already.”

Wilbur shut his eyes for a moment, before rereading it once more. The words and their meanings didn’t change. Wilbur had wanted strong words like it, because words of enemies didn’t sting, and Wilbur had effectively made Tommy his enemy. Though he wasn’t certain if these counted as strong words. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d expected them to say. If he’d expected Tommy to say anything at all. Tommy hadn’t followed along with Wilbur, despite Wilbur once feeling that he was doing exactly what they needed to do. And it was fine, really. Wilbur had left his impact, and while the action now felt distant to him, Tommy did not need to feel bad for his death. Wilbur didn’t know exactly why he’d returned, but a warm welcome wasn’t to be expected. While Tommy’s words were strange and familiar, talking of Wilbur as if he was a person who left, who died to be mourned, rather than an event, a choice, and a legacy, they were to be expected of the child. Wilbur pursed his lips, fiddling with the corner of the page in his hand. He lingered on Tommy’s section for longer than he should’ve. He didn’t know if seconds or minutes passed but he heard Tubbo’s voice from nearby, “You good?” 

He turned towards Tubbo, slipping on a grin, “Yeah, yeah, it’s all pretty interesting stuff.”

Tubbo hesitantly smiled in return, “Cool, I’ll just be down here if you need anything.” He did finger guns towards the direction of the stairs and awkwardly walked back down them.

Although Wilbur’s mind was blurred, a small part of him was able to focus on Tubbo’s feelings about L’Manberg. He flipped through the pages, names filled his eyes, but none of them were what he was looking for. He frowned and double-checked, but the same results still occurred. He flipped to the last page of the section, figuring that Tubbo must’ve been at the end, if not the beginning. Instead, he found a small portion that read, “Any statements not present are from the people present only after L’Manberg’s original explosion weren’t available.”

Wilbur knew Tubbo was present during the wars, so it didn’t make sense why he pretended like he wasn’t. Especially because the statement implied he only joined after L’Manberg was over and dealt with. Did Tubbo rewrite history so he wasn’t a part of it? That didn’t seem likely to him, but the lack of Tubbo’s opinion on the paper spoke louder than his thoughts. 

He told himself to shrug it off as Ghostbur’s quiet voice popped into his mind, “Hey, Wilbur, can we talk about something?” 

Wilbur looked around, trying to ensure Tubbo couldn’t hear him. He mumbled, “Later.”

Ghostbur took in a deep breath, “That’s okay. Just- make sure that I don’t forget to ask about it.” 

Wilbur absentmindedly nodded as he flipped to one of the earlier pages. His eyes didn’t focus on the paper, but rather on what he wanted to know. He decided his father’s opinion would be the best choice. He flipped the page once again and spotted Phil’s name near the middle of the text. “It’s been a lot to handle. I wasn’t a part of L’Manberg, but- Wilbur being gone. It means more to me than L’Manberg did to him.” 

It was short and sweet in the way Wilbur expected. It washed out most of Tommy’s statement as he flipped around in search of Niki’s. He briefly thought about Ranboo’s opinion, but the book already told him it wouldn’t be there. Even then, the centrist would have probably made something up that would apply to any event. 

Niki’s opinion didn’t focus much on Wilbur, but it was still good nonetheless. “I used to care about L’Manberg a lot. I built the original flag and I felt… I felt so close to everyone there. Even when Schlatt came into power. L’Manberg was all I really had to go to, even if it was technically Manberg at the time. Yet, I feel in a way, like time split us apart. Not Wilbur though. I wished he was still here.”

Wilbur smiled softly. He missed her quite a lot, especially during limbo. He would close his eyes, and pretend he was baking with her again. Nothing in particular either, just tossing flour on each other and bumping shoulders occasionally. There was enough room in the kitchen to avoid the latter, but it brought a closeness to the both of them that Wilbur didn’t know how to describe. Of course, that was during the desperate years. The ones where the concrete of the platform seemed to burn his feet, as he let vulnerability slip in, right before he let it grow into something else.

He searched his mind, thinking of who he met after his revival, and his breath hitched at the thought of Fundy. He sat for a moment, contemplating if he should even do it. He flipped the page carefully, skimming for the name of his son.

He found it quicker than he would have liked to. A dread filling his chest that he forcefully pushed away. He read the segment Fundy spoke about. Reading it over and over again, none of it sticking in his head. Disbelief and confusion hit him like a truck. The only words his son spoke about it were, “I feel ashamed to even call him my father.” 

Wilbur closed the book. The cover seemed to burn him as he did so. He let it sit on the table, his hands resting on his legs. He robotically stood up, his movements feeling stiff and unnatural. He laid a hand on the book that rested so peacefully. He begrudgingly picked it up, the book somehow feeling much heavier than last time. He slowly shuffled towards the bookshelf, putting it back where he thought it was, not paying much mind if it was in the right place or not.

“Wilbur,” Ghostbur said, his voice sounding a bit apprehensive.

“Yes, what is it?” Wilbur asked, a little sharper than he perhaps intended. 

“Wil, why did you lie?” the words came out, with a certain sadness, yet they seemed almost practiced. They were quick, yet each syllable was dripping with concern or perhaps spite, if Wilbur didn’t know any better.

“Lie about what?” Wilbur asked, huffing.

“Tubbo…” he took a deep breath, “Tubbo asked you if there were any side-effects, and you didn’t mention me. You said I wasn’t there. But I am! I know I am, because we’re talking. So why didn’t you say that?”

Wilbur breathed in sharply, like a hiss. “It’s nothing.” he said, “I wasn’t planning lie much after the revival, but what would you want me to say?”

“That I’m here!”

“I can’t just say that!” Wilbur said, trying to keep his voice down, “They can’t know you’re here, because it’ll make it harder for us to find a way to get you out.”

“They can help! Tubbo would want to help.” Ghostbur said, certainly.

“Tubbo isn’t going to believe me, Ghostbur. It’s going to concern him, and we don’t want Tubbo to be sad, do we?” The last words came out a bit more naturally than what Wilbur had wanted them to.

It did seem to make Ghostbur go quiet, for just a few moments. When Wilbur almost thought Ghostbur had nothing more to say, he spoke, “No no no, you don’t understand!” He said, “Sometimes, sadness can be okay, I think. Lying isn’t good at all. It leads to bad things.” The last sentence, held more melancholy than the rest.

Wilbur wanted to laugh. “It’s not that simple.” he said, “Lying is an excellent tool. Sometimes, you need it to survive, Ghostbur. And right now we do.”

“How do you know that?” Ghostbur asked, beginning to sound slightly panicked, “They told me it wouldn’t be bad, but then they lied, and it was! It was bad.”

Wilbur shook his head confusedly, “Who are you talking about?”

A bit of shock came from Ghostbur’s following gasp. “I… I don’t know.” he said, and the confusion told Wilbur it was the truth, “I’m not sure I…” he was breathing a little faster, “I can’t find the memories, but lying is bad Wilbur! It’s not going to lead to anything good, I can feel it.”

“Lying can give you an advantage, and we want to get you out quickly.” Wilbur said. He felt as if the world was momentarily catching fire around him. “It’s just a white lie, Ghostbur. Just to keep everything on track. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“I… I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this is a good idea! We should tell Tubbo. We can trust him, I know it!”

“Who are you to say who I can fucking trust?” Wilbur said, a little louder, “This is none of your business! This is my life, even if you insist on invading it!” 

As the words hung sharply in the air, the silence that followed became blindingly obvious. 

Wilbur could hear his own slow breathing, filling the empty room. “Fuck… Oh fuck, I didn’t mean to say that.”

There was no response.

“Ghostbur, I...” he breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to say that.”

The silence from the ghost stabbed him in the chest. “Ghostbur, it was just a bit of a slip-up. Y’know like when you get tongue-tied?” Wilbur tried to pull off a playful tone, but the concern behind it was prevalent. Wilbur sighed. It wasn’t one out of aggression, but rather a disappointment in himself. 

He walked away from the bookshelf and towards the stairs, seeing Tubbo harvesting some melons from his farm. He forgot that the boy was even there, his thoughts consuming everything around him. He faintly smiled as he walked to the lower level of the bunker. He didn’t bother ruining the peace and simply mentioned, “I put the book back.”

Tubbo looked down at Wilbur. “Oh! Alright. Are you heading out?”

“I suppose I am,” Wilbur said, a bit quietly, almost hoping that Tubbo’s voice would bring some response from the ghost. 

“Where are you going?” Tubbo asked.

At the words, Wilbur realized he didn’t have a good answer to that. His head was a mess, and it felt emptier than usual. He tried to open any gate in his mind at all, to find a rhyme or reason to his actions and his desires. For some reason, the one purpose he’d assigned to himself, seemed further off than before. It was silly and frivolous of him to bother being affected in such a way. If there was one thing he’d learned as a commander, it was that the war would rage on, whether you felt like it or not. A break, and a moment of silence, was rarely a particularly good sign. Sometimes you needed it to make plans however, and if he couldn’t even do something as simple as that, how could he consider himself powerful anymore? Knowledge. He needed knowledge, and he’d just left all the books behind after looking at one. He breathed in. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re welcome to head to the mansion.” Tubbo said with a shrug, “Ranboo and I are sleeping over again tonight, so if you need a place to stay, you’re welcome there.”

Wilbur froze, and weighed the suggestion in his mind. He heard a faint and familiar breath from Ghostbur that calmed his heart for a moment. “Sure.” he said, a little too quickly, “That sounds fine.” He accompanied it with a smile, to try to make the exchange seem natural. 

Tubbo’s expression indicated it hadn’t worked entirely, but the frown quickly turned into a similar smile. “Sweet! I’ll be going there soon enough, but you can go ahead if you want.” Just before Wilbur had the chance, Tubbo looked as if he remembered something. “Oh, also! Try not to tell anyone about this place. It’s a secret to most people.”

Wilbur nodded, unsure why Tubbo would’ve told him about it, if it was such a secret. “Can I come back here?” 

