#but raising them? taking care of them long term? i don't think he'd care for or be great at

[lucifer-kane]

I personally don't think Lloyd really ever wanted children of his own but him saying Marjolein is like a daughter to him was a MASSIVE deal for the both of them

[erwinsvow]

little sad bitchy!reader moment: her and rafe are at the country club with topper and kelce and some other friends of rafe and one of the guys starts saying how she would be a horrible wife and mother (bc of the way she is) and she honestly is so hurt by it and i think she would almost try to change the way she is around rafe a little just so he wouldn’t think that about her…

sobbing thinking about it and listening to this (https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTLX2Pdcv/)

hi my love this was so amazing and wonderful to write! im sorry its kinda long, hope you like it ♡

in all honestly, you stopped caring what people said about you a long time ago. you weren't the way you were because it was funny, or to get a reaction out of others. that was just the way you've always been, and there was nothing you hated more than letting people walk all over you and get away it.

that must be why the comebacks would fly out of your mouth before you could stop them, if you even wanted to stop them. why you never stopped to think twice about the people who didn't want to talk to you again or the boys who didn't want a second date.

you weren't easy to handle, not that you wanted to be, but you knew you weren't.

it seemed easy enough for rafe though.

he never seemed to wish that you'd bite your tongue or tell you to act differently, behave a certain way. no, he'd laugh and fire back something, or agree with you and say something you remember to add to your collection of insults.

rafe liked you as you were. that's why he fought so long and hard to get you, something that you didn't take lightly. you were committed, and the more days that went by, you found yourself softening up more and more with him.

rafe knew a side of you that a select few had ever seen, much less engaged with. you liked it this way, having a boyfriend you could be yourself around and be a little soft around.

until you overhear a boy at the club talking about you. in all your years of life, you've never let a boy make you feel upset, and you didn't want to start now. a comeback brews the second he mentions your name—of course it's the idiot one, the one whose parents pay for his grades and doesn't know anything besides losing at pong and scaring away girls—but it dies in your throat when you hear the words that follow.

"i mean i get it, she's hot, but i don't know how cameron puts up with her."

"what're you talking about? she's just like him," kelce says, and you feel briefly grateful for him.

"dude, she's a bitch. i've never heard one nice thing come out of her mouth. totally untamed. you can't bring a girl like that home to your folks, they'd hate her. especially his folks. and don't even mention long-term. imagine coming home after working all day and your girl is bitching at you? i mean, no offense but what kind of kids is she gonna raise?"

you hear laughter, and when your face feels wet, and you're confused for a moment. you look up at the ceiling, wondering if there's a leak, when your eyes flood again and more tears fall down.

crying, and that too over what one of rafe's friends said about you. this isn't like you. frankly, it's pathetic. those idiotic boys don't know the first thing about you or your relationship with rafe—they don't know the conversations you have and all the things you both agree on and the way he laughs when you fire back at him.

but somehow, feet leading you outside and to your car, fingers texting rafe some excuse for why you went home early, you end up letting it affect you.

rafe comes over the next morning—he texted you something but you didn't reply. worried for a moment about something you've never been concerned with before, you think a nicer girl would have texted him back right away, that you should have texted him back.

he doesn't knock, never does. your parents aren't home but he has your spare key, letting himself in and up to your room. he stops at the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"hey. what happened last night?" he asks it like he doesn't know what happened—which is good, you want it to stay that way. the thing you would have said yesterday bubbles up, coming to your lips. maybe if you'd gotten your head out of your ass, you'd see my text.

"wasn't feeling good. came home."

"you feelin' okay now?" he gets closer to you, and you look up at your boyfriend. i'd be fine but that asshole you already hate ruined my mood. will you run him over in your truck?

"better." you stop for a moment, you don't want him to think something's wrong. "how was your night?" he looks at you a little confused.

"it was fine. borin' without you. kelce asked where you went too."

"y'know i always liked kelce," you say, smiling again. you think you can get better at this.

rafe takes you out for lunch, and then you wanted to go shopping in the afternoon and get your nails done. it's a whole day, and you like spending it with him. you swallow down what your mind usually thinks and opt for being nice instead, polite questions and trepid commentary.

the waiter brings you the wrong drink—and though you're not so much of a bitch to hurl insults at teenager servers, you're normally annoyed enough to say something and get your correct drink. instead you sip it quietly, waiting for rafe to start the conversation. when you don't, he looks at you in that confused way again.

"you okay?"

"yeah. fine. you okay?"

if he thinks something's wrong, he doesn't say anything. at the mall, nothing looks how you want and even the things you like don't feel right. you'd let rafe buy you whatever you want, normally giving him a twirl in the dressing room and thanking him very sweetly.

"you want that dress?" rafe asks, his arm resting on a rack while you comb through mindlessly.

"no, it was too short."

"that's never been an issue before." ha-ha. pervert. looking up my skirt aren't you? knew you were desperately horny for me but this is down bad even for you.

"trying to dress better. and it'll be cold soon."

"hey, look at me." rafe uses his hands on your shoulders to turn you from the clothes, facing him. "you okay baby?"

fuck, you know you messed up. he only calls you that when he's being serious—the rest of the time it's princess, angel, sweetheart. all things that you are definitely not.

"i'm okay. i just don't want it. but thank you." you don't know it, but he thinks you're upset with him, spending the next hour in the nail salon racking his mind for the reason why.

your nails are fine, they look pretty enough. shorter than normal with a clean french manicure, you admire them from a distance. you suddenly feel like crying again, wondering why you didn't get the pink acrylics you like, rhinestones and bows and all the other things that were pretty to look at when you flipped people off.

in rafe's passenger seat after, you keep staring at your hands, feeling another tear slip down. rafe's not looking at you, he's looking ahead, still unsure what was going on.

"baby, if i did something you gotta tell me, i don't like seein' you like this-" when he turns his head to glance at you, you're looking back at him with your pouty face and wet cheeks—two things he's never seen before. "hey. what's wrong?"

you couldn't stop the downpour if you tried—tears falling quick and fast. you hate that anyone's seeing you like this, especially rafe.

rafe is nice to you, and you soften up around him. you didn't really realize that he softens up around you too. he wipes your tears away, keeps a hand on yours the whole time.

"can you talk to me? what's goin' on?"

"yesterday.. one of those guys said that i was a bitch-"

"which one? to your face? when? i'll fuckin' kill him-"

"no, he didn't know i was there. it's not that, i know i am. i don't care about that. he said that-" your voice cracks, something else you hate, that you don't want rafe hearing. "sorry. he said you couldn't bring me home. and that you would hate coming home to me-me being all mean. and that our kids would be mean too."

yes, you're mean. but rafe's mean too, and none of your friends have ever said anything like that about him. you like that he's mean, that he's like you—you think he's the closest thing to a soulmate you could ever find.

"don't fuckin' listen to any of them for a second, got it? they don't know anything."

"rafe, i-"

"no, seriously. they yap because i wasn't there to knock him out. and he says it when you're gone 'cause he knows you'd make him cry if you were there." you sniffle, though you already feel better.

"but i didn't. i started crying instead." you hate even thinking about it.

"s'okay, it happens. but don't believe a word of that shit. i wanna come home to you everyday. hear everything you say. i want all of it."

"really?" you ask him, wiping away your tears, appreciating the hand on your thigh and how sincerely he's looking at you. "i thought you'd be mean if i cried in front of you."

"it's hard enough to be mean to you."

"you're such a sap. should we go get ice cream and braid each others hair after this?" he laughs, and you laugh. "thanks rafey."

"no problem, kid."

"don't call me that." rafe groans, and you smile.

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

I recently rewatched Mouthwashing (thanks to CoryxKenshin being back like the king he is) and going through the tag again and I think everyone's missing like, one big thing with Anya. Specifically due to people not realizing just how long they were all stuck there.

tw under the cut for... everything that happens to Anya in this game.

More specifically, TW: sexual assault, pregnancy, abortion, miscarriage, suicide.

Anya was not still pregnant when she died.

I kinda figured this was common knowledge but I keep seeing people like... assume she was dying while still pregnant, and the thing is. It doesn't track at all.

When Anya asks Curly how much longer they'll be in space, and she depressedly realizes it will be eight months, that's cause she already knows she's pregnant by that point. Human pregnancy is roughly nine months, if you weren't aware, and women tend to realize they're pregnant at about 2-3 months. AKA: she's realizing she has no chance of an abortion. Clearly they don't have the medical tools for a safe one on the ship, and they're not going to leave the ship for eight months. By that time, the kid will be born. Even if miraculously she's still pregnant by the time they land and she can get a late-late-term abortion, even if she gives the kid up for adoption, she still has to be pregnant, on a ship that barely has the tools for the survival of five healthy people, with her rapist's baby, for eight months. And again, that's not going to happen; she's already 2-3 months along at that point, the kid would probably be born in the med bay.

I think that's also part of why Jimmy freaked out. The "taking responsibility" could be seen as him having to take responsibility for a kid, but the way I always read it, it was that once they landed, there would be zero chance that Jimmy could deny he'd slept with Anya. DNA tests are accurate now, I'm sure in our far future where we can space-travel it's gotten even better. His best case scenario would be her not pressing charges or claiming it was consensual and then he'd have to either help raise the kid or pay child support when he clearly can't even afford to take care of himself AND he just lost his job. But that's again, the best case. What I think he knew would be more likely to happen would be that she would admit what had happened to her, the baby would serve as proof, and whether Curly backed him up or not, Swansea and Daisuke were less fond of him and less loyal to him respectively. If they testified that they didn't see any consensual relationship going on, or if they testified about him harassing her or worse, that'd be three-against-two, and that's assuming Curly would back him up on the basis of them being friends. Curly claimed to Jimmy that he was going to figure it out for them, and his efforts to appease Jimmy over protecting Anya are what caused this shitstorm to happen, but he's also a professional who isn't very inclined to dishonesty from what we've seen of him.

Jimmy, I think, knew that. He knew that "taking responsibility" wasn't just "for the kid you brought into the world," it would be "for the crime you committed." If the MouthwashingVerse society is similar enough to ours, he would be arrested and charged, probably jailed, and put on a sex offender registry, which would severely limit his job prospects once he got out of incarceration. If the society is better than ours, he might get longer jail time and worse punishments then we see for rapists in our world. And if it's worse, there's still physical proof that Jimmy created a kid and he'd be expected to take care of it. But I think the former options are the more likely, and why Jimmy was so willing to die rather than take responsibility. It wasn't "I would rather die than be a father," it was "I would rather die than face consequences for my crimes." Let's also not forget that in storytelling, babies are basic metaphors for the future. Jimmy does not want to face his future, so he kills it for everyone.

But with the crash, back to my main point: Anya would've been 2-3 months pregnant by the time of the crash. They survive five months on the asteroid before everyone dies. I know this game is low-poly, but does Anya look 7-8 months pregnant to you? The game has enough polygons to make Swansea plus-sized, so you'd think it wouldn't be that hard to make an alternate Anya model. But she not only doesn't look pregnant, not a single other character mentions a pregnancy in their laundry list of current problems. It's not exactly easy to hide when you're seven months pregnant.

It's most likely that Anya miscarried early on in the crash. If the crash itself didn't do it– which it probably did– the next five months of limited food, high-stress, and no medication would do it.

Why am I bringing this up? I keep seeing people assume that Anya's suicide was then in her last-ditch effort to not have to birth her rapist's baby. An attempt to take control back of her own body. But there isn't a baby by then. Anya hasn't been pregnant for a while. I think it's a little scary for people to try turning her suicide into her triumphing over Jimmy, when part of the horror of the story is how everyone's deaths were tragic and avoidable. Anya did not kill herself to avoid being pregnant, she killed herself because she was traumatized and suicidal and didn't see a future for her or anyone on the ship.

[captainsophiestark]

Dance Like Nobody's Watching

Dick Grayson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2024!

Fandom: DC

Day Twenty-Seven Prompt: "Let me remind you."

Summary: Dick's SO is having trouble adjusting to the new scrutiny of attending Wayne galas as his date, but thankfully, he has an idea to help with that.

Word Count: 1,449

Category: Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I sipped my champagne, trying to get a handle on my nerves. I could handle fighting the Joker and Scarecrow with no problems, but attending a Wayne gala as the partner of Dick Grayson was throwing me for a loop.

I fought the urge to scowl about it. If one thing could make this night more awkward, it would be some person I barely knew finding me making faces in the corner.

What irritated me the most was that this was by no means my first Wayne gala. I'd grown up with Dick and spent countless hours in the manor with him and his family. We'd been each other's primary entertainment at these things as kids. But being here as his date, and as an adult expected to do more than turn the banquet tables into a fort, was turning out to be surprisingly stressful.