Tubbo took a moment to respond. “Make sure I’m with you.” he said, “We have some structural problems, so I don’t want anyone to be here without me being aware of it.”

The words reached Wilbur strangely. He swallowed something in his throat and nodded nonetheless. Then, without further response, he wandered outside, into a much more apparent form of silence.

Tubbo nodded and looked slightly dismayed at Wilbur’s sudden exit, “Alright, seeya later.”

Wilbur took long strides away from the bunker, hoping it would help collect his thoughts for Ghostbur. His footsteps echoed through the halls, making him miss the sound of Ghostbur’s voice. He walked towards the entrance of Pogtopia, quickly exiting. The change of scene didn’t help him think. If anything, it only increased his worries about the ghost as his mind ran.

[toosicktoocare]

Prompt: Season 2 Jon being paranoid spying on Tim from a far noticing he’s acting weird/not very Tim eventually confronting him only to find out that Tim’s been acting strange is because he’s fighting off a nasty cold. Guilty Jon and some mildly grumpy Tim.

I love this prompt so freaking much!

Set in season 3 when Jon’s kinda suspecting everyone, but before everyone starts player hating on him. 

“Supplemental: Tim’s asked to leave work early. He was... quiet when he asked, almost subdued. It was quite disconcerting. He didn’t make eye contact with me when he asked, and... he didn’t call me ‘boss’ to annoy me as he usually does.”

Jon pauses, tape recorder hovering just before his lips. He’s frowning at the closed door, almost as if he can peel away the wood with his gaze alone and see what he’s promptly missing on the other side.

“He’s hiding something,” he deduces, voice quiet, speculating. “And I’m going to figure out what it is... End supplemental.”

***

“Supplemental: Tim was two hours late this morning. He practically plowed into me in the hall, and he looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. He just apologized to me under his breath and said he would skip lunch and work late to make up for it. His voice was lacking in energy, and his posture seemed rigid and distant, none of the usual too-early smiles and shoulder claps. I think... No, I know that he’s definitely wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. Same plaid, button down, same navy trousers.”

Pausing, Jon sighs, thoughts reeling with theories he’s trying to work through. He thumbs the stop button, contemplating. “What could have kept him up at night and made him late this morning? What’s got him so on edge? What kept him from going home last night? Perhaps he knows something about Gertrude? He didn’t start acting like this until shortly after coming back from his leave. I’m... going to keep a close eye on him today. End supplemental.”

***

Jon leaves his office often throughout the day, for tea, to visit the library, anything that can have him walking by Tim’s desk. The first time he shuffles by, he spots Tim scribbling notes into a legal pad, eyes flicking back and forth from the screen to the paper. Tim doesn’t acknowledge his presence, which, in itself, is quite suspicious. Normally, Tim teases him with light jabs: “the monster’s emerging,” “I didn’t realize vampires could be out right now,” and, the one Jon hears the most, “Jon... Jonathan Sims? You still work here? Haven’t seen you in ages!”

The second time he walks by, Tim’s dozing, his face propped up against his knuckles. He startles awake when Jon clears his throat and masks a few coughs into his fist, wincing and apologizing.

Jon contemplates questioning him right then and there, too eager to discover just what exactly is going on, but then Elias rounds the corner, and he’s got a familiar look in his eyes, one Jon immediately squares his shoulders at. He’s carted off to a brief meeting with the library staff, annoyed at the interruption.

The third time he walks by on his way back from the meeting, Tim shoots a panicked look toward him when he rounds the corner and immediately shoves something into his desk drawer. There’s an air of tense silence that flutters over the two, and it’s in that moment that Jon decides he’s going to confront him today.

***

Keeping his word, Tim works an hour past quitting time, and Jon knows that Tim didn’t leave the building for lunch as he’s been watching him for the better half of the day. He slips out of his office, prepared to corner Tim at his desk, but he pauses when he spots that the desk is empty. He spares a quick glance around before briskly walking toward the desk and trying the drawers, finding each one locked.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath. It’s only two minutes past six, so Tim can’t have gotten far. He keeps the brisk walk up when he exits the building, just barely spotting Tim rounding a corner across the street. He only spares a half glance at the road before starting across the street in a light run, waving apologetically at a few honking cars. His lungs are burning slightly when he meets the other side, his stiff body cracking uncomfortably, but he keeps the pace, whipping around the corner.

Tim’s only a few feet ahead of him, and he sucks in a deep breath and shouts his name, slowing to a walk when Tim freezes and spins around with a frown.

“Jon? What’s-” Tim’s unable to finish his sentence, overcome by a coughing fit that Jon doesn’t pay any mind to, the gears in his own mind already whirling far too quickly.ti

“You’re hiding something,” Jon spits out, a dangerous timbre to his voice, and Tim’s face twists from surprise, to confusion, then holding mild annoyance.

“Excuse me?” Tim matches Jon’s tone, and he cocks his head to the side, shivering slightly and pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself.

“You haven’t been yourself,” Jon starts, mentally ticking off each unusual scenario that’s led him to this conclusion. “You’ve been quiet, reserved even. You left early yesterday, and you were two hours late this morning, wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday. So I ask, Tim,” he pauses, voice low and just barely audible over the traffic beside them, “what were you doing at all hours of the night? And, what were you trying to hide from me in your desk drawer?”

Tim reaches into his coat pocket, and Jon’s entire body goes rigid. Is Tim going to pull out a knife and try to kill him? Or, maybe he’ll pull out a gun, the same gun that was used to kill Getrude. Was he right in his theory that Tim knows what happened to Gertrude? That Tim may have been the one who killed Gertrude? Does Tim have a thing for harming archivists? What dark story has Tim so wrapped up-

His thoughts, both current and the ones rushing forward, come to an abrupt halt when Tim presses a small box of paracetamol tablets into his palm. Frowning, Jon brings the box up to his eyes, and despite his best efforts of finding some unearthed, hidden meaning behind it, it is, in fact, just a box of medicine.

“What...?”

“Paracetamol?” Tim starts, raising one brow. “Medicine used to reduce fevers? Sure you’ve heard of it?”

“Yes, I know what it is,” Jon drags out sharply. “I simply don’t...” He stops himself this time, almost unconsciously, because when he looks up from the box to Tim just as a car’s whipping by, he can see through the car’s bright headlights that Tim’s cheeks are a concerning shade of red, and he’s sweating despite the full body chills he’s trying to mask with crossed arms. 

“They’re yours,” he says, almost dumbly, and Tim sighs, wincing when the low breath pulls into a deep cough that hurts his chest.

“Great job,” he grumbles flatly. “I took some earlier and didn’t want you to see and send me home.”

Oddly, Jon’s having trouble processing Tim’s reasoning, his mind still so wound up with heightened theories. “Your clothes...” he mutters, and Tim glances down at himself, a bit self-conscious.

“Yeah, about that... I sort of passed out when I got home yesterday, and I slept straight through until morning. I didn’t intend on doing that, so I didn’t set an alarm, hence my showing up to work late.” He shivers around his words and lifts his fist to his mouth to cover a heavy cough.

“You’re ill,” Jon mutters, almost to himself, his mind slowly down to the mundane reality that Tim’s been acting so “odd,” as he thought, because he hasn’t been feeling all that well. He presses up on his feet and smooths his palm across Tim’s cheek, hissing lightly and jerking his hand back at the alarming heat. “You’re really ill, Tim. You’re burning up.”

“It’s just a nasty cold I can’t quite shake,” Tim mutters, rubbing absently at his chest. “I got the paracetamol this morning while racing to work, so I should be better soon.”

“I thought...”

“That I killed Gertrude?” Tim supplies, finishing Jon’s thought through a series of coughs.

Wincing, Jon drags his eyes to the ground, pretending that the sidewalk is far more interesting to look at for he can’t quite life his head under the muted pressure of guilt pushing down on him.

“I’m... sorry,” he mumbles, clearing his throat, daring to push against the icy pressure of guilt to meet Tim’s eyes. “I’ve been preoccupied with-”

Tim stops Jon with one, shaking hand. “Save it for another time, Jon. It’s freezing, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be standing upright.”

Jon can see, now, that Tim’s swaying slightly, one hand presses to his forehead. He gnaws at his lip, glancing around, feeling terribly out of his element. “Do you, um, do you need to go to a clinic? Hospital?”

“I don’t,” Tim stops, turning away from Jon to cough harshly into his arm, “think so,” he rasps out, breathing a little too loudly for Jon’s liking.

“Let’s... You should... Let me take you back to the Archives, and I’ll phone a cab.” Jon’s guilt is morphing with a tight knot of concern deep within his stomach. “You shouldn’t be walking like this or taking the tube.”

“Fine,” Tim sighs. “I’ll go to ease your guilty conscious.” He manages a smirk, and Jon shoots a brief, sharp stare before guiding Tim safely back across the street, keeping one hand awkwardly planted to the small of Tim’s back, aware it won’t do much, but hopeful it will bring an ounce of comfort to Tim’s shivering body.

It’s not until they are back inside, with Tim huddled atop a floor vent that’s sputtering out hot air, and Jon’s already phoned with a cab that Tim tries to address Jon’s behavior, something Jon reluctantly expected.

“So you think that we are all suspects?”

“I...” Jon sighs, leaning against the receptionist desk, arms hugging himself defensively. “I don’t know what to think.” The knowledge is still new, still a fresh wound ripping angrily across his thoughts. The mere moment he was informed of Gertrude’s body, he shifted to high alert, suddenly seeing everyone differently, taking account to how his staff walked, how they talked to him, how they even looked when entering and exiting the archives. Yet, there’s a smaller voice, one that he keeps shoving away, that whispers “paranoia.” No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, it comes back, a perk, he thinks, of his mind’s necessity to consider all factors.

“Christ, Jon, I wouldn’t have asked if I had known you would get lost in your own head.”

Jon blinks slowly, the room around him coming back in slow waves. He turns to see Tim with one hand at the door, a cab waiting right outside.