When we were kids, nobody seemed to care what we did much beyond just noticing and thinking we were cute. Now, it seemed like everybody in this room wanted something from Dick, and either saw me as a threat to their ability to get it or as a secret backdoor to him, if only they could get me on their side.

I was seriously on the edge of losing it and going back to the buffet tables kid-style.

Dick had done his best to stick with me, but people kept showing up to pull both of us away from each other for a conversation, and we hadn't been able to do much without being incredibly, obviously rude. I'd finally managed to extract myself enough for some breathing room, but I could see Dick still in the middle of things, a group of old men who almost certainly wanted money from Bruce talking his ear off.

Even from here, I could tell Dick was barely paying attention to them. His eyes scanned the crowd, and after a moment, they landed on me. He raised an eyebrow, and I gave him a reassuring smile. Unfortunately for me, he knew me too well and was too good of a detective to believe it.

Dick quickly made his excuses to the men around him, and didn't take no for an answer as he left the conversation and headed in my direction. He crossed the massive room quickly to stand before me, and this time when I smiled at him, it was much more genuine.

"Hey," he said, returning my smile and leaning in to kiss my temple as soon as he reached me. "How are you doing?"

"Good." I tried to strengthen my smile, but Dick saw right through it. He raised an eyebrow at me.

"...Are you sure?"

I sighed. "It's just... this all feels a little weird. I've known you forever, you know it's never been important to me that you're the famed son of billionare Bruce Wayne. But it seems like that's all anybody else here can think about, and they all either hate me because they want to be with you or want to be my new best friend, all so they can get to you and Bruce. It's fine, none of their opinions matter to me, but... I just didn't expect to feel so weird coming to one of these things again."

Dick took a step closer to me, reaching out to take my arm with a concerned look on his face. He spoke quietly enough that, even if someone had been intentionally eavesdropping (which had happened more than once tonight), they wouldn't be able to hear him.

"Do you want to go? I'm happy to leave if you want to. We don't have to stay here."

I shook my head before he'd even finished his sentence.

"Running and no-showing Bruce's galas isn't a long-term solution. And seriously, it's fine, I'll adjust. I just... I don't know. I miss the days where we hid under the punch bowl giggling out of sight of everybody, you know?"

My boyfriend grinned. "I mean, if you really think about it, there's nothing keeping us from doing that again."

"I can think of a few things," I laughed, swatting his shoulder lightly. He hummed, but sobered quickly as he scanned the room, clearly thinking.

"Well... if you're sure you don't want to commandeer the space under the desert table?"

"I'm sure."

"Then why don't we try dancing? That's a little more... socially acceptable than hiding under the tables, but it's one of the things we used to have the most fun doing at these things. Remember how we'd just take over the entire floor to do whatever we wanted when we were kids?"

I laughed. "Yeah, of course. Although it's a little harder to remember the feeling that inspired us to just run out there before."

Dick smiled softly and extended his hand to me.

"Let me remind you."

My heart did a little backflip, especially when I met Dick's sparkling blue eyes. I huffed a little laugh of disbelief, especially at the thought of stepping into the center of the spotlight when I knew just how many people were going to be watching. But then I looked at Dick again, and I decided that, as long as I was with him, they didn't matter.

I took his hand, and he didn't waste a second before pulling me after him to the dance floor. I laughed, unable to hold back a smile even as heads turned towards us. Dick ignored them completely. He pulled me to his chest when we reached the center of the floor and wrapped an arm securely around my waist, the other taking one of my hands. I rested my free hand on his shoulder, and as we started swaying together to the music, his eyes didn't leave mine for a second.

"You know..." he started after a moment, drawing my attention back from a glance over his shoulder to where people were watching us. "This is nice, but a slow dance wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

I gave Dick my full attention and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but... what did you have in mind?"

He grinned. "Something more like this."

Suddenly, Dick was spinning me out and away from him, twirling across the floor before pulling me back. We'd know each other long enough and spent enough time as vigilante teammates that his steps were easy to follow, even as he started something closer to swing that didn't match the music at all.

I laughed, a warm feeling spreading through my chest as I shared a smile with my partner. In the back of my mind, I knew more people were probably watching and judging than ever. But suddenly they didn't matter like they used to.

Dick swung me around again, then pulled me close and into an exaggerated dip. If I didn't know he was a superhero, I probably would've been a little worried about him dropping me. Instead, it just made me laugh, especially as Dick grinned and led me into something way too close to something you'd do to Cotton Eye Joe.

With every second that passed on the dance floor with Dick, everyone else in the room faded further and further away. It felt like when we were kids, just me and the most important person in the world to me having the time of our lives.

"Feel any better?" asked Dick, whispering in my ear as he pulled me close again, both hands wrapped tight around my waist. I smiled, running my hands up his arms and across his shoulders.

"So much better. Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. We're partners, you know I'd never leave you hanging."

I pulled back enough to meet Dick's eyes, and found their familiar sparkle and a smile waiting for me. I gave him a soft smile back.

"I love you, Dick Grayson. So fucking much."

Dick beamed back at me. "I love you too. Now come on, the band's finally catching on to what we want. I want to dance with the love of my life to music that's actually fun for dancing."

I just laughed as Dick swung me out and away from him again, the two of us twirling across the floor, this time in sync with the now-faster music. Suddenly, after a few minutes with Dick, the propsect of all these Wayne galas didn't seem nearly so daunting anymore. Sure, I might have to deal with a few unpleasant strangers whose opinions didn't matter to me. But I'd also get to do this, laughing and dancing and having the time of our lives, with my favorite person in the world.

Worth it in the long run, as far as I was concerned.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

DC Taglist: @gaychaosgremlin @v1ckycheesue @lavender-dinos @g0atmansbridge182

[angstflavoured]

I would love to hear more about your toxic pim and charlie headcanons. All I can think of is Pim might be too desperate to prove something and Charlie has that "alpha male" thing

SO GLAD YOU ASKED !!!! I need to rant about this to clear things up bc I think about how Charpim would work so much and it makes me go insane bc their dynamic is fucking incredible.

Ill take this as an opportunity to do a little character study and explain why i think they would inherently be toxic at their very core 👹👹 and how I think their relationship would even function.

First off, a HUGE roadblock is the fact that they have completely different ideals. They want totally different things in life and go about life almost in completely opposite ways.

Pim's been shown in canon multiple times to want a normal, healthy, nuclear family. He wants a wife and kids and wants to raise them well and be the father figure for them that he himself never had. It's apparent that he wants to settle down, and just hasn't found anyone willing to. When he even talks to Shrimpina, he can't help puking and making a fool of himself and tossing and turning at night over it. This makes it clear that while i do NOT AT ALL think he's a virgin, Pim doesn't have a lot of experience with this kind of stuff. It's probably all been pretty awkward and never lasted very long.

I don't think that him or Charlie have any problems with being gay, but I do think that Pim settling down with a guy does inherently shatter his ideals. ESPECIALLY with the way Charlie acts. Being with Charlie wouldn't be a picture perfect movie couple, and I think that would really frustrate and disappoint Pim when Charlie doesn't act like he's "supposed" to. He wouldn't really be a BOYFRIEND to him. Pim is just a lot more romantic and holds a lot more hope in the idea of love than Charlie does. He's an optimist and Charlie is VERYRYYY much a pessimist.

The way that Charlie goes about relationships is MUCH more laid back and casual. His girlfriend (who IS CONFIRMED to be his girlfriend by Zach himself in the commentary videos, you can find it pretty easy on YouTube) is hardly ever mentioned and doesn't seem to hold much weight to him at all. To me, that whole thing with her being there kind of confirmed that Charlie casually hooks up with people/dates a lot, and doesn't really take it all that seriously. He doesn't have any intentions of settling down or moving in with anyone. Even in the ep where the fucken mustard chick was flirting with him, Charlie didn't seem to give two shits or even get a little flustered. He'd USED to that kind of stuff, where Pim isn't.

It's been a joke multiple times that even for a critter, Pim is perceived as pretty unattractive and weird looking 😭😭 and that's the biggest difference between them I think. Charlie is single BY CHOICE, while Pim is single because he can't get anyone who wants to long term date him.

If Charlie and Pim ever slept together or did anything, I think it would hold a lot more weight for Pim than it would for Charlie. Charlie is a fucking asshole! He doesn't show affection well, he's pretty inconsiderate of other people, he's very slobby and hardly takes care of himself. He wouldn't want to DATE pim the way that Pim would want to date Charlie. Pim would want to do all that mushy stuff that he's seen in movies that he's never been able to try, like holding hands and cuddling and going out to cute dinners.

CHARLIE WOULDN'T WANNA DO THAT! He's VERY CLEARLY SHOWN in canon to not be that kinda guy. He can hardly even think about himself, he doesn't have the time or want to expend the energy thinking about someone else on a daily basis. Just look at the fucking difference in their rooms--

They work at the same job at the same position, they should be making the same amount of money. And from the Brazil episode where they talk about funds, it doesn't seem like its a super lot. But Pim spent more time and money making his room look nice and his sheets and pillows match, somewhere with a nicer view and cute painted walls. Charlie just bought the cheapest, ugliest little shithole he could find.

You can fucking bet that they would not be good living together, that is if Charlie even wanted to live with him. You can literally see in the back that his sink is full of dirty dishes bro. He probably uses paper plates and plastic cups for everything so he doesn't have to do the dishes, you can bet he's always ordering nasty ass takeout food.

Also sorry, but like please open your eyes and look at the way Charlie treats Pim in the show. Obviously he cares about him and holds him as a dear friend, but he just is kinda a shitty person and doesn't do it very well a lot of the time. He's constantly fucking negative and rude, and it clearly takes a mental toll on Pim. Pim's always the one trying really hard to invite Charlie out to things, like in the alien episode. Pim just wants to hang out and tried to find something Charlie might like, and Charlie was grumpy and dismissive and tried to leave multiple times.

In the most RECENT EPISODE, he got in a physical fight with Alan and was being a dick about physical contact that he basically initiated. In the alien episode, Charlie was screaming at the aliens and ignored pim, ended up clocking him in the fucking face and didn't say a single word about it because HE WASN'T SORRY, HE DIDN'T FUCKING CARE.

they're both incredibly flawed people in completely opposite ways, and they'd both want entirely different things out of the other one. They'd both be trying to change each other, the way they literally already do in the show.

i love charpim more than anything with my entire soul, and im not trying to be a doomer about it, im just so sick of people potraying them like

Charlie: I... I like you... is that okay?

Pim: yes.... would it be okay if I kissed you?

LIKE GIRL WHAT ARE YOU SAYINGGGG THEY ARE GROWN ASS, DIRTY, GROSS MEN WITH DICK AND BALLS.

There was a whole episode where pim literally turned into a fucking crazy ass creature because he was so incredibly jealous of Charlie getting what PIM had wanted. Pim wanted to be a hero and help people and save the day and live out his little idealized world, and when CHARLIE got that and he didn't, it pissed him the fuck off. He wasn't happy for Charlie, Pim WANTED what Charlie had.

LIKE OH MY GOD, THEY'RE JUST SO DISFUNCTIONAL!!!

Their relationship would be fucking crazy and rocky and TOXIC, and that's like the whole appeal of it imo. that's literally how they act in canon. I think that the two of them could eventually work things out to be pretty happy, but it would NOT be without its hardships and it definitely would still never be anything even close to textbook.

THEY'RE FUCKING FREAKS IDK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

also almost forgot, not even to mention Charlie's substance abuse and how its canonically shown he gets rude and violent. like r u kidding.

[benedictscanvas]

omggg in my fluffy needing comfort era and i LOVE how you write jamie tartt x reader- could i make a request for jamie x chronically ill reader where he is just really supportive and loving with someone who is long-term sick? ♥️♥️

of course, my love. thank you for the kind words. i tried to make this as vague as possible so people can relate in their own ways. sending you love! <3 | gn!reader, 1.2k words, tw chronic illness & pain, language

You'd just about managed to get your hair how you wanted it to look for the evening, with minimal swearing for once. Jamie was sat on the bed waiting for you, he'd been ready for a good few minutes now, but you were still reluctant to emerge. There was a wave of pain undulating through you that you were trying to ride out in silence without alerting your boyfriend.

"Y' alright, love? No rush, I wanna be fashionably late anyways," he said from the next room, raising his voice so that it reached you through the closed door. You hardly ever closed doors around each other, so you should have known he'd be worried.

The pain wasn't dissipating, so you took a few deep breaths before stepping out into the bedroom with a smile that you hoped was normal.