“Sorry,” Jon mutters, clearing his throat. “You can... call... if you need anything.”

“Martin’s already got that covered,” Tim sighs, patting his coat pocket where his phone is resting. “He stole my phone when I dozed off at my desk and created a speed dial with his number.”

“Right,” Jon draws out, feeling suddenly drained, a consequence, he assumes, of spending an entire day lost among theories. “Well, I’ll speak to Elias on your behalf, so take as long as you need to recover.”

“You’ll speak to Elias about what?”

Tim breaks Jon’s gaze, looking past him, and Jon whips around to see Elias approaching the two.

A different feeling hits Jon square in the chest, one he’s familiar with anytime Elias approaches his staff, and unspoken drive to protect. He looks over his shoulder, mouthing for Tim to go.

“Right,” Tim says, almost hesitantly. “Bye then.” He opens the door, stopping when Elias speaks, his legs unable to move.

“Do feel better, Tim. You look quite dreadful.”

Tim doesn’t respond, slipping out the door with a wordless shudder that Jon watches with a frown.

“Glad to see that you’re still here, Jon. I’ve picked out a few statements I’d like you to review.”

“Now?” Jon asks, taking a moment to glance over his shoulder just as the cab pulls away.

“If it isn’t any trouble,” Elias says.

Despite the clear ‘out’ Elias gives him through words alone, Jon knows how to pick out Elias’s true intentions not by his words, but by the finality of his tone. So, he follows because while he sees everyone as a suspect, he’s got a gut feeling, one that’s overwhelming, that Elias is, and should be, suspect number one.

[soulmate-game]

Crack One shot

Soulmates were real, but there was no universal type of bond. The only agreed upon fact was that everyone only had one soulmate, and that was whatever that person needed most in life. If what they needed most was a romantic partner, their soulmate would be romantic. If they needed family or a lifelong friend more, then that would be the bond they would have. It could show up in any way, some more common than others but many unique to that pair or trio of soul bonded individuals.

Marinette had arrived in Gotham last week. She had won the Wayne Enterprises International Scholastic Competition for her and her class, the reward for which included a month long trip to Gotham. Three of those weeks would be spent in Gotham Academy during the week, with the weekends spent in personalized internships with Wayne Enterprises employees.

Except Marinette, who as the winner of the competition, got her internship with Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake themselves.

And after finding out that Robin was her romantic soulmate on her first night in Gotham? She was really hoping this internship would go smoothly without any life altering discoveries.

Someone needed to flick Tikki for not giving her enough good luck though, because that did not happen.

Marinette thought stumbling through her and Robin’s game-styled Bond would be more than enough confusion and complication for at least the rest of the year for her. But no. No, of course not. Because when she met Bruce Wayne at his manor for their first official day of internship on Saturday, nine days after arriving in Gotham City, she shook the billionaire’s hand for the first time.

And when their hands connected, the only thing in either of their favor is the fact that Alix had turned down the invitation to come with Marinette and therefore the only other people in the mansion were Bruce’s family (including Alfred, of course). Because as soon as their hands touched, bright silver light shone for a moment before what was basically a holographic screen popped up. On it in bold black font were the words:

— SOULBOND INITIATED STATUS: Familial FAMILIARITY LEVEL: Introductory BONDED INDIVIDUALS: Bruce Wayne (AKA:REDACTED) and Marinette Dupain-Cheng (AKA: REDACTED) INITIATE SOULBOND GUIDE? (Y / N) —

“B-But I already met my soulmate on Thursday!” Marinette objected, eyes wide as she pulled her hand away like it burned. “This can’t— this is a prank, right? New WayneTech or something?”

Unfortunately, Bruce stares at his own hand in similar shock.

“Miss Dupain-Cheng, I also already met my soulmate,” he informed gravely, poking his palm with the index finger of his opposite hand. “But look. I did not get a physical mark from my romantic soulmate, but…”

Marinette knew. She didn’t want to acknowledge it, but she knew. Everybody with a physical soulmark said that you knew when it was real, when it wasn’t paint or a tattoo or anything else, because it felt real. In some intrinsic, magical, mysterious way, everyone intuitively knew if a physical mark was or wasn’t genuine.

And the little, silver bat signal on the center of Marinette’s palm was definitely genuine. Her eyes went wide at the sight of it, and the information on the holographic soulbond-board changed.

BONDED INDIVIDUALS: Bruce Wayne (AKA: Batman)

Bruce showed Marinette the small silver ladybug symbol on the exact same spot on his own palm.

And Marinette Dupain-Cheng (AKA: Ladybug)

“What the fuck?” That was Dick, who was the first to get over his shocked silence. But not very well. “What. The. Fuck? If Bruce had a familial soulmate, I would have thought it would be me. You know, first adopted son and everything,” he waved at himself, but his tone wasn’t jealous. It was just confused. “Or any of this other adopted children,” Richard gestured to the line of them next to him. “Why get a familial soulmate now? And why have two soulmates?”

The last line on the hologram began to flash insistently.

ACTIVATE SOULBOND GUIDE? (Y / N)

“I, uh, think we should click yes, Monsieur Wayne,” Marinette suggested, lifting her hand to do just that before pausing and glancing at her new (what? Father figure? Uncle figure? Oh my god if Bruce was Batman, did that mean Damian was Robin? The builds and estimated measurements matched up. Did that mean Bruce—) “Mon dieu, you’re supposed to be my father in law figure,” Marinette realized aloud, her face suddenly paper white at the realization.

“... I agree, let’s see what this ‘Soulbond guide’ is, exactly,” her familial soulmate decided to say, ignoring her realization entirely. He pressed the ‘Y’ with one finger before Marinette or his other children could protest. The silver screen changed, the text melting away in favor of showcasing a horizontal line. Until that line spoke, and moved to show the wavelengths of its voice as it did so. Like a digital mouth. Occasionally text would pop up to complement or supplement the spoken words.

“Hello. I am your SOULBOND guide, A.I.D.E, or Autonomous Introspective Destiny Escort. I am a pocket personality created by the Universe and Fate Itself as your guide and informant regarding your soul bond, and nothing but your soul bond. My knowledge may extend to some aspects of your personality, memories, background, and motives behind actions, but otherwise does not delve far beyond the specificities of your Bond. Even my knowledge of your timeline and social structure in your reality are limited. That being said, do you have any questions regarding your Bond?”

“Oh my god, it even reflects Bruce’s emotion issues,” Jason breathed, thoroughly intrigued and entertained.

“But what does that say about Marinette?” Tim shot back. “She isn’t emotionally stunted like both of her soulmates.”

Yeah, everyone agreed at that point that trying to hide their identities from the French girl was a moot point.

“No,” Marinette agreed slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t even want to ask what you mean by emotionally stunted, because if Robin is any indication…” she winced, and several people in the room chuckled. Jason outright cackled. “But after dealing with HawkMoth for so long and not being able to let out any of my negative emotions, I developed a kind of mental system I guess. I just kinda… click and delete my anger or betrayal as often as it takes, if that makes sense.”

“That is not healthy, and we will talk about that later,” Damian said instantly, not looking pleased. Marinette just shrugged and grinned at him sheepishly.

As usual, Bruce was the first to actually begin to interrog— ahem— ask questions.

“Why do we have two soul bonds?” He asked, getting right to the point.

“In your case, it is due to your alter ego BATMAN. BATMAN has been a separate part of yourself, or at the very least you have seen him as separate from yourself as Bruce Wayne, for more than eighteen years. This grants BATMAN his own soulmate, as if he were his own entity. People such as Superman do not have this attribute, as they are fully cognizant of the unity of their two identities. BATMAN’s soulmate is Marinette, a familial soulmate. In her case, Marinette is in possession of the Ladybug Miraculous, which holds the power of Creation. This, along with the fact that Marinette is what is classified as a TRUE LADYBUG and/or a CREATION SOUL, gives rise to the possibility of a second soulmate being created for her as the need arises. This was compounded by the fact that she, like you, also sees LADYBUG as being a separate person from her own identity as Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Since she has held both a true CREATION SOUL and maintained this mindframe of being two separate people for several years, LADYBUG was granted a soulmate of her own, which is you. Does that suitably answer your question?”

“The first of many,” Bruce admitted grimly, turning to Marinette. “Do you want to ask anything else, or get on with the internship?”

“Just one question today,” she answered immediately, her mind buzzing. “What does the soul bond allow us to do, and how do we activate it?”

“You can activate the Soul Screen and myself by tapping your soulmark with that intention in mind. Your abilities are as follows; Mental Communication link— a two-way telepathy activated on command only when the Bond Mark is activated. Surveillance— the ability to see through your Soulmate’s eyes through the Soul Screen in emergency situations only. Bond Text— The ability to send written messages to your Soulmate by holding onto your soul mark, imagining the contents of the text, and sending it. Nobody except your soulmate will be able to see said message, and it will appear on the palm that hosts that individual’s Soul Mark. SOS— If one member of the soul bond is in life threatening danger, the other member’s bond mark will glow and a meter showcasing the endangered member’s life force will appear next to the mark. Upon the life force extinguishing, this Bond will permanently dissolve. Resurrection, time travel, and magical Cures will not revive this Bond.”

“In other words, the Universe is calling both of you out for being reckless and is only giving you once Chance here,” Barbara surmised ruthlessly. “Good luck. Alfred, what’s for lunch?”

As everyone filed out of the room with the dissolution of the Soulbond’s novelty, Damian, Bruce, and Marinette were left standing in awkward silence. Silently, Marinette shut off the Soul Screen and A.I.D.E with it.

“... we won’t be able to keep secrets anymore,” Marinette said, seemingly just thinking out loud. “Once we activate the Soul Screen, AIDE will totally rat out any we try to keep.”

“She was my soulmate first, Father, so I’m stealing her now,” Damian said by way of warning Bruce before he picked Marinette up and carried her away. The billionaire playboy philanthropist just stared after them, wondering what the hell he did to taunt the Universe into making him the butt of all of its jokes.