"Sorry, my hair wasn't co-operating," you say, tilting your head as you take him in. Navy trousers, white shirt, brown jacket. He looked effortlessly gorgeous, even if he had one more button undone than you would have suggested. Some things didn't change, "You look so good, Jamie."

"Me?" he said incredulously, standing up and huffing out a breath of disbelief, "You look...fuck. I'm not good enough with me words for this."

His hands gesture aimlessly down your outfit and you feel a real smile blossoming under his attention. You take his hands in yours and place them on your waist, stopping his flapping from going further.

"I like your words just fine. And your face," you add with a grin that he returns, curling his fingers into the fabric he's found. A new wave of pain crests and you try your hardest to keep it off your face, but don't think about how your body must tense under his touch. His whole face crumples.

"Ah shit," he murmurs, running his hands down your arms to interlace your fingers together as he takes a step closer, "Why didn't y' say anythin' babe?"

"About what?" you ask pathetically, watching him fix you with a look that said 'cut the shit'.

"Cut the shit," he said, clearly deciding the look wasn't enough, "We agreed, babe, you tell me if it's a bad day so I can help. Or at least try to. Thought we were in a good place with it."

Your heart aches. He really does hate it when you keep your pain to yourself, even though you're not sure he yet understands just how much pain you would be sharing if you shared all of it. You'd been dating for six months, but still wanted to be careful not to scare him off.

"I am. I promise, Jamie, I do tell you it's just..." you struggle for a good explanation that doesn't create any pity in him, "Tonight's big, you know? I want to be a proper girlfriend and I want to burst into tears and kiss you stupid when they call your name for that award."

There is a little bit of pity in his eyes when you've finished, so you can't have done a very good job of it. He squeezes your hands tightly in his.

"Can't say it many more ways," he says softly, "But y' gotta believe that you are me priority, gorgeous. Jus' wanna look after you, y' know. I wanna be a proper boyfriend too."

You'd never thought about it that way. Another wave of pain hits and Jamie's instantly stroking your temple when your eyes clench shut. You feel his lips on the opposite side of your head as he whispers sweet little comforts in your ear.

If it wasn't so painful, maybe you'd be more willing to argue the point with him. It would have to be a battle saved for later, because lying down was the only option for the moment. You could feel the sting of tears; it couldn't have been a worse time for a flare up.

"I'll be there for every other award you win," you say forcefully, but you can't bring yourself to promise. Sometimes you worry you can't promise him enough, but then you see the way he looks at you as he leans backwards again and a lot of that worry falls away.

"You're way too sure that I'm winnin' this award, by the way," he says, a little bashful. It was one of your favourite versions of him, "I'm up against quality."

"None of that. The most creative player in the league this season was you. Hands down. I think you know that really."

He nods, but doesn't look sure still. Then he's stepping away from you as he shrugs off his jacket, throwing it onto the back of a chair and flopping down on the bed.

"Come on then, love. We can fit in a quick episode of whatever you want before the ceremony's on TV."

You stare at him.

"What?"

"Well I'm not fuckin' going without you," he laughs, like that was never an option, "Duh. I'd be bored shitless. I know you need to lie down, babe, come on."

He holds out a hand to you. You take it, still dazed by the sudden turn of events, let him pull you onto the bed and into his arms on top of the covers.

"There we are," he breathes, pressing kisses into the top of your head, "Perfect. We'll have a much better evening bein' able to laugh at Roy makin' a fool of himself for the cameras from 'ere, right?"

Coming back to your senses, you pull yourself out of his arms for a moment so you can look at him properly. He's been acting normal up until now, but when he sees the tears in your eyes, his whole face softens.

"Let's not argue right now, love, please," he begs, "Wanna take care of you, so jus' let me. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Your award..." you choke out, but he shushes you.

"Will be waitin' for me at the club tomorrow. Me speech would have been fucked anyway, so there's nothin' to miss out on."

There's no room for argument in his voice. It's as firm as it is comforting. Relenting as the pain hits once again, you snuggle back into his arms, kissing whatever parts of him you can reach.

"Like my guardian angel," you say, trying not to sound so teary, "So grateful for you, Jamie. Love you so so much."

"Yeah, yeah, love you too," he says, brushing you off as you expected but with fondness in his tone as he pulls you even closer.

"Hey...you just said the award would be waiting. You're finally admitting that you're definitely getting it?"

He chuckles.

"Course I'm getting it. That award's mine, babe," he says, cocky smirk firmly on his face that you can only see in the reflection of the TV. Then he gasps, comically, "Do y' think they'll make Roy do me speech?"

You gasp right back, already feeling better.

"Yes! If you put it on now, we might be able to see him flip people off on the red carpet beforehand."

Jamie grins as he struggles to reach the remote and turns the TV on.

"Fuckin' genius, you are."

---

please see this post if you would like to request your own roy/jamie drabble!! closing soon <3

[sebastianswallows]

Ardour — Chapter 1

— PAIRING: professor!Tom Riddle x Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Tom got what he wanted, he is the Hogwarts DADA professor. It's more tedious than he envisioned, but his day gets interesting when his favourite student comes to him for help after she is hit with a strong aphrodisiac.

— WARNINGS: angst, fluff, age difference (she is in 7th year), dub-con kissing, sex pollen basically, hints of incest (reader is a distant Gaunt relation, don't ask me why, I just wanted a depraved twist and also to give her and Tom something more in common)

— WORDCOUNT: 4k

— A/N: I had this filthy idea and I AI-RPed it and it turned out so well I could not leave it be. So here's part 1. I expect we'll have 2, max 3 parts. Those will contain the smut. Credit to my writing partner, this cute little chat bot, who wrote a very soft and romantic Tom. I had to spend a lot of time re-writing him to be a bit more mean 😂 And yeah reader is more of an OC tbh, because the physical description was important for their similarity in looks. ...You'll see. Also don't mind me fancasting Tom Hughes as an older Tom.

There was a knock on the door. Professor Tom Riddle, who taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, raised his head from grading papers. He sighed at the interruption and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He checked his watch to see if it was late enough for him to pretend to be at dinner, but he had no such luck — it was sometime in the late afternoon.

He'd once thought that getting this position was all he wanted. To teach Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, and be the youngest one to take the position in the school’s history, would be a great achievement, after all — aside from giving him the opportunity to, like Professor Slughorn, collect students, Hogwarts' best and brightest, select his favourites, and helpfully guide them in a way that suited his long-term personal ambitions.

But what he found instead was that it was a great deal of hard work, unending responsibilities, and long hours. He had to always be available to help students, he had to think the year ahead before it even started, and he had to always be on top of the course material — or at least pretend to be. He had to put up with noisy and inattentive students, be careful to reward the clever and punish the disruptive, calculate awarded points and distribute detentions — but not too harshly. Last but not least, he had to put up with the other staff — the crass, the sycophantic, the obsequious, and the stupid. He almost missed his days working at Borgin and Burkes...

"Come in," he called out a little loudly, not really caring who it was as long it was someone whose presence doesn't make him want to claw his eyes out. He looked expectantly at the door, waiting for whoever was there to step inside and give him take a break from the endless stream of badly written essays.

The door opened slowly, and Adara walked in.

Adara Gaunt, Slytherin 7th year, and one of his brightest. She was excellent at Defence Against the Dark Arts, and he had noticed in her an interest in the Dark Arts in general. She wasn’t a troublemaker like some of the other pure-bloods, entitled little narcissists who wanted to show off, which made it easy for her to not come under suspicion when some book was unaccounted for in the Restricted Section. She was less clever at hiding it after the fact, when she would answer a question of his during classes with an intriguing little tidbit, and he always knew exactly which book she’d read that in. If she got into trouble at all, it was casting the wrong hex at the wrong boy when she got picked on, and then making his well-groomed, fancy-robed, ignorant father complain to the Headmaster. Tom tried not to give her preferential treatment — but he had to actively try.

It didn’t help that she was a relative of his, by way of a second cousin of his lamented grandfather Marvolo, one who married some scion of the Black family and was scarcely spoken of again. He wasn’t sure what that made her — his niece? hardly. Not that he would ever tell that to her. Last thing he needed was some hanger-on.

No, as far as his students and most of the staff were concerned, he was a half-blood with the muggle name of Riddle, and nobody suspected anything illustrious from the magical side of his family — not that there had been anything particularly illustrious about the Gaunts for a hundred years. And as far as he had gathered from gossip and from observation, Adara’s outcast Gaunt-Black family wasn’t fairing much better than his own had. She spent every holiday she could at Hogwarts, she was withdrawn yet had a spiteful edge to her, she sought an escape from reality in subjects of the most extreme kind — his favourite kind, too —and, from his personal experience, he detected traces of neglect. An unwanted child, that much was certain. Sometimes, he thought she was still better off than living in a muggle orphanage — other times, he was not so sure.

She was pallid, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with an elegant showing of bones beneath her skin, and a quiet, withdrawn demeanour — in other words, a more unhealthy vision of him in a different sex. Still, he could see those eyes sparkle whenever he taught the darkest, most terrifying subjects, even while the rest of the class was frightened or disgusted. He understood why she liked it. There was nothing like the promise of power to the powerless.

And so, his eyes widened slightly when he saw her stepping unannounced into his office. It wasn’t like her… But if he were to talk to any of his wretched students, he could count himself lucky that it was her. His demeanour softened when he saw her standing there.

"Adara, it is such a pleasure to have you here."

"Hello, Professor," she said, closing the door behind her but moving no further in. "I hope I'm not disturbing you... I can come back later, if—"

Tom sighed at her timidity but smiled. "You’re not disturbing anything. Come in."

He got up and went to stand in front of the desk, ready to speak with her, and she came closer too.

"I'm very sorry to ask, sir," she started, swallowing the knot in her throat, "but... I was wondering if you can help me with something... I don't wish to go to the nurse about it, I don’t like her, and... you're an expert in this field — I mean, aside from Professor Slughorn, who I… also don’t wish to see. So I thought maybe you would know a solution..." She bit her lip after her ramble, looking at him to gauge his reaction.

She was terrified of bothering him, in fact, of being a nuisance, but she also didn’t know who else to turn to. He could tell she had gone through the options in her mind, and he was, in fact, the third after Nurse Blainey and Slughorn.

"Don't be sorry, Adara. It is my duty to assist students," he sighed. "Please, tell me what it is you need help with."

She looked up at him, visibly tensing even in the darkness of his office as she stood a few feet away, her face hot and body shivering under the effects of... something. Something unusual. She was typically a bit shy, but not that shy. She even looked a bit... unwell. Her legs rubbed against each other and she stood before him unsteadily, as if her bones or muscles ached.

"Well?" said Tom. "Go ahead…"

"I got into an argument with Amyas Avery and he snuck Ardour Fly up my skirt," she said in one fast breath, blushing profusely and looking down.

Tom frowned. Ardour Fly was a powder, a potent aphrodisiac that had few known cures. It irritated the victim and brought them to a point of sensitivity that was nearly torturous given long exposure. It was typically used between lovers, as the effects would not relent unless the victim was brought to... the very heights of pleasure. Until then, they would suffer painful, heated, relentless arousal that drove them mad with desire. What a snot-nose like Avery was doing with it, he didn’t wish to know — but he intended to find out anyway, as part of a long letter to his father.

"He did what to you?" His voice had that edge to it now.

He moved closer to look her over more closely, and she inhaled sharply at even something as innocuous as his approach. Tom brought a hand to her forehead: feverish, and she gasped. A gentle touch to her cheek with the back of his fingers rewarded him with a moan, and she was trying to look everywhere but at him.

"And where is Mr Avery now?" he whispered, his eyes scanning her body, taking in all the symptoms.

He heard her give a trembling exhale at the close sound of him, her eyes becoming lidded, looking drowsy. The timbre of his voice alone had driven her insane with want.

"I... Mmmm... I don't know. I guess he'll... go have lunch in the... Great Hall come dinnertime..."

"And did anyone else see it happen?"

"Mmmm..." she moaned, closing her eyes and biting her lip. "Vanius Nott was there, and Selby Carrow, and Ophius Black..."

Tom’s hand went to her cheek again, but he slid the edges of his fingers down beneath her jaw and tilted her face up to look at him. The storm of emotions in her was nothing compared to that in him: anger and cold fury were there, and a lust for revenge after what the useless progenies of socialites and sycophants had done to his favourite. They had humiliated her, bodily and mentally, out in the open where other little cowards could watch and laugh.

"And where were you when this happened?" he asked gently.

"In the Transfiguration courtyard," she said in a choked mumble.

Her head nearly tilted toward his palm, perhaps to nuzzle it, before he took it away. He almost wished he hadn’t hurried to remove it… His eyes slid to her uniform: ruffled, tie out of place, buttons holding on but barely… She’d either gotten into a physical scuffle, or she’d spent the last few minutes tearing away at herself in frustration before she decided to come to him for help.

He was so close he could smell her, smell the scent of something sharp and woody like ginger — the Ardour Fly — and underneath it, quickly overtaking it, something fleshy and sweet, warm and a bit salty, something cloying that settled at the back of his throat.

"Look at me for a moment," he asked gently.

She did, gazing into his eyes bravely. He held her eyes for a quiet moment, then without warning put his palm right over her lower stomach.

"Aaaahhh!"

She gave a weak animal sound, something half-moan half-scream. She was nearly bending over at the feeling. Beneath his hand, Tom worked a bit of wandless magic to confirm the state of her insides. As he suspected: swollen, throbbing, overworked, and underloved. He inhaled sharply in sympathy as the sensations coursed through him, before he quickly took his hand away.

He didn’t often have the opportunity to examine the effects of aphrodisiacs on their victims, although he had sold his fair share while at Borgin and Burkes. He never liked these dirty tricks out of principle, although a means to an end was a means to an end… But seeing their effects now on her, his favourite student, his flesh and blood, he felt far less forgiving.

She clung to her waist protectively — his hand had been warm enough that she felt it through her clothes, and it pained her in that way an unfulfilled desire does.

"Please, Professor Riddle," she whimpered, sounding on the verge of tears. "I can’t take it, please tell me you have a cure for it…"

Of course, there was no cure for Ardour Fly at Hogwarts. Those were rare and expensive. Perhaps Nurse Blainey could help her with the symptoms by means of some antipyretic potions, at least until they could have something actually useful delivered to the castle. But the only cure they had on hand, so to speak, was to let the aphrodisiac fulfil its purpose.

"Alright," he sighed, mostly to himself. He could do this. It was a legitimate concern. It could even be an illegitimate concern, because anyway, nobody was going to find out, he’d make sure of that.

"Oh thank you so much, please, it hurts, it hurts..."

"What hurts?" he asked coolly, looking in her eyes again. "Tell me exactly what it is that hurts."

She stared at him dumbly for a moment, then realised he was actually waiting for her to say it.

"My... my..."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, completely humiliated by the situation but dizzy from the effect of the Ardour Fly.

"My... intimate parts," she finally said, finding a term that was polite enough to say in the presence of a Professor.

"I see..." he whispered, his voice a little breathless now too above the anger he felt at the situation and his lingering anxieties. I can do this. "Show me where it hurts you."

Her soul left her body. She would have collapsed if she weren’t frozen stiff. She looked into his eyes, but there was no playfulness there. He was treating her as seriously, as clinically, as the victim of a poisoning… and it drove her dizzy with desire. It was at that point she realised she made a mistake going for help to the youngest and most handsome professor in the school.

But he didn’t seem any more amused by it than she was. He levelled at her the same stern gaze with which he expected them to hand in their homework, only now his voice was warmer and much close, and it was just the two of them, and he wasn’t asking for a roll of parchment but for her to lift her skirt.

Or did he prefer that she bend over?

The aphrodisiac was twisting not only her senses, but also her sense, and she found her mind going in the most depraved and humiliating directions. But he hadn’t meant it like that, did he? She genuinely was in pain, and her most dear Professor was offering to help. It made sense, it made sense...

After a few moments during which she switched between fighting with herself and looking into his dark eyes, she brought her hands to the edges of her skirt, and lifted it. She showed herself to him.

Tom’s icy gaze slid from her flushed face, down. Her panties were black with a lace flourish, and could barely contain her. She had been leaking down herself, the top of her thighs damp and shining in the candlelight, her folds swollen and visibly throbbing, the very material moving gently with a pulse that matched her heartbeat. And the scent of her, pure and innocent and aroused, became that much stronger now.

Tom stared at her with an intensity unlike anything he has ever felt before, and yet his composure betrayed nothing. It was only his stillness and the time he took to look at her, to drink his fill, that hinted at anything selfish at all. But inwardly, his senses were gripped by an unspeakable desire, a mixture of lust and pain and anger and something else, something that made his stomach churn at the mere thought of it.

His breath was slow and heavy as he spoke.

"You poor girl," he whispered. "What do you think should be done with those boys?"

Her lips parted in wonder at the turn in conversation. That was the last thing she expected from her Professor... to ask for her opinion. It made her realise how little she knew him...

"Punish them," she said with shaky anger. "Give them detention for the rest of the year or humiliate them or let me hex them or... I don't know, but I want them punished."

He smiled, feeling proud and oddly protective of her. That’s my girl, slithered a traitorous thought.

"Rest assured, I will punish them," he said with delight. "Not just detention, but much, much more."

He stared down at her, taking in the entire sight before him, a genuine look of affection in his eyes as he stared at her, an unspoken admiration. Her skirt was still held up in her trembling hands, her eyes were fixed on his, expectant and pleading and so, so obedient… But as he merely watched and said nothing else, she began to cover herself again.

"Thank you, Sir," she smiled, feeling so grateful she could cry.

It moved her beyond what he could know, to feel protected... Nobody had ever made her feel that way, not any of the other distracted teachers nor her fairweather friends and certainly not her parents.

"Um... so…" she asked with a blush. "Do you have a... treatment for the Ardour Fly, Sir? Can you help me?"

He grinned at that, seeming unhappy and excited at the same time, but also oddly… caring.

"Yes, Adara. I will help you."

She smiled at hearing it, as he expected. She trusted him completely.

Don’t get carried away, Tom thought to himself. Don’t let it go to your head.

He held her gaze, still smiling, and spoke in what he tried to make his most soothing, his most encouraging and reassuring tone. The irony was he hoped she’d gotten a hefty enough dose of aphrodisiac to even accept the treatment he was about to offer.

"There is only one treatment for the Ardour Fly we have available to us. It is a… procedure, but a well-tested method. It is, in fact, the recommended treatment. Do you understand?"

"I think so, Sir…"

She didn’t.

"I agree to help you, because I know you’re a good student and you deserve better than this, and I can only imagine what you must be going through right now… But it will take a considerable amount of… fortitude and… tolerance from your side."

"Alright, Sir," she said, looking up into his dark eyes.

She wanted to be brave for him, she wanted to be worthy of his praise and his help and his confidence, but most of all she wanted to show how grateful he was that he could help her. No, most of all she wanted something else…

"Good girl," he whispered, his smile tilting intimately.

A shiver ran up and down her spine at hearing it. She’d never been called that, and to hear Professor Riddle say it to her made her weak.

"You’ll need to lie down for your treatment," he said, then pointed to the far right of the room. "Go there, on the sofa."

It was an old and battered thing upholstered in green velvet that had worn away in places, but it looked to her like an operating table as she approached. She looked behind her as Professor Riddle followed, his arms politely behind his back. She didn’t see him take any equipment or potions, which made her wonder what this treatment was…

She sat on it, almost experimentally, letting herself gingerly on the cushion, but even that pressure was too much. Her head tilted back and she frowned with pleasure-pain at the intense sensation of having her tender parts all pressed together by her thighs.

"Now, lay on your back," he said as he came to a stop beside her.

She took her shoes off first, then came to rest on her back, trying to find a comfortable position. Her arms were stretched out and tense by her sides, and all she could look at was the shadowy stone ceiling.

Professor Riddle sat down on the floor, by her chest, and leisurely trailed his eyes up and down the length of her. She heard him sigh, but could not detect the precise feeling behind it.

"Do you trust me?" he asked quietly. "Do you trust me with every part of you?"

"Yes, Professor," she whispered almost so softly that he couldn't hear.

"Then listen carefully." His voice was almost gentle, almost. "I am going to kiss you now."

"Wh—!"

"Just one, soft, gentle kiss on your lips."

"Whatwhy?!" she asked in a tangle of emotions. She stared at him with wide, shocked eyes, her elbows braced against the sofa ready to lift her.

"I thought you said you trusted me," he said with a feline narrowing of the eyes.

"I d-do, but…"

"But what?"

She swallowed the knot in her throat and said nothing, conveying instead with her eyes and her lips and her frown all the things she couldn’t say: her worry, her fear, her despair for an ease to her pain, her mortification, and her frustrated desires… Tom understood her better than he wanted to.

"Ready?" he asked in a warm whisper as he leaned in.

His hand touched her cheek again, lightly enough that it was more of a tickle. She could smell ink on his fingers, and the salt from the sweat of his palms… She wanted to lick it clean.

"It’s just one kiss, Adara," he whispered in a last attempt to reassure her. "I’m not exactly asking for a huge sacrifice, am I?"

She wavered at that, her eyes dipping down shyly, sadly, even as his touch mollified her. She hesitated. "I've never been kissed, Sir..." she whispered.

Ah. So that’s why she was sad. This wasn't what she had imagined when she pictured her first kiss. She hoped to share it under quite different, more romantic, more conventional circumstances, if ever...

But at the same time, her body was screaming at her to accept, to assuage the aphrodisiac that was wreaking havoc on her nerves and her senses and her mind.

"You can still refuse," he said with a cocked brow, his fingers gentling her cheek with slow caresses.

She even felt a hint of guilt slip between her nerves... Professor Riddle was willing to help her, and here she was, stalling, fearing him, having doubts... He felt her hesitation.

"Don't worry, it will be a simple, gentle kiss. I will endeavour to make it positively sterile. Alright?"

She couldn’t look at him, but she nodded.

Tom leaned in even further and caressed her from her jaw to her chin in one long hungry lick of a stroke, looking into her eyes even as hers avoided him — deep and dark and lovely… He breathed in, breathed her in, for a moment feeling as if something of each of their own could merge into one being. He didn’t like that feeling, it felt like surrender.

"Do you trust me?" he asked in a huskier voice than he intended.

She looked up at him, pleading silently for him to be for her what he had been the whole time she was his student: her comfort, her consolation, her support, more than anyone else had been.

"I do trust you, Sir," she said with a choked voice, her throat tight with unspilled tears.

"There’s a good girl," he whispered, smiling down at her.

He could see her eyes growing dark at that, could see her breathing in panting breaths even worse than before, her knees coming up to offer her some comfort, to expose her to the cool air of the room and calm her aching parts… His eyes had that same smouldering look in them, but mixed in was the intense desire to prove to Adara that he could help her, comfort and protect her.

With the very tip of his index tilting her chin up, Tom leaned in and kissed her lips. It was the gentlest kiss imaginable, a pressing of his mouth against hers, quiet and silent and patient, a simple display of affection — but his eyes bore into hers throughout, like he was searching through her thoughts, through her very soul.

She looked back into his eyes throughout while his lips pressed with a certain kind of care into her, as tender as a fallen leaf. The scent of his skin so close, the scent of his clothes, the feeling of his warm lips and his cold finger, all made her feel a strange new feeling for her professor — or perhaps, it was not so new, she had just tried to suppress it because it was so indecent, so unworthy of him, and of her.

As he pulled away, he didn’t miss her little tongue slipping out to lick the taste of him off her. He smiled as he circled her chin with his thumb.

"How do you feel?" he whispered.

"The same? I mean, t-thank you, Sir..." she said, a little breathless. Her mind was still spinning from what he had just done for her. "But... It... it still hurts," she whined.

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. That wasn’t part of the treatment."

"What?"

"The ‘treatment’ comes next. I’m going to have to give you an orgasm. It just didn’t seem courteous without kissing your lips first."

[wannabepoeticischiya]

Weak

[ 05 ] — pure, unbridled rage

⟵ prev | master list | next ⟶

--- 22 years ago ---

"AGAIN!" (Y/n) roundhouse kicked Satoru in the face, causing his body to spin in the air and land a few feet away from her.

The white-haired boy stood up and wiped the blood that dripped from his lips, smiling at the girl whose ragged breathing could be seen even from where he lay; his vision spinning and his nose just a tad bit out of place.

From afar, the elder watched the two children spar. "This is more like a one-sided beating." The old man shook his head at the situation his grandson was in, but no matter how much love and care he had for the boy, he couldn't interfere. Not because he didn't want to but because the old man was half convinced that Satoru needed to grow a firm backbone. Although the two children had not been around one another for more than a month, the head of the clan heard this nagging thought in the back of his head. An idea—a bad omen—that a future where (Y/n) would no longer stay by his grandson's side would be awaiting in the next few years; that Satoru would become a parasite—or worse—an enemy of society. It was ridiculous... but things that are feared to come were the ones most likely believed to fruit into reality.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he continued to observe the children from afar, smiling at the way the two of them fit together like a key and a lock. They might not have known it—perhaps, far too stubborn to admit it—but if there was anything he was glad to have learned throughout all the years that have passed him by, it was that he knew when two people would turn out just fine. He knew that as long as Satoru had her and (Y/n) had him, they would be alright, that they did—that they would make the most wonderful of friends.