He tapped his ear twice, a different bond awakening. “Selina? Please tell me you’re in town. I think I’ll crack out some of the good alcohol tonight.”

“Celebrating something?” The familiar voice purred in his ear.

“Coping.”

—*—*—*—*—* This is not at all canon to the original story, but takes place in the same universe. Just an idea I had for a second that I wanted to write a stupid one shot for. This is crack and I’m okay with that.

[winifredsandersonsbitch]

Everybody Needs a Hobby

Spike x Summers! Reader

Warnings: some colorful language, implied smut, S5 spoilers mentioned

Description: You’re frustrated with the crude reality of life in Sunnydale. You want something you can love that won’t go up in flames. One night, you pick up a poetry book from the library and Spike stops by to give you a vivid reading.

You need something to take you out of the violence of your everyday life.

You try painting. Relaxing watercolors aided by books you pick up at the library, bright acrylics splashed across canvases. Soon your room is filled with artwork that ranges from clumsy to talented. You start giving paintings away to make space. Birthday presents for your friends, surprises for elderly neighbors, just-because gifts for Spike to make his crypt more colorful (he laughs at them, hurts your feelings a little, but the next time you’re in his bed you see them peeking out from behind a curtain). It works, for awhile, but you crave something less solitary. Plus your artwork takes a darker turn when you wake up from nightmares, which is frequently.

You turn to yoga classes at the YMCA. Twisting your body into poses is a different kind of hell after a night out with Buffy, but the stretches take so much of your focus that they force you to stop overthinking. Then your instructor turns out to be a former genie with a sinister agenda and you have to drop the class. It was getting expensive anyway.

You join a intermural volleyball team, but after a gruesome loss one of your teammates takes up the dark arts. You start baking and almost burn the house down. Even community service gets dangerous when the blood bank is ambushed by vampires.

“I’m just so frustrated,” you explain to Dawn one morning at breakfast. “I mean, I love all of these things and I want them to work out, but Sunnydale poisons everything. It’s like I can’t even have a hobby on the Hellmouth.”

She peels a banana with manicured fingers. You dropped her and her friend off at the salon last week and now it’s like every motion has to be fit for a hand commercial. “Fighting vampires is a hobby.”

“No, it’s a full-time job,” Buffy says, swiping an apple off the counter. “And (Y/n) already has two of those.”

“Well, there you go.” Dawn shrugs on her backpack. “You don’t need a hobby.”

You do, though. Spike insists on supplementing your income with his, so you’ve cut down your hours at the office and you’re only taking weekends at the diner. For the first time in years, you have time to relax. You don’t want to waste it.

Buffy spots the sour look on your face and nudges your arm. She drops the core in the trash and washes her hands under the sink.

“Maybe it’s time to go back to school,” Buffy suggests. “I know it’s the middle of the semester, but you could apply for next year.”

You don’t want to make her feel bad, especially since she’s in the same situation as you, but school doesn’t feel urgent when you’ve got the apocalypse going on every other year. Plus you don’t even know what you’d major in. There’s no degree for monster fighting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You finish your yogurt, check the time on your watch. “Come on, Dawn, I’ll drive you to school.”

After you drop her off, you head into the office. It’s slow today. The coffee machine gurgles to life every thirty minutes to keep the employees awake and the copier sits silent in disuse. Barbara and Anne giggle together in the annex over a tin of buttered cookies. The phone rings at the reception desk only twice in the morning. When you answer, no one’s there.

You spend most of the day looking up courses that you might be interested in. There are a few that catch your eye, but you can’t fathom how you’d put them together into a degree.

One of them, creative writing, jumps out at you. You used to write when you were in your early teens. Mostly angstsy poetry about how no one understood you and how invisible you felt. It’s embarrassing to look back on now, but then it had felt like a statement to the world.

Writing made you feel known. You gave it up when you went to college, mostly because it seemed impossible that it would ever amount to anything and partly because you didn’t have the time or energy to focus on it. College seems silly now, all that effort for a paper degree when you know what’s really out there, but if you went back you wouldn’t be going just for the degree. You’d be going because you love to learn.

It’s not so important that you get published and famous anymore. You don’t need the spotlight when you’ve already got the most important job in the world: taking care of your sisters. It’s fine to work in the office and at the diner where you’re nothing more to people than another employee. You know you’re making a difference, even if they never will.

But your heart aches a little for what you might’ve had if life hadn’t gotten in the way.

That night, you stop by the library to pick up some books. Just to see if you still have a passion for them the way you used to. Sunnydale’s library is open until ten p.m. and you stay curled up in an armchair in the fiction section until close. You check out four books to take with you: a poetry anthology, Little Women, a collection of short stories from around the world, and a YA novel. You figure that if you try all different genres, maybe you’ll land on something you love.

Your walk back to the house is uneventful, thankfully (having just renewed your library card, you don’t want to have it revoked if something sinister takes a bite out of your books). You have a late night snack with Dawn since Buffy is still out hunting and then take your books up to your room.

You leave the window open so you won’t have to get up if Spike drops by and curl up in bed with the anthology, a notebook on your bedside table in case of inspiration. You’re not totally sure when he comes in; it feels like hours and seconds since you opened the book. The words are swirling around in the soft light of the room, bouncing off the bed frame and the dresser, colliding with your closet door and knocking the paintings askew in their frames.

“Shouldn’t leave your window open like that, love. Something wicked might find its way in.”

His shirt is off already, you register, as he peels the book from your fingers and kisses you deeply. You make a noise of protest against his mouth and he pulls back, eyebrows raised.

“What the hell book is that, to have you so absorbed you don’t even notice me come in?” He picks it up, dangles it in front of you. “Can’t be porn. Because, obviously, what you’ve got in front of you is better than porn. You Summers. All repressed and self-righteous. If it’s the bloody Bible or The Guide to Enlightenment or some—”

“Don’t make fun of me, William,” you retort, snatching it out of his grasp. “It’s a good book.”

“Must be,” he scoffs. Then he reads the cover. His features flicker through three different emotions in the span of five seconds. “Poetry?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not— Here, give me that.”

Grudgingly, you hand it over, and he settles in between your legs, his head resting on your breasts. He picks out the filthiest, most sexual poem he can find (which is still incredibly tame by his usual standards) and recites:

“‘I want a red dress. I want it flimsy and cheap, I want it too tight, I want to wear it until someone tears it off me. I want it sleeveless and backless, this dress, so no one has to guess what’s underneath. I want to walk down the street—’”

His voice is low, soft, like he’s switched into someone else in the moments between his choosing the poem and his reading it. It makes you shiver. His hand slides up your thigh, at odds with his careful, thoughtful voice.

“‘I want to walk like I’m the only woman on earth and I can have my pick. I want that red dress bad. I want it to confirm your worst fears about me—’” At this, he shifts position, moves the underwear beneath your pajama shorts aside and slides a finger up. You bite your lip. “‘—To show how little I care about you or anything except what I want.’ I like that one, what about you? ‘Confirm your worst fears?’ ‘How little I care about you or anything except what I want?’ Sound like someone you know?”

You hardly realize he’s switched from the poem to conversation until he pauses his ministrations beneath the bedsheet. He’s angled toward you now, one hand twisted under the sheets and his back against your inner thigh, a toothy grin on his face as he repays you for earlier.

“You’re such an ass.”

He ignores this instead of cutting in with his typical I’m evil, duh speech, nuzzles your neck. “I’d like to get you into a dress like that, love. Have you walk down the street in it, showing off—” He sucks at the skin, hard. You cry out. “But then we have to have a way of letting everyone know you’re mine, don’t we?”

“Spike.” His name comes out a moan, a quiet prayer.

“You want another poem? I’m liking this book.”

He returns to his regularly upright seated position, pretends to adjust his reading glasses, then flips through the pages, leaving you wanting. He lands on a sonnet, airing the words out to the open room as you squirm. Finally, you decide to take matters into your own hands, but he stops you, bursting into a new stanza.

“Here in the electric dusk your naked lover tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth...”

He replaces your fingers with his own, guiding you through the poem with a small circles. When you beg, he undresses for you, sets the book down.

“You’re just an erotic hallucination,” he breathes, touching everything as if to make sure that the line isn’t true.

He’s teasing, but a part of him clings to these words in a sad, sweet way. When he’s finished and you’re spent, he rolls over onto the other side of the mattress and his mood shifts again.

“I loved a girl once,” he says, and it stings, even though he talked about Dru often when you first started up and even before, like he wished to hurt you into wanting him. “I wrote her this poem. I used to write a lot, before. I was hopeless that way.”

His voice isn’t soft now. It’s almost angry, like he has been during sex at some points. Passionate and raw and mad at someone that wasn’t you. Flickering back and forth between past and present.

“You probably would’ve liked William,” Spike says. He barks a strangled laugh. “He was just your type. A scrawny mama’s boy who lived through his books.”

He was almost gentle earlier. You can’t understand why he switches like this, between acting like he can’t go on without you and twisting the knife. You roll onto your side.

“Might’ve been, once,” you murmur. This pillow talk is almost worse than the nights when he leaves right after to get his fix, claiming you’ve made him hungry. “Boys like that wouldn’t look twice at me now.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, love.”

You can hear the smile in his voice though. He likes that your self-esteem is low. It feeds his ego, that he can hurt you even though he can’t drain you dry. He’s soulless, after all. On some level, he probably does need you like he says, but it’s not pure. It never will be. He can try to help you when it suits him, restrain himself from severing ties because he craves closeness, but he’s still Spike.

“They’re scared of me now.” Your arms cross under your breasts. You’re not self-flagellating tonight, not really. You’re in the mood for the truth. “They know.”

“Know what?”

“They know, on some level—” It sounds silly, only it isn’t, not to you. “—what I’ve done. And no amount of watercolors or yoga classes is going to change that.”

You didn’t realize it until you said it out loud, how much you were trying to be the girl you were before your mother’s death. How much you missed her and the almost casual slayage that was common before Glory. Sure, the world almost ended a couple times, but you knew how it would turn out in your heart. This— with Buffy, with Dawn— you have no idea.

You lapse into silence, purposefully even your breathing out so it seems you’ve fallen asleep. He gets up not long after, rustles around your room for a moment in a way that makes you nervous, and then pulls the window shut behind him as he exits onto the roof. You fall asleep at some point, drifting in and out of a dream featuring you at the office in a nightmare distortion of your boss’s birthday party until your alarm goes off.

You sit up and smack the button off, sending a piece of paper cascading to the floor. It isn’t until after you’ve brushed your teeth and fully woken up that you retrieve it. It takes you a full thirty seconds to process the first line of the pretentious and somewhat offensive poem Spike left you.

It’s disgusting. It’s explicit. It’s replete with words that you have to look up.

You love it.

When you go down to breakfast, Dawn cracks jokes about the dazed smile on your face until Buffy shushes her and sends her off to finish getting ready for school.

“Seriously, are you okay though?” she asks when the two of you are left to yourselves. You could ask her the same question, with the already scabbing gash on her forehead, but you settle for a quick shake of the head. You feel like you’re burning up, like she can see through you to all the things you did last night.

“No— I mean, I didn’t sleep well.” You pour yourself a cup of juice and take a seat at the table, trying to suffocate your grin. “But I think I found my new hobby.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Seed

Sequel to Breach, The Cell, Corrupt, and Surrender

Warnings: non/dubcon sex, mention of blood, self-harming thoughts.

This is dark!Winter Soldier/Bucky and explicit. 18+ only.

Note:  This is more a plot-ish chapter. We have stuff happening and there’s not so much smut in it. I hope you all like this and I am excited where this series is taking me. 

Please let me know what you think and reblog if you can :D It would really help with continuing and deciding where it will all go!

-

You weren’t allowed a clock. Time was an afterthought. You had too much of it. The tedium was punctuated only by the soldier’s intrusions and the doctors’ prodding. Even those constants could not help you track the hours; days; weeks. Had it been months? You really couldn’t say. They had gifted you a new book, it was just as boring as the last. You spent most of your time pacing the small space; escaping to the showers to wash yourself of the filth that would not leave your skin. You ate the meals they brought without tasting them. Bore their visits with begrudging silence.

The soldier didn’t scare you as much as them. Not anymore. He hadn’t hurt you. Not really. He could be rough; detached; at times, inhuman. At others, he felt warm; soft; a fellow prisoner. At least you imagined it that way. It made it easier. To think that he didn’t do it out of cruelty but desperation. An impossible urge to feel something. An endless search for a sensation his flesh would not allow him. You could see it in his eyes.

Or that was another fiction. Another grasp at hope in this bleak place. Sometimes he would just watch you. He would enter your cell and sit and just watch. His blue irises would follow the flip of the pages, or your nervous twitches, your impatient pacing. You knew what his presence would entail. What had come before. You could usually see it in the blood creased along his knuckles or the grime that caked his clothing. How could he be so cruel to others and yet offered your only comfort in this barbarous place?

That was what he was now. He wasn’t so much a tormentor as a relief. You had let go of your fear of him; though you knew he could change in an instant. In a single second, his touch could harden and he could mangle you just a swiftly. You weren’t afraid of that anymore. You welcomed the thought. Your fatalism shadowed your every thought; your every move. When he came to you, you were his. And when he was gone, you were all alone. He made you forget that.

He didn’t know any of this. How you thought of him; how you felt. He didn’t know the pain swept under the shallow delights of your body. Or maybe he did. Maybe below all that Hydra had made him, he felt the same helplessness. Were you that to him? No, you were but a physical outlet. An appeasement to the murderous hand of Hydra.

There was an uneasiness in you. You had awoke early. You could tell because there were only a few doctors and their aides in the lab. The pod was showered in cryogenic fog; the asset within. Resting as you could not. You envied him his oblivion. You were queasy. Uptight. If you tried to stand still or sit, you would start to shake and squirm. You felt...off.

In the midst of your restlessness, you came up to the wide window which looked out onto the doctors in their clinical coats.That allowed them to look in at you. They did. You had noticed Ilyich and another at the glass last time the asset had come. He had you bent over the bed; he had been rougher that day, but not unkind. Before he touched you, he had waited. He had walked the parameter of your room, he eyes scanned every inch of the barren cell until they settled on you.

You couldn’t place your anxiety. It was just as any other. Your breakfast was brought on a tray with a glass of milk. Despite the flurry in your stomach, you sat and ate. You were hungry despite it all. The supplements in the small paper cup were pasty in your throat. You gulped them down reluctantly. The last time you had refused, Ilyich had shoved them down your throat with his fingers. His fingernails had scratched your mouth and you had nearly vomited on him. You took them willingly now. The word ‘no’ was undefined in this place.

The tray was cleared and you went back to your endless pacing. From bed to door, sink to window, circling the room. You felt sick. That wasn’t unusual; this place made you inherently ill. You paused at the window and peered out at the pod. You could glimpse through the fog the shining metal hand of the asset. The deadly weapon which had been so affectionate to you. This wasn’t healthy. You knew it. It was a false light in the dark.

The door opened and you flinched in surprise. You stopped and turned as Ilyich appeared with an orderly in his stead. The assistant followed with the same machine he had brought before. You crossed your arms and retreated as you watched them enter. The door closed with a deafening clang and Ilyich pulled the chair up beside the bed. He patted the mattress once and his beady eyes bore into you.

You neared the bed reluctantly. You felt both watching your every movement. You climbed up and laid down flat; stiff. As you would before any doctor. The dread of his examination drew tight your every nerve. You reclined and Ilyich cleared his throat. You interrupted him before he could begin.

“How long has it been?” You looked to him meekly, “Can you tell me that?”

His eyes narrowed and he glanced at the orderly. Her expression was blank; uncaring. The perfect Hydra minion. He reached for the folder on the cart, on the shelf just beneath the screen, and opened it. He read it silently before he replaced it in its place. 

He leaned forward with palms together, elbows on his knees. “Since when?”

“How long have I been in this room?” You hissed. You were frustrated by his silence.

“Months,” Was his cryptic answer. He smirked and tugged at the hem of your shirt. “Pull that up,” He instructed as he turned to push buttons on the machine. 

You sighed and rolled up the plain cotton. He took the bottle of gel and edged down the waist of you pants until it was just above your sex. You shouldn’t be embarrassed. He had watched his soldier fuck you. Had seen you entirely bare. But you were.

He squirted the gel on your lower stomach and used the wand to spread it along your skin. It was cold. You shivered as he pressed along your pelvis. You looked to his hand and watched the odd examination. His eyes were on the screen as he poked around. You still didn’t know what the machine was. You had never seen it used in the facility before.

He reached over with his free hand and turned a knob. You could hear a noise from the machine, amplified as he twist the knob. You looked over at the screen; an odd black and white funnel; pulse and waves across the screen in vague shapes. He slid the wand around and pressed down again. It sounded almost like a heartbeat. You blinked and squinted at him in confusion.

“I don’t understand,” You said, “What is this?”

He was smiling. The orderly was watching the screen with intent. She took the chart and pulled a pen from her pocket. She scribbled something within. “That…” He pointed to the odd shape at the bottom of the funnel. “Is a child.” He removed the wand and wiped it clean as he spoke. “It is the future of Hydra.”

“What?” You sat up with a jolt, your shirt stuck to the gel along your stomach. “I’m...no…”

“Pregnant,” He stood as the orderly shut down the machine. “Almost three months...at least we know the asset is still fertile.”

“I--” Your eyes rounded as you pulled your knees up to your chest. You hugged them as you huddled against the wall. “No, it can’t be.”

“My dear, you have done your duty to Hydra most pleasingly.” He praised as he gestured the orderly away with the machine. “But you are not done quite yet.” He wandered to the table where the book sat; the one you just couldn’t finish. “For your hard work, we shall grant you new quarters. More comfortable.” He tapped his fingers on the book cover and glanced back at you, “You see, Hydra rewards those who are loyal; useful.”

You gulped as you throat tightened and your stomach twisted. You hung your head as the tears rose. The door opened and closed. Your heart dropped as you slumped onto your side. Your hand slid down to your stomach, still sticky with the gel. ‘It is the future of Hydra’. His words echoed in your head. No, this was your doom.

-

Ilyich was right. It was a much more comfortable room. The bathroom was separate from the bedroom, the bed was wider and the frame less creaky. There was a shelf with several books along it. Your scrubs had been traded in for a rack of street clothes; shapeless and plain, but less grim than the clinical uniforms. You suspected you’d be wearing the cotton dresses more than the jeans. But you couldn’t relish in your upgrade. Not now that your own ruin was nestled in your stomach.

It was at least a week after before they allowed the asset to visit. You had thought they would not as they had attained their heinous goal. You suspected rather, that they could not stop him entirely. He was angry when he entered. The door burst open as you were sat in the cushioned armchair; much nicer than the metal one in the old cell. You dropped the book as his fiery eyes met yours. He must have found that room empty and it had no doubt riled him. To think that Hydra would take away his only toy.

His hair was greasy with sweat and grime. His face and mask streaked with dust and dirt; blood speckled his clothing. His breath was heavy; furious. You stood as he slammed the door behind him. He marched toward you, his hand snaked around your neck and he gripped the back of your head. He pulled you close. You were shaking.

With his mask still in place, he looked bestial. A dog with a muzzle. You stared up at him, pleading mercy with your eyes. He guided you away from the chair, angled you towards the bed. You let him. You feared any resistance. Was he angry with his keepers or you? Both, perhaps. 

He lowered you onto the bed in a single motion, coming down beside you. His hand remained on your head, his torso pressed to yours as he leaned against you. His other hand came up to cradle your chin. He shook his head as if to say, ‘no running, no hiding’.