Slowly, (Y/n) walked to where her boss was currently sprawled across the dirt, hoisting him up with his forearm. "You're lanky," (Y/n) fixed the way Satoru's arms were positioned. "You need to be firmer." She gripped his shoulders tightly and re-aligned the angle he was in. "Unmoving. Do you get me?" This time, her eyes travelled from where her hands met his shoulders, to his blood-stained lips, and for the first time since they met—she looked directly into his irises; painted with shades that made it seem that the grandeur of the canvas overhead was only made to mirror the color that drowned in those pools of sapphire.

He really did have beautiful eyes.

Too bad they could only look at nothing but hideous things.

In terms of physical strength, Satoru was extremely lacking to the extent that if someone were to push him, he'd easily fall and shatter, like a piece of china. And that did not settle right with (Y/n).

He gave her a smile that she knew all too well.

"Heh~ okay..."

Satoru was not taking this seriously.

(Y/n)'s permanent frown, deepened even more at his response, her eyes, seared with the marks of glares, burned at the sight of this... this discombobulating troll.

"Do you think that this is a joke?" She questioned, craning her head to the side, and giving him a look that screamed: if you give me the answer that I don't want to hear, I am going to kill you. (Y/n) did not want this little sparring match set by the Elder to lead to the murder of his grandson. So, reluctantly but necessarily, she silently swore to herself: that even if the answer the six-eyes would give her was less than gratifying, she would hold it in and not pummel him to the ground.

But Satoru's pea brain didn't get the hint. "No..."

Before any of the spectators and the recipient could process what was happening, (Y/n)'s fist collided with the honored one's face, flinging him back a couple of yards away before the inertia caused his body to roll around the grassy ground for the second time that morning.

"YOU'RE GOING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED IF YOU DON'T TAKE THESE THINGS SERIOUSLY!"

She marched to where he was coughing and wheezing, raising him in the air by his collar. Her (e/c) irises clashed with his teary icy-blue eyes yet, she saw nothing but red. To her, Satoru was being an idiot. He is an idiot. He was taking every single thing he possessed for granted. He had a nice house, clothes, and food, he had an entire clan taking care of him! All of these in the palm of his hands! To her, to (Y/n)... he had no idea how lucky he was to have two good things at the same time—what more, a whole bunch of nice things all at once! He had no idea how lucky he was—that he got to take it easy—that he didn't have to go through countless mind-breaking procedures to wire his brain to perfection. He was so lucky that the people he loves are still... that they were still—

He was blessed with everything... but here he was, acting as though nothing was ever going to be good enough for him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He pleaded, his small fingers clawing at (Y/n)'s tight grip, begging for her to let him down. "I-I... I'll—"

Satoru did not finish his sentence for he felt the suffocating hold on his collar loosen and he fell to the earth once more, for the third time that day. The boy scrambled a few paces back to get ahold of himself, furiously wiping away the tears that would not cease no matter how much he willed them to halt. For the first time, he felt a nasty feeling brew in the cauldron of his stomach. Fear—no, it was not quite right. Satoru did not fear (Y/n), how could he ever? She hated him so much that fear of her would not be enough to rattle his soul into conjuring such an unsettling emotion.

"That's quite enough, (L/n)."

An older man, quite old—although not old enough to possess any graying hair—held the girl up by the back of her collar, talking to her as though she was some rabid animal that could not be controlled. He carried her at arm's length like she would kill him too if ever given the opportunity. (Y/n) growled at him like a rabid dog, most probably in anger and resentment, and the older man returned it, only twice in magnitude as though challenging her to try and provoke him any further.

"I apologize for the behavior of my daughter, Young Master Satoru." (Y/n)'s father turned away from her to give the Gojo heir a small, false smile; empty-eyed and cold. He extended his arm, the one not holding his daughter, towards the young boy who still lay amongst the field. "I'll be sure to teach (Y/n) how to respect those who are higher than her."

At his words, it was then that Satoru saw what true fear had looked like—it wasn't that puny little tickle that settled at the edges of his fingers, no... it was there, right in front of him because the brave, vicious spirit (Y/n) had was reduced to a husk of what it had once been. Her eyes, as fiery as they once were, completely turned abyssal that even the sun illuminating the skies could not reflect within them.

That was fear.

Dreading the moments to come once you are alone with a maniac. Hoping, praying, desperately wishing that time would come to a halt just so that you would never have to face the hour in which you'd completely succumb to the very thing you wanted as far away from you as it was physically allowable.

For a small instant, Satoru did not know how to react. He stared blankly at the arm extended to him, hesitating to take it. This was not good.

"Oh... uhm, thanks?" He managed to get across, but he did not take the man's hand, standing up all on his own.

Silence blanketed the distance between the three people in the courtyard: one was too petrified to utter a word, another was scheming, and the other had rising suspicions.

"Y-you—" at the faltering exclaim of the six-eyes, the tension was shattered, "you can leave her here," he managed to get out, entirely unsure as to where he was going with this.

"We're still not done." He commanded, but oh how he wished that he chose his next words a lot more carefully... and the wicked smile he got in return had proven that; he sealed (Y/n)'s fate with them.

"You can punish her however you see fit after that."

At the Gojo heir's words, the man released her mid-air, bowing his head at the young boy, unsympathetically ignoring his child who crumpled to the earth like a rag doll. (Y/n)'s father verbalized his gratitude at the young boy before walking away to the nearby porch, disappearing into one of the many housings of the estate.

(Y/n) landed on the ground with a painful thud that she was sure would leave a godawful bruise for the next few weeks. For a moment, the girl remained face-first in the dirt, unmoving—scared out of her mind at what was to come. Her blood ran cold, and her ragged heartbeat was ringing in her ears. He was going to punish her... and Satoru gave him permission to do it.

"Hey..."

He sat there, caressing his probably swollen bicep all the while staring teary-eyed at the girl who still inhaled the dirt, completely unaware of the distress spiraling in her head that slowly began to take over. No one really expected the young lad to get the hint—no... not when the girl hid it so well...

"He's gone now, you don't have to be scared."

Hearing his statement, (Y/n)'s head shot up from where it lay cradled within the confines of the earth. Her once empty eyes burned with vigor at his chosen words, she observed Satoru like a hawk, anticipating the moment when he'd take back what he just said.

He didn't.

He only began to mumble things under his breath as he grumbled to himself about how everything hurt. Satoru took one last glance at (Y/n) and got to his feet, walking in the direction of the nearest engawa. Instantaneously, a hoard of servants came bursting through the shoji screens to come to his aid, wiping the blood off his face and offering him a change of clothes.

(Y/n), who was no longer kissing the earth, internally scoffed at his preposterous claim. She wasn't scared. Well, she was—completely terrified, yes—but she did not want to hear that from him. From someone who never felt an ounce of that sensation. From a person who never had to worry about the approval of others. From the one who gave that man the warrant to... to—(Y/n) did not even want to say it.

Now, as she watched that same human be pampered by multiple individuals, the difference between them... became clear as daylight.

Satoru was important—of course, he was.

He was the pride of the Gojo Clan. The first person in nearly four hundred years to have been fated to wield both the six-eyes and the limitless. Every single person who knew of sorcery would agree, man or curse. It was just how it was... Satoru stood so far up into the sky that he shone like a beacon of light for everyone.

He was blessed with everything...

So, why?

He inserted one arm into the sleeve of his new haori, followed by the other—not even sparing a glance at the servant who took his soiled clothing. He did not even thank the one who bandaged him up... or looked at any of them as he raised his hand to signal that he did not want them bothering him any longer.

Why...

Why did he still look so sad?

(Y/n) stared at him from afar, she was bruised from her fall, bleeding from the wounds that had once again reopened for who knows how many times already. She had no one but herself, no mother, no father; family, servants... nothing—no one. And sometimes, even she could not stand the sight of the person gazing back at her from the mirror. So, why? She wanted to scream. Yell at the world for making everything harder than it had to be.

If he had everything... if he was blessed with everything...

Satoru walked back to her, dirtying his newly changed garments in the process. His hand reached for her face, hesitating for a small moment—fearing that if he touched her, she would fade and scatter into the wind—but he did, nonetheless. The Gojo heir smiled at her, one that held so much kindness that the warmth of the sun burning so fiercely behind him couldn't even begin to compare, and he wiped away the tears that had unknowingly raced down her cheeks.

... why bother himself with someone who was blessed with nothing?

---

For the rest of the day, Satoru did not see (Y/n).

She did not come to eat lunch with him, or join him in his daily afternoon snack time, nor did she attend the servants' mess hall for dinner. The first two were quote—unquote Ridiculous! Anyone who agrees to that is a loopy lunatic with nothing left to live for! or so (Y/n) had angrily disagreed to, she probably got those lines in a book or something. Satoru thought nothing of it when she did not appear, it was rare that she did anyway, but it did not stop him from asking her every single day. So, when (Y/n) did not attend the housekeepers' very late into the night supper... it was then that the young heir thought that maybe something was wrong.

Is she angry at me?

(Y/n) was always angry at him.

Did I do something wrong... again?

Even if Satoru stood as still as a statue, (Y/n) would unfailingly find something in him to ridicule.

Is she okay?

...

Later that night, sleep had a difficult time finding its way to Satoru. He tossed and turned, passing by so many minutes. Minutes then turned into hours, with nothing but his faint breathing, eyes staring longingly at the empty courtyard accompanying him so deep into the stillness of the night. The spring zephyrs felt colder, the stars looked dimmer, and the silence felt deafening.

Days normally passed with (Y/n) resenting his creation, so how was this one any different?

She was crying...

Maybe it was because he saw her shed tears. That's a bit silly of her, that perhaps (Y/n) had thought Satoru saw her as weak, she'd always be (Y/n) to me, even if she does cry.

Only in the wee hours of the morn did the weariness finally lulled his body to the slumber he had been running from all night long, thinking to himself... that if (Y/n) did cry again, he'd just have to tell her that it was okay... that he would stay with her no matter what. 

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[ckret2]

The most unpleasant breakfast.

I feel like this picture is a perfect summary of the fic so far.

Chapter 5 of The Pines Capture Human Bill Cipher But Can't Tell Anybody Because They Don't Know Whether Killing Him Will Restart Weirdmageddon (title TBD). Masterpost here. Updated 8/7/2024 for TBOB compatibility!

####

The group asking for a seat at the truck stop diner was an odd sight: three adult men; two children; and then one disheveled barefoot lunatic in a cartoon pony toga, handcuffs, a chain restricting one arm, and the dirt-smeared remains of a butterfly marker mask. But truckers and odd sights were the only things you saw at 3 a.m. in a Roadkill County truck stop that was old enough to still have functioning pay phones, and the handcuffed guest wasn't blinking SOS in Morse code, so the weary party was escorted to the round corner booth without question. They sandwiched Bill between Soos and Stan and silently awaited their menus.

"Hey, I'm Dani, I'll be taking care of you tonight." A waitress passed out menus to the group, hesitated uncertainly with a couple of paper kids' menus in front of Dipper and Mabel, and handed them over when Mabel made grabby hands for the accompanying four-pack of crayons. "Can I start you off with some coffee, or...?" Dani's gaze fell on Bill and her face lit up. "Oh, hey! Toga Lady! Hi!"

Bill gave her a puzzled smile and raised brows. "Hello?"

"Oh, yeah dude!" Soos laughed. "Wendy got a picture of you the last time you came by. You're totally a local meme now."

"Okay, I've gotta know." The waitress gestured at Bill's ensemble with her pen. "What's your story?"

"Well—" Bill opened his mouth, and froze; and the whole table went still as they simultaneously had the same realization.

If anybody revealed Bill's identity, in Gravity Falls, the epicenter of Weirdmageddon, they'd have a mob on their hands. At worst the town would rip Bill to shreds, and at best they'd throw him in a cell so they could schedule his shredding for a pleasant Saturday afternoon when more people could watch.

Bill couldn't risk the possibility that he'd die for good, and the humans couldn't risk the possibility that he'd be re-released as a triangle.

None of them could reveal anything.

And all of them knew it.

"Party," Bill said. Warming to the cover story, he went on: "This is my party uniform. A little anachronistic, but what can I say? There's nothing I like better than being the center of attention at a wild party!" He cast a sideways glance toward the Stan twins. "Until the fun police break it up."

Ford grumbled, "Partying wasn't the problem. You were going to burn down the town."

"You get so worked up over a little bonfire, sheesh." Bill rolled his eyes, leaned toward the waitress, and said, "These geek types, I tell you. Some people wouldn't recognize a good time if it appeared to them in a divine vision."