His hand moved along your neck, the metal was warm, the leather glove a soft contrast to the plates of his fingers. You reached up shyly and touched the edge of his mask just along his jaw. His brows drew together as you carefully removed it. He leaned into your touch as you lowered the mask from his face. He dipped his head as he rubbed the tip of his nose to yours. He smelled of sweat and blood.

He leaned back as his blues eyes followed his hand and he unbuttoned your blouse. He was methodical; decisive. He cupped your breasts as they were bared. His rage had slaked away with each inch of flesh. You knew the ritual well. He wanted to explore. There were times when he was blunt, unfeeling, but others when he was curious, doting. His metal fingers circled your nipples as he watched them respond, traced the curve of them as his gaze took in every shiver; every squirm.

His fingers tickled along your stomach and the breath whooshed from your lungs. He tilted his head as he looked back to your face. He repeated the motion and you couldn’t help the giggle. “It tickles,” You caught his hand as he tried again. He blinked. You rarely spoke to him. You mimicked his silence; shrouded yourself in it.

You gripped his thick hand, the metal firm; unyielding. Even so, he let you guide his touch. You pressed his palm flat to your stomach. You had noticed a difference but it wasn’t one he would. As well as he had learned your body, he couldn’t know it as well as you. You held his hand there and your heart raced. Would he even understand? You bit down and stared at his hand. Would he even care?

He drew his arm out from under you and his metal hand left your stomach cold. He sat up and waited for you to do the same. As you did, he watched you closely. His blue eyes searched your face and you found it hard to look at him. He nudged your chin and you relented. He pointed to his ear then your lips. He raised his brow and nodded. He wanted you to speak. You were confused.

“What?” You frowned. He shook his head. He knew you had a secret. He was trained to sense deception. He pointed to your mouth again. You had to tell him. You were a poor liar. 

You swallowed and reached out to his hand; his real one. You undid the strap along his wrist and slid it off. You dropped it on the edge of the bed with his mask. You turned it over and drew along the lines of his palm. Slowly, you pulled his hand closer and slipped it past your open blouse. You pressed his palm against your stomach and held it there firmly.

“Yours,” You said, “Inside.” His blue eyes widened. “I--We have a baby. In there.”

His lip twitched and he gritted his jaw. He blinked a few times as he stared at his hand. And then he did something you never expected. He smiled. It didn’t last as the shadow returned to his face. The thoughts darkened his eyes and a long breath drained his chest. He leaned in and his nose brushed along your cheek as he nuzzled your neck. His metal arm wrapped around you and he pulled you closer. His other remained on your stomach, beneath your own.

“Mine,” His voice was deep; strained. “Ours.”

+

tags will be added in a reblog

[katrandomwrites]

Wierdly Human

Alternate title was "Jon the Archivist is Kinda Hot"

Little in between snippets from the assistants and their impressions of Jonathan Sims.

I declare this a fluff and humor only zone! Episode 160 can kiss my butt.

You can also find this on AO3 under the same title.

I got the inspiration for this from a tumblr post about Jon being a clean boy despite crawling through hell and back but I think the writer deleted it because I spent forever looking for it and couldn't find it :n: Also 2 Drink Jon is a reference to 2 other fics I've read so his wild ass is not mine.

Supplemental Headcanons at the end.

--

Pre-Show

There was somebody new at the Institute. 

He was short and dark with black hair neatly trimmed and styled. A pair of browline glasses perched in front of wide brown eyes that seemed to absorb everything around him.

“Hey, uh, Tim,” Martin whispered as he leaned over to where his coworker was digging through a drawer, “Who’s that?”

“Hm?” Tim’s eyes widened as he looked up, “Oh shit, he’s cute.”

“Not helpful, Tim.”

“Um, I think he might be Daniel’s replacement. I think his name is Joe or something,” Tim swallowed, “I wonder what modeling agency Bouchard raided for him.”

Martin elbowed him in the ribs hard, his face going as red as his hair, “Shut up!”

“But look at him, Martin! He has to have a skincare routine an hour long and don’t tell me you didn’t notice that those trousers are bloody tailored. I see you looking at his arse!”

“SHUT UP!”

”What are you two fighting about now?”

Both researchers jumped away from each other as Sasha popped up behind them.

“Hot new guy,” Tim said, earning another jab and a hiss.

Sasha looked at Martin and grinned, “Short, scrawny, Persian, and angry?”

“He’s Persian?” Martin stuttered before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Yeah, I got to talk to him during his follow up interview. Smart guy but kind of grumpy and super awkward. We got talking about foriegn food and he offered to give me his grandma’s recipe for chelow kababs,” Sasha said.

“What’s his name.” Tim asked, looking back at where the new guy was glaring at a row of filing cabinets with several drawers ajar.

“Jonathan Sims.”

--

Pre Episode 44

Basira watched as Sims limped away with the tape clutched to his chest like a lifeline before sighing and heading out to the car where Daisy was waiting.

“Well?” Daisy asked, “How’s our favorite murderer?”

Basira swatted her feet off the dash, “He looks like he hasn’t slept in 3 weeks and recently got hit by a car.”

“I wasn’t asking about his nasty, worm-eaten face, Basira,” Daisy said, “Does he know we’re watching him?”

“I don’t think so -put your seatbelt on- it seems like he’s more invested in what’s on those tapes for now. I get the feeling he’s more worried about watching the people he works with than us.”

“What a sad little librarian. I’m looking forward to how he managed to kill Robinsen without getting his ass whipped.”

“She was old.”

“Yeah, but Sims looks like he’d get knocked out by a light breeze even before he got munched on by some nasty fucking bugs. Did you see the surveillance from Robinsen’s initial investigation? I went back through to track Sims and watched him struggle move a box that was in front of a filing cabinet for a solid twenty minutes; the big ginger guy had to move it for him.”

“That’s-” Basira snorted, “That’s pathetic.”

Daisy grinned, “He has to be one manipulative bastard to get anything done.”

“Is that your theory?”

“I mean look at you.”

“What about me?”

“He gives you the puppy eyes once and now you’re smuggling him tapes from the evidence locker? I have never known the great Basira Hussain to ever cave to a suspect’s wishes in my life- and don’t say it’s to keep a closer eye on him. We have less illegal tactics for that.”

Basira opened her mouth to argue but found that Daisy had a point. She really only gave into suspects if the circumstances were dire. This was technically classed as a low priority case.

What was going on here? 

--

Post Episode 76

Melanie flopped dramatically onto Georgie's couch and let out a long winded sigh.

"Oh?" Georgie asked from the kitchen door.

Melanie sat up slightly to let her sit down before plopping her head down on Georgie's thigh, "I had to go talk to Sims at the Institute again."

"How's Jon?"

"A fucking bastard is what he is."

"Well I knew that," Georgie laughed, gently beginning to brush through Melanie's hair with her fingers.

"I don't know, he's was wierdly defensive and I think he was trying to gaslight me about one of his new assistants."

Georgie paused her brushing, "I haven't seen Jon in a while but that seems… out of character for him. He's a grump, sure, but I've never known him to be a bully -on purpose that is."

"Yeah, well…"

The pair lapsed into a tense silence.

"Would it make you feel better if I show you a picture of Jon in university that he is very embarrassed about," Georgie ventured after a few minutes, "He's still mad I have it.~"

Melanie twisted her head back and grinned, instantly breaking the tension and sitting up to look at the phone screen presented to her.

On it was a picture of Jon passed out, mouth wide open and drooling, on the ugliest couch she'd ever seen.

"He still owns that couch by the way," Georgie said. Melanie waved a hand in her face to silence her as she took in the details.

Jon was in a pink crop top that Melanie was sure she'd seen in Georgie's closet, union jack boxers, gladiator sandals, and The Admiral was planted square on his chest, though he was about half the size of the fluffball that roamed the flat now. Surrounding them where piles of papers and books on the paranormal.

Melanie began to cackle.

"Our friend group used to call him '2 Drink Jon' and this was after he'd done four shots in the kitchen and decided to lecture us on how ghosts are bullshit and he could beat one in a fist fight," Georgie elaborated, "I'm still not sure when he ended up in that outfit but honestly, if we had recorded his rant he probably could have used it for his Masters thesis."

Melanie wheezed into her shoulder as tears began to stream down her face.

"2 Drink Jon was actually a lot more charismatic than sober Jon. This one time he almost had us convinced that he could talk to plants after two gin and tonics, granted we were also drunk but-,"

"Stop, please," Melanie wheezed, "I'm dying."

"Gosh, one of these days I'll have to tell you about tequila and the alien conspiracy. Randall could almost recite the whole speech from memory."

Melanie fell off the couch.

--

Post Episode 109

Julia and Trevor exchanged a look as the Archivist powered through the spiciest Thai food they could find without even breaking a sweat. 

It was supposed to be a joke, spiking Jon's food, the cashier had even given them a panicked look at the restaurant and Trevor's eyes had been watering the whole way back to the safe house. They'd even waited by the door in case Jon tried to make a break for the case of water bottles in the car but he just unwrapped the plastic fork and dug in without even asking for a drink.

Julia picked at her own food but couldn't quite manage to eat it and glanced back at Jon, "Are you sure you don't need a water or anything?"

Jon looked up for a moment, his eyes were more alive than they had been all day and practically sparkled in the shitty fluorescent light. He shook his head and instead reached for another packet of chili sauce to add to his food.

"What the hell is he," Trevor whispered to Julia in horror.

"I don't know but he's definitely not normal."

--

During Episode 132

Daisy had misjudged Jon. She'd grossly misjudged him.

She flexed her fingers around his, ignoring the way the sand dug into her skin, and gently pulled him closer. The man she'd called prey gave her a soft smile and compiled, pressing against her side like she'd never held a knife to his throat, like she hadn't just admitted to planning his murder before she was trapped here.

Daisy turned her head awkwardly and dug her face into his shoulder savoring the human contact, her tears soaking into his shirt.