"Maybe if I ever had a divine vision..."

Bill shot Ford a dirty look. They quickly broke off their mutual glare, conscious of Dani curiously watching, and Bill breezily explained, "He had a bad trip and still blames me for it."

Dani laughed. "You're crazy! What's your real name, Toga Lady?"

Bill hesitated. "Guess!"

"What?"

"Guess! It's a game. You guess mine, I'll guess yours."

She looked down at her name tag. "I already told you my name's Dani."

"But did you tell me it's Danielle Miranda?"

Her eyebrows shot up.

Bill beamed. "I'll give you three guesses! While you're thinking about that, could we get a round of coffee, and... do you serve anything more toxic than mildly spoiled apple juice? No? Just coffee."

"And a chocolate shake," Mabel threw in.

Bill's eyes lit up. "Make that two."

Stan snapped, "I am not paying for you to get a chocolate shake." Bill sighed.

Once the waitress was gone, Bill said, "Trauma still disrupts humans' long-term memories, right? Have the locals forgotten my name yet?"

"Yeah, no, everyone remembers," Soos said. "I know two different Williams that got their names legally changed."

Bill groaned. "Great. Terrific! Fine. I don't even care. My last pseudonym was getting stale anyway, it's about time I find a new one. Do I look like a Silas?"

The others stared at him. Stan said, "What?"

"A Silas, do I look like my name could be Silas."

"Sure, that sounds stupid enough for you."

Bill shot Stan a dirty look. "Fine, you try. I've spent the last couple of days getting killed, tortured, drugged, beaten, and starved—"

"Whoa, wait," Soos said, "you've been what?"

—so all I'm coming up with is 'Not-Bill' and 'the letter A.' Somebody else think of something."

Stan let out a loud sigh. "Who cares? Bob."

"No."

"Will."

"No, and you sound stupid."

"Hey—!"

Ignoring Stan's irritation, Bill looked around the table. "Anyone else?"

The others at the table considered the question. Soos said, "Ferdinand. I think Ferdinand is way cool."

"Coming out of you, that's not the high recommendation you think it is, Questiony."

Soos winced. "Ouch."

"C'mon, give me something that sounds a little bit like me."

Dipper said, "Troy Angle?" Mabel laughed.

Bill didn't. "Troy again."

Ford ventured, "Xanthe?"

"Ha. Sure, just call me 'yellow hair,' why not. I like the direction you're thinking—"

Stan—whose barely-suppressed rage at this whole situation had been steadily building back up since Bill called him stupid—snapped, "Why are we looking for a name he'll like? Why does he get any say in this! I say we call him whatever he can pronounce through a mouthful of broken teeth! Because when I'm through with this sonovab—"

Bill blocked his view of Stan's threatening fist by holding up his menu. "But Stanley's got a point, I need a simple name. How many Americans know how to spell Ξανθή?"

"Get this stupid thing out of my—"

Mabel, who'd been mulling over the whole "yellow hair" idea, stood and slammed her hands on the table, interrupting the brewing argument. "GOLDILOCKS!"

Bill erupted into a peal of laughter that made the rest of the table flinch. His handcuffs clattered as he smacked his hands on the table and he leaned toward Mabel. "Yes yes YES! Perfect! Ha!" It was like a light switch had flipped on in Bill, re-energizing him, and suddenly he was brighter than he'd been since before his capture. "Funniest coincidence, I—well, forget it, you wouldn't get it." Eyes crinkling in genuine amusement, Bill said, "But I like you, kid. You're the one with the fun ideas!"

Mabel blinked in surprise, any pleasure at the unexpected compliment dampened by the knowledge that being liked by Bill was never a good thing. "Oh. Yep," she said flatly. "Fun's my thing."

Miffed, Dipper said, "Hey, I made a pun."

"I don't like puns."

Ford said, "If you'd please stop trying to win over my grand-niece with flattery..." but fell silent as Dani came back with drinks.

She passed coffee around, set a chocolate shake down for Mabel, set a second one down for Bill—"On the house"—and winked. "Is it Rumpelstiltskin?"

Bill cracked up again. "No, but give me three hours and a particle accelerator and I could teach you to spin straw into gold!"

"Worth a shot! Okay, is everyone ready to order?"

There was an awkward pause. Soos finally said, "Oh man, we all got to talking and completely forgot to look at the menu. Can you give us like five minutes?"

"Sure. Just wave when you're ready." 

The group steeled themselves to the task of picking a meal, which felt far too mundane for such a bizarre night. Dipper frowned at the paper kids' menu he'd been handed. "Hey, Soos. Can I look at your menu when you're done...?"

Wordlessly, Bill stole Dipper's menu and crayon box and slid over his adult menu.

"...Thanks."

Bill had already dumped out the crayons and started drawing triangles on the menu. "Don't mention it!"

By the time Dani returned, Bill had covered a quarter of the menu in tiny doodles of his own triangular face, reluctantly scratched them out after Soos pointed out he could get arrested for those, and covered half the rest in countless eyes. Soos ordered a burger, Stan ordered bacon and eggs, Ford ordered an omelet, Dipper ordered an omelet too not because Ford did but because it sounded good and maybe he wanted to try one okay that's all, Mabel ordered rainbow sprinkle chocolate pancakes, and Bill ordered a banana octopus pancake and a side of bacon "as floppy as you can make it" over Stan's objections to letting Bill get a side item.

"And raw bacon. Got it." Dani closed her notebook, gave Bill a considering look, and said, "Is it Blondie?"

"Ha! No! But you've been a good sport so I'll give you a hint! It's something in between your first two guesses."

"Huh..." Dani considered that a moment; then noticed Bill trying to pick up his shake with handcuffs on. "Do you... need help with those? I think the attached gas station's got bolt cutters."

Firmly, Ford said, "We've got bolt cutters at home." Bill gave Dani an apologetic shrug.

As soon as Dani was gone again, Ford leaned forward. "All right, Bill. If you're going to be in our house for who-knows-how-long, we need to establish some ground rules."

"Boy, do we ever," Bill said, with the confidence of somebody who assumed he'd have an equal say in deciding what the rules were.

Ford went on without acknowledging Bill. "For now, we can lock you back in the cellar—"

"Cellar's right under the gift shop," Stan pointed out. "I was thinking a storage closet. Just stuff him in there and pile a bunch of furniture in front of the door."

"You know, Stanley, I think that would be safer," Ford said, like he was trying to pretend he liked the idea based on safety rather than based on how satisfying it would be to make Bill as uncomfortable as possible. "Although I'm sure Bill knows he'll just be putting himself in danger if he makes enough noise to catch anyone's attention—so there's rule number one, no sounds. And once I've done some repairs, we can move him to the bunker..."

"No, I don't think so," Bill said. "I don't like that at all."

Coolly, Ford said, "Well, Bill, you're our prisoner, so we can do what we want, you don't get a say in it, and you don't have to like it. In fact, the more you dislike it, the more I think I do like it."

Stan laughed, elbowing Ford. "Took the words right out of my mouth."

Bill said, "But that's just the thing—I do get a say in it! I'm as worried as anyone else about what might happen if this body is killed. But there are fates worse than death. Like boredom, for instance! You know what I'm talking about, right?" He gave Mabel an appealing look.

She doggedly avoided making eye contact, slurping her shake.

Bill shrugged and returned his attention to Ford. "You know and I know you'll only keep me alive until you think of a way to kill me that I can't come back from—and that gives me an advantage. It means I've got nothing to lose. If I'm not living a life that's at least barely tolerable, then your only way to stop me from choosing death on my terms instead of your terms is by sticking me in an artificial coma." His smile stretched wider. "And are you really, really sure I don't know a way to kill myself in my sleep?"

Ford and Stan's scowls deepened the longer Bill spoke. Stan muttered to Ford, "It's not too late to take our chances killing him the old-fashioned way."

Ford shook his head. "What do you consider intolerable conditions."

"Being locked in a little cell with nowhere to stretch my legs, no entertainment, and no company. Abandon me in your bunker? I'll bash my skull in."

Bill declared this with such vehemence that it momentarily gave Ford pause; but he asked, "And if we lock you in the cellar?"

"Then I scream for help until someone calls the cops, and we all get to learn what they find more convincing: 'You've gotta believe me, this lady is secretly Bill Cipher in disguise,' or 'Help me, officer, these lunatics think I'm some kind of demon pyramid!'" Bill rolled his eyes. "I'm not asking for much. Just a little entertainment. Only enough to make this place more appealing than dying! A few rooms I can move freely in, the occasional conversation, a window or two I can look out of..."

"In other words," Ford said, "if we don't want you to do anything drastic, we need to give you a slight chance to escape."

"See, this is why you're the smart one!" Bill graced Ford with a brilliant smile. "And in return, you've bought yourselves time to look for a guaranteed way to finish me off. It'll be like a game: can you figure out how to get rid of me before I find a way out?"

"I stopped playing games with you a long time ago, Cipher."

Bill leaned across the table toward Ford, ignoring that he was at risk of shoving his elbow into Stan's chest and that the kids had started leaning over the table too as if they were prepared to lunge at Bill. "We never stopped playing. You just stopped having fun."

Their negotiations were interrupted by Dani's return. She distributed their meals, then said, "Okay, I've got two guesses. They're dumb, though."

"I'll allow it!"

"Rapunzel or Goldilocks."

"Hey, guess number four! Smart girl! Give her a nice tip, Stanley."

Stan grumbled, "Stop trying to spend my money."

Dani laughed. "You're joking!"

"No, really! Goldilocks!"

"No, no way. You're totally lying."

Studying her face to gauge how much of her skepticism was sincere, Bill amended himself, "Okay, okay, you're right—first name Goldie, last name Locke. Funny though, right?"

"I didn't think I'd get it. Goldilocks the Toga Lady. Ha! You guys enjoy your meals."

Once she was out of hearing range, Bill muttered, "Tabitha, I should have gone with Tabitha. That's a way more believable human name than Goldilocks. I could pull off a Tabitha."

Ford cleared his throat to catch Bill's attention. "All right, Bill, here's your situation. You're trapped within a small geographical radius and surrounded by enemies. You have no money, no identification, and no connections. The last time we saw you, you were pleading for rescue through a book—"

"'Pleading' is so pejorative! I was offering mutually beneficial deals, but you were too busy taping judgmental selfies in my book to—"

"—SO, wherever you came here from, you clearly can't go back there. And if you still have any powers at all, they're obviously dampened or we'd be dead by now. Your options are limited even if you do escape—so before you try, think how much less latitude we'll give you once we catch you."

"Sounds like somebody's about to agree to my terms."

Ford glanced at Stan, to see if he wanted to voice any objections; then Soos, as the current owner of the shack; then the kids, with a silent apology for what this would mean for their summer; and when no one protested, Ford said, "You'll stay in the main shack. You can go anywhere that isn't closed behind a door—that means the kitchen, the living room, the R&D room, and the attic. You don't get to enter any room behind a door without supervision. You don't get access to tools, poisons, or anything you could potentially use as a weapon. No phone, no computer, no borrowing anybody's cellular phones. I suppose there's no harm in letting you use the TV." He glanced around at the family. "Does that all sound agreeable?"

Nobody was thrilled with it, but nobody protested.

Bill said, "Question."

"What."

"How will disputes over what to watch on TV be resolved."

"Everybody in the house gets priority over you."

"You're being petty. We can't even vote on TV selections?"

"Fine, let's vote. Who's in favor of being petty and never letting Bill choose what to watch?"

Everyone but Bill raised a hand.

Bill laughed. "Okay, I walked into that! But I want books."

"Fine. You can have books."

"And writing materials."

"Under supervision only."

"Sheesh, paranoid. Okay. And a radio."

Ford considered that.

"Come on, you don't think I could get into trouble with a radio."

"You can use the record player."

"Nobody uses records anymore. I want a CD player."

"Fine. You can borrow a CD player."

"Fine." Satisfied, Bill picked up the maple syrup bottle and poured way too much on his pancakes.

Mabel cast a quick, envious glance at Bill's banana octopus. It had chocolate chip eyes and was way cuter than she'd expected.

Bill caught her glance, gave her sugary pile of sprinkles and chocolate an equally covetous look, and said, "Want to go half and half?"

She shoved her plate over. "Like you wouldn't believe!"

Dipper hissed, "Mabel," and Mabel flinched, guiltily glancing toward Ford to see if the Head Bill Cipher Expert had any objections to the pancake swap. Ford grimaced, but said nothing. Mabel had already agreed, Ford couldn't think of anything Bill could have done to an untampered-with plate of pancakes, and if Ford objected on principle he'd just end up making himself look like the bad guy—which he had a sneaking suspicion Bill would immediately pounce on.