The Hunt in her blood tried to sing, tried to fight the Buried, "Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect", it echoed faintly.

Jon said something and began to move, pulling Daisy forward along with him.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

Hours past as they shimmied through the coffin, the pain of being scraped and crushed was overpowered by the sheer ecstasy of moving more than an inch every few days.

"Safe, Mine, Pack, Protect"

There was a door, Jon tucked himself under her arm and pulled her up the stairs to the blinding lights of the institute. She ducked her head down to his shoulder again and grimaced as her joints popped and groaned.

"Jon, you stupid idiot! What did you think-"

Daisy looked up to the person she thought she’d never see again and smiled.

"Hi."

--

Post Episode 132

Martin had horrible timing really. He just needed to pee, was that really too much to ask?

Of course it was. The universe hated him.

So instead of slipping into the private bathroom upstairs which was magically broken, he had to go down a level and walk in on Jon shaking dirt out of his clothes.

Martin was going to die here but at least he'd die happy.

Jon didn't even seem to register that someone else had joined him (thank the Lonely) so Martin took a second to sneak a guilty look before darting back out and hiding for 40 years.

Jon was painfully thin. Martin got the idea that he could count every vertebrae and rib if he was allowed and even at a glance he could spot the sunken area where at least one rib was now missing.

Worm scars and burns were peppered up his back along with a few moles and freckles. Little red marks circled his chest in a way that Martin immediately recognized as being from the black fabric crumpled at Jon's feet.

And to top it all off, much to Martin's delight, were a set of three black gears tattooed down Jon's right shoulder blade. Sasha had mentioned once that she had gone out for drinks with Jon when he first started and they'd managed to get on the topic of tattoos. Tim had spent months trying to get Jon to show it to him before 'giving up'.

Martin stepped out and stood in the hall for a moment, red faced and giddy, before stumbling off in search of another bathroom.

--

Somewhere between Episode 132-154

"Hey, guys?" Melanie called.

Daisy and Basira glanced up to see Melanie holding a giant plate of the best smelling food they'd seen in weeks. Steam wafted up into her very confused face.

"Did either of you make this? I went to ask Martin and I can't find him."

"I didn't make it," Basira said, "Daisy?"

"I once made spaghetti and lit it on fire.

Basira grimaced and walked up to Melanie, "Kebabs, Tahdig rice, flat bread, and jam cookies. Those are Iranian dishes, or Middle Eastern at least.”

Daisy looked at Basira, "How do you know that?"

"Took a foreign cuisine course focused on middle eastern food a few years ago," Basira said as she made her way to the kitchen area with the group in tow.

Sitting on the table were three more huge plates of food and two empty plates sitting in the sink. Martin was standing next to the table with pure confusion on his face.

"Did you make this?"

Martin jumped and looked at the group, "Uh, no? I really only do pastas… this is a little outside my skill set. I think-"

"It could be a trap," Daisy interrupted, "Maybe it's laced with something?"

"No, I'm pretty sure-"

"Could be, but who would go to this effort, the Web?" Basira said.

"Guys, it was probably-"

"It was the Archivist!" Helen exclaimed from behind them, somehow having opened her door without making a sound and scaring the shit out of them, "He is an excellent cook."

"Bullshit," Melanie wheezed, setting her plate down before she dropped it.

"No, she right," Martin sighed, "Jon actually cooked something similar a few years ago for a company thing. He gave this whole speech about how grandparents immigrated here from Iran, well Persia at the time, and his grandma made him learn to cook what she called 'real food'."

"You mean to tell me that Jonathan Sims, the skinniest guy I have ever met, can cook like this," Basira said in disbelief before cautiously sitting down at the table with the rest following suit.

"He called it his grandmother's curse," Helen provided cheerfully, "He said that no matter what he does,  he always makes far more than he needs and never has people around to give it to. So he just never cooks."

"You talked to him?" Melanie asked. Daisy began to pick at a plate and made a sound of confusion and delight at the taste.

"Oh yes, he even let me help by getting things off high shelves!"

"This is amazing," Daisy said in disbelief before grabbing a fork and beginning to eat in earnest.

"It is! Jon and I had a lovely chat and I'm not much for 'real' food these days but he really convinced me!" Helen declared, spinning back around to re enter her door, "And I must say it was delightful."

"Huh," Basira shrugged and began to eat.

Not bad.

--

Post Episode 159

For the second time since he woke up, Martin pinched himself. He had to be dreaming, the smaller body smooshed up against his chest and the boney limbs clinging to him had to be a figment of his imagination.

Jon huffed in his sleep and burrowed deeper into Martin before settling again. A few stray rays of the morning sun slipped through the blinds highlighting Jon’s gray hairs and the raised edges of scars that trailed along his skin.

Gently, Martin carded his hand through the wild mess of hair, marveling at how soft it was despite everything. Jon sighed, leaning into the touch without stirring.

He could stay like this forever, with Jon safe in his arms and the dangers of the world outside, away from his happiness.

"Wha' time?" Jon mumbled, stretching before re-draping himself over Martin. He looked up and the light caught his eyes in a way that Martin could see all the blue heterochromatic spots in Jon's left eye through dark, heavy lashes. 

"Doesn't matter," Martin whispered as he pulled him closer, "We have all the time in the world."

--

Supplemental Headcanons: - Jon is a 3rd gen Persian/Iranian immigrant. His grandparents on his dad's side moved to England post WWII. (Persia became Iran in 1979) They took the last name Sims during immigration. - His mother was full blooded English. - He can out cook 87% of the local grandma's when he really gets into it - He built an unnaturally high tolerance to salt and spice as a kid to keep people from taking his lunch or trying to mess with his food and now thoroughly enjoys spicy foods. - Jon does care a lot but his grandma never taught him to show it in any other way but tolerance and mute acceptance. It's hard to know where you stand with Jon because of this. - Was a runner while in school. - Was forced to take violin lessons as a kid and Georgie taught him some piano in University. - Jon is and always has been feral little man though he is more bark than bite (unless he's under the influence of something). He learned it from his grandma. - He's one of those drunks that often wanders/ runs away from his drinking group. He has strong drunk college girl tendencies. - He changed his middle name to Ulysses when he got his first name legally changed because he’s a nerd. - Jon has had the same pen pal since he was 10. They are one of the few points of normalcy he has left. - Jon and Daisy are trans mlm and wlw solidarity. Fight me.

Fun Fact: Sims means "the Listener" which seems almost too on the nose.

[mymymadeline]

• Someone New 

pairing: Hallmark Christmas Movie Au! Poe Dameron x Reader

word count: 2.7k words

summary: He’s instantly beautiful in an almost familiar way, like you could call his features home.

warnings: none! :)

notes: look... isn’t this what we all want? big shoutouts to my sun and stars Cat for making this fic baby with me, couldnt have done it without you love. Enjoy!

Adore You series: 01, 02, 03, 04, ... - AO3

“Well I don’t care how it gets done, it just needs to get done! As long as it’s legal, I'm fine with it, and if it’s illegal, well I'm sure we can find a way to work around that.” 

 If you hadn’t already kicked off your heels behind your desk twenty minutes ago, you’re sure your feet would be aching from the frantic pacing that’s now ruining your office carpet. The curtains are open to the bustling concrete metropolis outside, the massive height of the building giving you all the privacy you need. Uncertain sunshine slips from massive clouds and tentative rays rest on your carpet. 

“Enjoying your final day at work, I see.” Kylo smiles mockingly at you from the doorway of your office. Your frantic strides come to an irritated halt and you squeeze the phone next to your ear a little tighter.

“Just text me when it’s done. Don’t even call, I don’t care.” Hanging up before they can answer with a firm, unsatisfying press of your finger, you level your gaze with Kylo’s irritatingly smug face.

“What could you possibly want right now, Kylo?” You have to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. Letting him onto your annoyance would only spur him on and you really don’t need that right now.

He crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe, carefully crafting the picture of power. “It just seems to me like leaving town is causing you so much stress. It might just be easier to stay.” He shrugs. 

“Ha. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You raise your brow at him, putting as much taunting venom in your voice, hopefully without devolving into an actual argument. “Me giving up my first real vacation in years to stay and do more busywork, while you gallivant around with some… hmm more models, will it be this year?” 

Kylo scoffs, obviously enjoying this sparring much more than you. But a rare softness takes over his tone. “You know, you could always come with me.”

This catches you off guard. You haven’t seen this kind of tone from him in a long time. Not since before everything went down in burning wreckage between you two. 

You level your gaze with his meaningfully, keeping your voice smooth but unemotional. 

 “I think that would be a bad idea.”

Any sincerity in Kylo’s features goes as quickly as it came, he shrugs it off like it disturbed him to even know it still exists within him. His petulant yet teasing smugness takes over as natural as the clouds over the sun. 

“Yeah, well, don’t say I didn’t try. Anyway, hardly a vacation, spending a month in that pathetic, run-down rat-hole. I forgot, did they get wifi there yet?” 

Moving away from Kylo, you pace back over to your desk, turning your phone meditatively between your hands. “You act like you didn’t grow up there too.” 

Echo Basin was not a major town by any means. In fact, both you and Kylo spent all of graduate school telling people you were from Yavin just to spare the confused looks and odd questions. But while Kylo only ever pulled further away from your hometown and the people in it, you often pondered what life would have been like if you’d stayed. But it was never more than a thought, as the business at hand was always more pressing and besides, you were successful here. What more could you ask for?

 “We lived there for the first 18 years of our lives. We grew up at Imperial U.” Kylo snaps you out of your brief reverie and brings your attention back to his now clearly disinterested demeanor, as he scrolls through his phone. “Whatever, it’s your ‘vacation.’ As long as you don’t end up like that traitor.” He pauses, about to elaborate before he shakes his head and continues scrolling. “Still, we have a meeting with Hux approximately... four minutes ago. So, whenever you’re ready, princess.”  