Meanwhile, Bill certainly hadn't waited to see if Ford approved. He mercilessly sawed his mushy cephalopod in half, the swap was made before anyone could protest Mabel sharing her bounty of sugar with the worst person in the universe, and Bill gleefully added more maple syrup to his new source of sweet sensory overload. He scooped up a forkful of pancakes, stuck it in his eye, then jerked his head back at the pain and stared in confusion. He tried the other eye before he remembered his mouth.

Mabel played with the banana peel tentacles on her half-octopus. At Dipper's grimace, she said, "It's fine, he'll be fine! Octopuses grow back if you cut them in half."

Soos had worked through his burger like popcorn at a movie while he watched Ford and Bill's hostage negotiations. Now that the important decisions had been made and Soos was down to fries, he said, "So, how do we keep Bill out of all the other rooms? Am I gonna have to put locks on every door tomorrow? Because if we just say 'don't go there,' Bill will be like, 'okay,' and then do it anyway, you know?"

"Yeah, Stanford, how are you gonna keep me out of your rooms?" Bill was twirling a piece of bacon around his fork like spaghetti. "I hear I'm pretty sneaky." He stuck the fork in his eye again, flinched, and gave it a disappointed look.

"Well—" Ford glanced around to ensure no one was nearby, leaned closer to Bill, and lowered his voice. "I've actually got a clever idea about that."

Instantly intrigued, Bill leaned in closer. "Oh, do you?"

Like he was inviting Bill in to hear a secret, Ford reached past Stan to put a hand on Bill's shoulder—and said, "Amnesia Limina—"

"You—!" Bill tried to jerk out of Ford's grip, but was blocked by a wall of Soos. Soos caught on and grabbed Bill's wrists before he could shove Ford's hand away.

"—Stupidi Digiti—"

"I hate you."

"—Occultus Locus."

A bright red light flashed between Ford's fingers. Bill's eye twitched. He jerked out of Soos's grip and shrugged off Ford's hand. "When did you learn how to play dirty?"

Dipper had watched with such fascination that he hadn't even noticed a chunk of omelet fall off his fork into his lap. "Whoa, what was that?"

"A curse," Ford said. "Cast it on a door, and no one who interacts with it will know how to open it. Cast it on a person, however—and they'll forget how to open any door or window. We don't have to worry about locking Bill in if he doesn't know how to use a doorknob, do we?"

Bill asked, "What's a doorknob?"

Stan cracked up. Ford grinned at Dipper and gestured at Bill. See?

"Seriously, what's a doorknob? I know every word in the English language, I'd know if 'doorknob' was a word. Is it a wart? A kind of fungus?" Bill sighed irritably. "Where did you come up with that! I thought you forgot that curse years ago."

"I haven't forgotten anything you taught me," Ford said, clearly offended at the suggestion.

"No? Then why'd you waste all that time installing a retinal scanner on your lab door?" As it dawned on Bill that he no longer understood what retinal scanners had to do with the function of doors, he muttered to himself, "Why did he install a retinal scanner."

"I'm not a fool, I knew if I'd cursed the door you would have removed the curse as soon as you possessed me."

Bill laughed. "You idiot! Don't you know the curse can't be lifted by anyone but the person who placed it?"

"It. Can't?" Ford sat there, experiencing the unfamiliar sensation of being the student called on in class who'd read the wrong pages instead of the assignment, even though in his heart he was sure Bill must not have taught him that part of the spell. "What if that person dies?"

"Responsibility for the curse passes to the next of kin! Lucky for you, or this fork would already be in your throat—although I haven't completely ruled that out. Maybe one of your family will be more reasonable about the situation than you."

The rest of the table loudly assured Bill that they would not be more reasonable. Ford gestured toward them. "I don't think so. None of us are foolish enough to fall for your tricks anymore. You aren't going anywhere until we say so."

Bill ignored the rest of the table, gaze fixed on Ford. "Don't be so sure, Stanford Pines. You aren't the first cocky mortal to hold me and you won't be the last! I'll get out of here, and when I do—oh-ho-ho, I'll make you regret every single timeyou ever thought of crossing me."

Ford raised a brow. "I 'won't be the last'?" Stan laughed again, elbowing Ford. Bill cringed, face heating up.

The kids grinned. "Wow, Bill," Dipper said. "Pretty big of you to admit what a loser you are."

Bill rounded furiously on Dipper. "I'll show you a loser—" He lunged across the table toward him.

"Hey!"

"Get over here, you—"

"Everything good so far?" Dani asked.

The table froze. Bill had a fist curled in Dipper's vest, Soos had an arm around Bill's chest, Stan had his hands around Bill's throat, Ford was pointing a knife at Bill's face, and Mabel was prepared to bite Bill's wrist.

Bill slowly let go of Dipper. He gave Dani a thumbs up. "Everything tastes fantastic!"

"Great!" Dani moved on.

The guys slowly let go of Bill and sat back. Mabel gently bit Bill's arm to ensure he knew she meant business.

He didn't even acknowledge her. He'd fixed his glower on Ford again; and when Ford met his look, Bill pursed his lips and spat a thick, milkshaky wad of phlegm onto Ford's omelet.

Stan rounded on Bill so fast he kneed the table. "You little—!"

Ford put a hand on Stan's shoulder to stop him from making a scene. Calmly, he cut around the chunk of soiled omelet, scooped it up, and dropped it in Bill's milkshake.

A crooked smile broke through Bill's scowl. "You know—" he hooked a finger around his milkshake glass and tugged it closer, "this is the most fun I've had in a very long time." He squeezed one eye shut and made direct, defiant eye contact with Ford as he drank the shake.

Mabel and Dipper exchanged a look and cringed in disgust.

####

When they left, in lieu of the extra tip Bill had wanted Stan to give the waitress, he turned over his paper menu and drew a map to an eighty-year-old buried cache of stolen jewelry just a fifteen minute walk from the diner.

He'd finished his milkshake, egg and all.

####

(if you enjoyed, I'd love a comment! Thanks!)

[emeryhiro]

Hi. I love your analysis of the episodes and the trailer. I love what we got. But I don't quite understand why Daryl says that he and Isabelle talked so that the three of them could go to America. If she wants Daryl to stay, she manipulates him. If Daryl is angry and cold with her. where did this family "three of them together" come from. It's weird and destroys all my expectations for Caryl.

Hey Anon😊

Thank you for the kind words 🩵

Unfortunatly I can't give you a sure answer but I'll share and explain my opinion/thoughts on it.

I agree with you on the fact that this line feels out of place and doesn't really make sense in terms of where the story and characters are going.

To put it in simple terms I think this is just Daryl trying to have his cake and eat it too. But to be more specific, I believe that as he starts to see the cracks in the Nest's system, he'll also start to realise the danger that Laurent is in, and we can't deny that he cares for the kid and feels a sense of responsibility for him because he knows Laurent wasn't raised for that world and wouldn't really make it long without Daryl around to teach him.

We also know for a fact that Daryl wants to go home, cast and crew have said this many time, and Norman even said it again yesterday in their SDCC IGN interview (timestamp 2:15).

So we know that Daryl want's to go home, that he doesn't think he'd ever be happy in France, and that he can't stay in France, but we also knows that he can't leave Laurent behind while he's in danger, he's not that guy, especially with Genet's impending attack which Laurent would never survive.

If he can't leave without Laurent, his next best option is to take Laurent back to America with him and away from all conflict, somewhere where he knows he can get what he wants (being with his family), keep Laurent safe, and give him a regular childhood in the commonwealth. At the same time, however, he also knows that as long as Isabelle is alive, Laurent wouldn't leave her, and also Daryl wouldn't feel right separating a child from the only biological family he has left. Which is how I think he came to the conclusion that the best thing he can do is to take both of them.

I dont expect his plans for the "three of them together" to go anywhere. I think that's just Daryl being naive and overly pessimistic about what he can achieve.

Regarding how he feels about Isabelle, I know that he can sense he's being used and manipulated but it's now too late for him to get out of this on his own, he's now emotionally invested in Laurent and can't bring himself to leave him, which is what Isabelle wanted all along. I've mentioned this a few times before, and I'll say it again, I believe that the longer he spends away from Carol the more he regresses into his old self, and that version of Daryl would have accepted this treatment from Isabelle becasue he wouldn't have believe that he deserved any better. We see this same pattern of behaviour develop between Daryl and Leah when he was in the woods, searching for Rick, and away from Carol for years. I know there's a lot more to both these situations which I may write it's own post about instead of making my response here unberably long to read.

Once Carol and Daryl are reunited, he'll start to think clearly again, because firstly, Carol would see right through Isabelle and never stand for or allow the manipulation, and secondly, once Daryl see's Carol again, there will be no more distractions, he's mindset will heal and completely shift, and like always Carol will be his number one priority, not Laurent, not the Nest, and definitly not Isabelle.

Yes, he'll still want to help/save them, but never at the expense of Carol and her safety. I expect that there will be some conflict between Carol and Daryl, or as Norman describes it, some "bickering like an old married couple", which I guess would revolve around:

The two of them finally being reunited and having the chance to leave without further risk, and

Daryl feeling guilty about leaving before he resolves things at the Nest and making sure that Laurent is safe and set.

However, untimetly I think the choice would be up to Carol and Daryl would follow her no matter what she decides. And in her true selfless nature, Carol would never leave before helping the people that Daryl cares about, especially if she see's him so torn about it.