You turn away from him, to the window and look out among the bustling streets and impassive skyscrapers of the city. The few rays of sunshine in your office have taken off, leaving the room colder than usual. Dark clouds look to be rolling in from the east. You faintly recall the weatherman standing next to a big snowflake on the TV this morning. You didn’t believe him before.  

“Sure. I’ll meet you there.” 

_____________

You give your best death glare to the array of lights flashing at you from the dashboard. They blink meaningfully, as if you have a clue what any of them mean, as snow continues to pelt the windows of the car. The hours long drive has exhausted your vision and the windshield is slowly becoming a wall of white. Maybe you should have invested in those 5 Hour Energies after all. Your assistant had offered to buy you an array of energy supplements or drinks for the trip, but in a foolish attempt to not show any weakness in front of employees and peers, you refused. Ah, hubris. 

Still, you drive on, heat blasting to offset the nearly year-round chill of your hometown and do your best to keep a positive attitude. But that attitude only proves more difficult to keep as the wheels of your precious TIE give an unpleasant bump and the sleet lined road is finally starting to make you chew your lip. 

“Come on. Only a few more miles to go.” You gently goad your car, pointedly ignoring the GPS and its remaining 80 miles. 

 The car answers only with another lurching screech. Then a sputter. Then a whine.

 The noises pause, as if waiting for a reply. 

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. But your threat only comes out as a plea. 

Without your permission and seemingly out of spite, the car sputters and begins to slow, your frantic attempts on the gas giving no support. Continuing forward with only your momentum, you manage to gently steer your beloved, stupid car off towards the snowy treeline purely on instinct.

Out in the snow, on this one-lane highway, as the sun sets at 4:00 PM on a Friday, your car stops moving. 

 You sit in the stalled vehicle, as frozen as the miles of nothingness around you. You’re going to die here. Your shaking hands clutch the steering wheel in a white knuckle grip and you let out an angered scream worthy of an Academy Award. You just wish you were acting. 

 You manage to scream yourself out of breath, but the stupid thought won’t go away. You’re going to die here. What a stupid childish thought. You’ll be fine, just act like an adult. 

“Ok, ok. Calm down. You’re not far from town. Grow up and find out what’s wrong with your car like a reasonable car owner.” You reach for the door handle and are met with only another gust of wind, pushing all of the snow it can carry in your direction and your body shivers at the mere idea. 

“Ok, maybe just call someone.” 

Your phone is a lot of things. You’ve spent countless hours with it scrolling through stocks, shouting at people, being shouted at, scoffing at idiotic articles that don’t know the first thing about you. In fact, it's probably your only friend. And now, in the middle of nowhere, it feels like a lifeline.  

Your brain briefly recalls the fuzzy image of the old auto shop you would sometimes pass while getting groceries all those years ago, but whatever name was on the sign escapes you. So you’re left with dialing the first place that shows up on Google and crossing your fingers.  

Ring

Ring

“Pick up.”

Ring

“Please.”

Click.

“Rebel Auto, this is Rose. How can I help you?” 

A cheerful woman’s voice answers at the end of a laugh, as if joking around had kept her from picking up. You sigh in relief, but are quietly alarmed as the fact that you can see your breath already. The car is cooling quickly. 

Without a second thought, you put on the ‘phone call voice’ you’ve mastered for over a decade and get straight to the point. 

“Yes, Hi. My car has just broken down on the main highway, just after mile...” you turn around try to note the mile marker, but the fog on the inside and the snow on the outside are doing everything they can to make your job impossible. “77? I believe? Anyway, I need a tow into town and a repair as soon as possible. Thank you.”

“Oh.” The woman seems caught off guard at your brusk and smooth tone. There’s a sound of shuffling papers and she clears her throat. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll send someone out immediately. I-In the meantime can you identify your make and model?”

Immediately. Perfect, at least if you freeze, there will be someone close enough to find your body. With another breath of relief, you allow yourself to actually relax, even examine your nails. Damn, when did you get that chip on the thumb?

“Yes, it’s a 2021 TIE Striker. And if you’re going to ask me what the problem is, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about cars. It was driving and then it wasn’t.” 

“A… TIE Striker? Wow… Uhm-” Rose seems at a momentary loss for words, you’re not quite sure why. “Not often people drive TIEs and not know anything about cars.” She laughs. You don’t. 

“Well, Rose if that’s all I-” Something about the name coming out of your mouth gives you pause. Dots that you didn’t know were there start to connect. 

“Wait, Rose? Rose... Tico?” 

“Uhm…” her gulp is audible through the phone. “Yes?”

Now is when you laugh. You almost feel dumb enough to smack yourself on the forehead. Almost.

You clear your throat and put on your best impression of Ms. Holdo.

“Ms. Tico this is Honors English, not shop class. If you could please put away your… creation. ”

You wait with bated breath. You’re not even really sure if you remember how to make jokes anymore but you do remember this one from so long ago. Don’t make me look crazy.

You get the reaction you were looking for and then some. 

“ NO WAY ! ”

It’s your only warning before something your pretty sure is your name is squealed out on the other end of the line, so loudly in fact that you have to hold your phone a good distance away to avoid permanent ear damage. 

A grin, half pleased, half cringing, spreads across your face as the squealing continues.

“Yes, it’s me,” you laugh. 

“Oh my god. Are you back? Does this mean your back? I saw you on the cover of Wired! You looked hot !”

“Rose, one question at a time!” The bombardment usually irks you, interviewers or paparazzi stumbling over themselves just to get some dirt. But this kind feels oddly… nice? It feels genuine. Like she’s asking because she likes you. But… that can’t be the case, can it?

“Sorry, sorry!” You can practically hear her calming herself down. “Ugh, it’s just so cool to have you back in town. You are back in town right? That’s why you’re stuck on the highway?” 

“Yeah. It’s my parents' thirty-fifth anniversary and I haven’t been back in about fifteen years… I thought it might be time.” 

“Oh man, I can’t wait to see you! This is going to be so fun.” The heartfelt warmth of her tone makes the chilling air around you just that more bearable. But a sound cuts through from wherever she is and she turns back to friendly business. “Anyway, I’ll let you go, but I’ll see you at the shop soon! Poe left about five minutes ago, so he’s on his way. Bye!”

“Oh, alright. Uhm, bye.”

 You hear a few excited giggles before the beep cuts them off, leaving you in the silent car once again, with a strange hollowness sitting sickly in your chest. It wouldn’t have been so bad to just talk a little longer. But, that was odd, wasn’t it? Maybe it only felt odd because... you couldn’t remember the last time a friend had called. When was the last time you spoke to someone who seemed to actually care about you?  

Shaking your thoughts from the uneasy turn of conscious, you turned out to the sunset that has been steadily falling for the past half hour. Blinking tiredly, you hope that whoever is coming for you is quick. You attempt to recall the name she gave but it has already fallen to the back of your mind. Closing your eyes, you think it might not be a bad idea to get a tiny nap in meanwhile. Just a tiny one. Not a big -

______________

A rumbling that shakes the car jerks you out of your peaceful rest, and you shiver, the car much colder than you remember. Looking around, it’s quickly apparent your nap was much longer than the ‘tiny’ one you had so stupidly planned. It’s pitch black, the forest completely dark around you, and the only light comes from the bright headlights heading straight your way. Blinking groggily, you shield your eyes to the approaching vehicle, but the lights begin turning away, as the large truck appears to pull a U-turn, pulling in front of your car.  

Oh, thank god. Your savior has arrived.

A figure steps out of what you can now see is a tow truck. A flashlight leads their way in the treacherous snow as they approach, and you step out to greet them. The bitter chill hits you instantly causing a visceral shiver to overtake your body. 

“You alright there?” A warm, slightly scratched voice cuts across the wind, and your assuring smile only comes out as a grimace. 

“It’s just freezing is all.”

“We’ll see if we can get you warmed up then.”

You and the man meet halfway, only a few feet apart, and with your eyes steadily adjusting and the bright moonlight above, you can now make out his features.

Dashing is the only word that comes to mind as your brain short circuits. He is handsome. He’s instantly beautiful in an almost familiar way, like you could call his features home. Warm and gorgeous dark eyes blink back in their own caught-off-guard way, as you finally come back into the moment at hand and the man standing before you.

“Wow.” He speaks in something close to a whisper, and it’s almost lost to the wind. But he clears his throat before you can ask what has him so thrown.  

“You -uh- called the auto shop right?” He drags his eyes away from you and over to your sad, slumped over TIE behind you. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and drop your gaze, nodding. 

“Yes. That was me. Sorry for all the trouble.” 

You suddenly feel very foolish and very embarrassed. You had expected some no one townie, not this heartthrob that could have easily replaced Errol Flynn in any of his biggest features. Having him drive all the way out in this weather just to take care of your stupid car feels very rude, and you suddenly wish you knew more about cars.

“Why don’t you get situated up front and I’ll get this set up back here?”

Sneaking a glance back up, you meet his eyes and quickly look away again, nodding once more. 

“Sure.”

You go to move past him, making a good few feet of footprints in the snow when a thought shoots through your brain at light speed and you’re jogging back to your car as fast as your designer boots will take you. You should have invested in a better pair of boots for the snow it seems because you don't make it very far before your front foot slips out from under you and your arms fly out looking for anything to grasp onto.

But Poe’s are quicker, instantly their firm grasp has a hold around you and your fall is cut short as you are held tightly against him.  

His breath comes out as a chuckle and he looks down at you, “What’s the hurry?”

You laugh slightly too, quickly righting yourself and trying to purge the memory of his arms around you and how nice it felt. 

“I forgot my bags is all.” 

Without a second glance, you march, much more carefully this time, towards the back of your car.

Poe runs a hand through his curly snow-flecked hair, smirking to himself.  

Ok, this could be interesting. 

-

notes: thanks for reading!

Chapter 2 should be up soon, though I can't guarantee a strict schedule. I have this whole fic plotted out though, so we ain't winging it! We'll finish this thing!