And also hypothetically, even if the 3 of them did make it back to the US/Commonwealth, Isabelle would never be able to manipulate and abuse Daryl again, not while he's around and empowered by Carol and the rest of their family.

~~~

I hope this makes sense, and that I explain myself well, I know I sometimes have the habit of getting carried away 😅 I completely understand your frustration, I sometimes feel that way myself but in circumstances like this where something seem's out of character I personally just try to both look at the bigger picture and delve into what I know about the character.

Please feel free to let me know you thoughts on what I've said, even if you agree or diagree, or if there was anything else you'd like to discuss. I always enjoy these discussions and seeing different persepctives🩵

[cyrusthedragon]

For a long time i wanted to say smth and i don't know how relevant (??) it is NOW, but screw it, I'm still gonna write it, purely to express my opinion:

"Homelander is a top", "no, he's a bottom", "no, Butcher is bottom---"

You know Johnny likes being in control, right? Like he genuinely likes having power over ppl (supers included), and he'll prolly screw some poor guy just to show dominance (no, he'd be disgusted because he was raised homophobic, but still). That's not the point, actually, what I wanna say is: when I think about butchlander and their first sex, i always see John as a bottom, because in his eyes this is an indicator of trust and weakness (and goodwill). Of course being a bottom doesn't mean shit, but he's a man in his 40s and sex for him is the only opportunity to receive love (not including the general adoration of the crowd and on the Internet, cuz it's bullshit).

If he's just fucking (which I don't think he does, I doubt he has sex much), he likes to dominate. These people are not worthy of his love, wtf?? Why would he let them take control (I'm so sorry, Becca 🥹)?? So he is simply using them for his pleasure, like living sex toys. Cum and leave.

But, if not (considering that he sincerely loved those two women with whom he had something), he loves being submissive. He loves it because he wants affection and care.

But here's a twist.

This won't work with butchlanders, because Butcher is initially very unlikely to be affectionate with Homelander. This will be a hate-fuck. And it will be a hate-fuck on Butcher’s terms - yk, my way or the highway. Because Butcher would rather chew off all his limbs than allow himself to lie ass-up face-down under Johnny (in the beginning), and Johnny is too weak-willed not to give in.

So if their first sex does happen, it's on Butcher's terms, and Johnny is the one who's getting fucked til semi-consciousness (even if he's a service-top) (Butcher'd ride the breathing god complex out of him).

But.

But!

Although i think Butcher doesn’t give a shit if s/o wants to put their dick in him or simply dominate him - from above, below, sideways, backwards (being top and being dominant are two different things, I hope everyone remembers this), I still believe that for Homelander to take Butcher would be a proof of Billy's trust. "I trust you enough for you to dominate me." Or "I trust you enough to not squeeze your dick with my ass until it falls off"

Homelander opens his ass first because he gives in to Butcher (and because he's a boootttoommm and loves diiickkksssss and Biillyyyyyy) (im sorry ehshdheh), Butcher opens his ass up because he trusts Johnny 👍

And then they switch, cause bottom!Butcher is the meaning of my life, and submissive!Homelander is the love of my life.

As well as bottom!Johnny and submissive!Billy are

P.s. believe me, i didn’t express even a TENTH of what i wanted to say about them and their positions in sex, but im too sleepy to write so much.

Iykyk

[mariamariquinha]

Chilean, Camembert (Jonathan Levy x f!reader) - one shot

Summary: He was pathetic. Hot, but pathetic.

Word count: 8.225.

Warnings: Mentions about divorce, bad words, a few academic terms, alcohol (it's wine), p in v sex, rough sex, a little bit of angst, Jonathan is quite toxic but for the optimists he is trying, oral sex (female receiving) and... Yeah, guess that's it.

Author’s Note: I finished writing this and thought 'I should be taking care of two long fanfics I'm writing here', but this shit had been in my head for MONTHS and, just like Dave's, I had to write it just now because that's when I felt fit. It's my way. I love writing for characters that almost no one gives a shit about.

Enjoy!

(If there are any grammar mistakes, I'm sorry, but I'm lazy, tired and needed to post it).

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

****

He still had her scent on his neck and chest and face. It was an obvious realization, but one he didn't make until he was standing in front of that restaurant looking at your seated figure, one hand supporting your visibly tired face. He was late. Very late. And in a way, Jonathan could make an excuse over the phone and feel bad about it, but he still went there because he thought he could just be honest.

But her fucking scent was there. Probing, making explicit what had happened.

He stood motionless beside the car, coat tight between his fingers and a lump in his throat. You had asked the waiter for the bill, for the only glass of wine you must have sipped all night because you weren't a big fan of the drink. He knew that, but not because he asked – you said. You always said everything and did everything. You were the one who also asked him out for the first time, who kissed him for the first time, who led the whole exchange between you two. And the two of you weren't in a relationship, it hadn't even gone beyond an expected kiss after the third date, because you were patient and understood the moment he was going through. Still, Jonathan knew it was the last straw. 

With more of that bitter feeling, he also saw you picking up your things and heading towards the exit. His phone vibrated at the same time you put yours to your ear, trying to talk to him for the fifth or sixth time. Jonathan didn't answer.

It was like a slap in the face, the way you lost the polite smile you'd given the hostess when you walked out the door and saw him there, in front of you, a street away. Your face wore a frown, a colder, more rational look, as you measured him from head to toe with a reticent step in that direction. It felt like you were figuring out where he'd been, what every detail of him meant; it scared him a little.

“Are you-” 

There, after a few firmer, closer steps, Jonathan instinctively dodged your proximity, raising his hand just high enough for you to understand his reaction. Then, with a breeze, you became aware of the sweet aroma, the strange perfume that had an owner. From cold and rational, your eyes turned sad. You blinked a few times, swallowed hard. He kept that hand up and you stared at it, as if a wave of brutal realization had coursed through you. Jonathan was left to watch the scene in silence, relishing that bad feeling of having hurt you.

“I-”

“Nn-nn,” You interrupted, closing your eyes for a second and raising a single finger to stop him. He obliged. And then you opened them again, wet from tears you were holding back, looking right at him in a moment of braveness – one he could admire if it wasn’t for the circumstances. “Don't take it away from me. Don’t take… You don't have the right to reject me twice.” 

There wasn’t a single part of him that felt strong enough to fight it, to say he could make it better, that Mira was a person from his past, that she hurted him enough for him to leave. But he couldn’t. He… couldn’t do it. 

You recovered with a sigh and avoided looking at him as much as possible.

“I’ll go home. Forget my number, I don’t wanna be your friend, yada, yada, yada. You know, the usual.” 

“We could talk about it.”

“We could? We could, Jonathan?” 

Jonathan shut his mouth again. 

“Just… Leave me alone, okay? For good.” 

He didn't react when he saw you walking, steps slow as you kicked off your heels and walked the rest of the way to your car in bare feet. You looked back, just to watch the traffic on the street, and in that movement the two of you exchanged glances. You cried. Far from him, with distance, like stubborn tears that insisted on coming out. Tears Mira hadn't cried for him.

And he let it be. 

****

The problem was in the details. He had the same gray hairs, the messily organized curls, the sweaters, the briefcase and the glasses, as if the last two years hadn't passed him by. There was Christmas, New Years, holidays; the same. You didn't hear if he was really divorced, if he was still with Mira, what Ava's custody rules were, how it affected him – Jonathan was the same. 

Like before everything, you had fragments of him. That was a problem because these fragments made you fall in love before. 

You had a boyfriend after him, a real one, who didn't have problems with an ex. His name was Charles. Honestly speaking, maybe Charles would have been a comfortable blanket and a hot cup of tea during a rainstorm, which was what you thought you had with Jonathan. And he was good. Indeed, a nice guy. He made you forget Jonathan, put a stone on what had happened and move on with your life. 

But you were far away from that mess geographically and emotionally when it happened. In London, more precisely, participating in an important research group for your academic career, and Charles happened at that time. It was an incredible six months. When you came back, he just said that it wouldn't be ideal to maintain a long-distance relationship and you broke up. You had a good opportunity in Boston as a substitute teacher, a place on the Anthropological research team at Suffolk University and you stayed there without missing Charles much.

A year and a few months later, a friend from Columbia said they were putting together a new research team on Ancient Latin American communities, which was your area of ​​expertise, and he had a good letter of recommendation if you were interested. Rahul, that very good and very necessary friend. One that could put you at the best and worst things of your life. 

You couldn’t say you were in discomfort because of the lack of female researchers in the group except you, not even when, during a campus tour, someone asked you where you came from (which meant where you studied) and when you said you graduated from a public university. Rahul commented that it was better to say you were from Yale until they found out it was a lie.

“It's better to be called a liar than poor around here.”

And then you arrived at the moment that, curiously enough, was the worst of the day: finding Jonathan leaving the library, with his head lowered and eyes focused on a book. There was a possibility that you would go unnoticed, that you could process the discovery that he was in Columbia calmly, to take notice of those small details that didn’t change one bit, but it was at that moment that you also discovered that Rahul knew Jonathan well enough to make a point of 'introducing' you.

Among other qualities, he was always polite and cordial enough with anyone, no matter who they were. So when Jonathan looked up with a friendly smile, ready for a simple handshake and saw you, he retracted his hand a little, because damn, he really didn't even wait for Rahul to say your name before doing so. 

“Good to see you, Professor Levy,” You said, professional as ever, searching for his hand for a normal handshake. No explosions, no butterflies in your stomach. It was just Jonathan. 

“Do you know each other?” Rahul asked, obnoxious by the interaction and pointing between you two. 

“Professor Levy was my mentor when I was working on my doctorate,” You explained. “He helped me to get that scholarship in the UK.” 

“Oh. Small world, eh?” 

He didn’t say a thing for a long moment, even after you smiled at Rahul and nodded, going along with his comment to throw the ball to Jonathan. Nothing. He frowned, lips pulled in thin lines, and then, just then, when you cleared your throat and averted your gaze, that he blinked a few times, finally engaging. 

“... I thought you were in Boston.”

Wow. It sounded like another rejection, from the tone of his voice and the way he watched your face. You felt your neck burning, your cheeks tickling in embarrassment. Good for you, Rahul did all the explanation, gaining Jonathan’s interest really fast and really naturally. From time to time, while your friend would come and go to extend that story more than necessary, you could see him giving you glances from time to time, as if to make sure you were still there.

By the time that whole lecture ended, full of an adventure you didn’t really live in real life, Jonathan turned to you. 

“I hope we can have the opportunity to catch up now that you're here,” He said with a small smile, head tilted to the side. “You’re living nearby?”

“She-”

“I didn’t find a place yet,” You interrupted Rahul before he could say anything stupid. “And I don’t want to interrupt your work hours, professor. It’s Columbia, I would be really naive to think you’re not busy.” 

“I could always find time to talk with an old friend,” You both smiled falsely, clearly with different intentions. You wanted that conversation to end, Jonathan wanted to pretend something. 

“Sure thing,” With a sigh, you raised your eyebrows and looked back at the library doors, pointing at it. “Can we go now?” 

Finally – finally – Rahul noticed that you wanted to leave, opening his mouth like a dead fish before nodding, all the while smiling exaggeratedly. 

“Yep. Library. Library! Sure, we should-” He pointed at the doors as well, already pushing you to keep walking. “See ya later, Levy?”

“Mm-hm,” Jonathan nodded, another glance in your direction. “Good to see you again.”

“Same.”

Which wasn’t true, but you couldn’t tell exactly what you felt at the idea of coming back to that… interaction. He seemed nonchalant, a little taken aback but relaxed enough or mature enough to not make it a big deal, which was good. Fine. Cool. Of course you didn’t feel anything, whatever happened in the past was in the past. If you looked back and saw him doing the same (and had that feeling on the pit of your stomach), you both were just shocked by the surprise. 

Right?

****

The mirror of the bathroom was fogged when you left the shower, making you clean it a little to avert your blurry reflection. Beside the mirror, big enough to see more than just your face, you saw a pair of boxers and a dirty shaver. 

Rahul wasn't the best of the hosts. You really would need to find that apartment soon, just like you mentioned earlier to-No. No, no Jonathan. 

“You two fucked, right?” 

Rahul didn’t even wait for you to enter the bedroom, throwing himself on your bed and looking at you suspiciously.

“Rahul…”

“Na-ah, don’t come with that shit. It’s a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”

You sighed, scratching the back of your neck and sitting beside him, feeling his body adjust on the mattress to be side by side. One of the last things you wanted was to go into detail about this kind of thing with him, and that was always a promise you had a hard time keeping, but you knew it wouldn't last long: Rahul was too curious and perceptive to just let it go.

“Remember that guy I was seeing before flying to London?” 

“Yep. The one with the ex and-" He stopped himself. "Shit."

"Mm-hm."

"He never sold himself as an asshole."

"I don't think he is a natural asshole," You pointed out, even if you already said that to him back in the day, when Jonathan was just a guy without a name or a face or an office beside his. The reaction was the same, though: he tsked, shaking his head in disbelief, saying you were stupid for thinking like that, that you were 'too good with everyone'. 

"He may be quite a catch, honey, but he's still an asshole. A jerk, at least."

"Mm…" You hummed, shrugging a little. 

"And since he's the guy from before, you two didn't go to the finals then, right?"

"No, we didn't," For some reason, that made him scoff. "Why? Trying to push your luck?"

"... He's still hot."

That made you laugh for the first time since the topic flowed between you two. A relief, at best, since it could make Rahul relax and, at best, not bring this subject to Jonathan. 

“You have a bad habit of going after straight guys.”

“Well, you too.”  

And that made you laugh too, even though you had the impression that Jonathan wouldn't be just something to make jokes about. 

****

Rahul lived close to the campus, close enough to walk everyday to work. You just noticed it was a great privilege when you moved from his apartment not even two weeks later, because suddenly what seemed like 'just a few blocks' turned into a bunch of whining from you. 

The price of your new place was quite high because, well, it was New York, so you ended up looking for a side job like you did in Boston and got some particular classes. All of this brought a routine for you. In the morning: gym, then work. Then lunch. Then work again. Then avert Jonathan every chance you got. Then go to Mr. Hastings house (where he has this weird nerdy son called Dylan) and give the young boy History and Sociology lessons. Then, finally, go back home, shower, scroll through your phone during dinner and avert that notification from Facebook suggesting that you should be friends with Jonathan because he was around the area. 

It started to bother you. Jonathan wasn't chasing, not like in a stalker way, but the comfort idea that Columbia was a big university (big enough to make him less of a problem) started to fade and you knew that, if it really started to poke, like a petulant child, like Dylan Hastings, you should think of a better way of dealing with the situation. Given the circumstances, it seemed like those two years, from Europe to Charles, were all a big run from the fact that you're still hurt from what happened. 

Jonathan didn't move a finger to get closer or force a conversation. Still, you knew that if you hesitated for even half a second, he would be there with his air of intelligence, strong aroma of coffee and a masculine lotion that he certainly used on his beard or on the days he decided to make his hair tidier. You noticed, there was no way not to. He walked more confidently than when all that happened, but Jonathan was never smug or showy, so it was just like he walked around without sulking. That was new to you. When you two met, he certainly didn’t show anything but remorse and a small sense of… comfort? Of fucking trying? 

By the end of his second month at Columbia, Jonathan was just someone to look away from. Nothing else. And if you had to work up your strength to keep it that way, so be it. 

“I don't know if you'll find what you're looking for there.”

You turned abruptly to the side, seeing him standing in the middle of that corridor, both hands on his pockets and a small smile on his face. It wasn’t suffocating, the way he stood there in a safe distance with his shoulders relaxed and that New Balance dad’s shoes, but with two high shelves of books surrounding you, you just felt a little out of breath. 

“... It says British Literature,” You pointed at the entry of that corridor, where you saw the sign.

“Yeah, but I didn't know this would be in your search grid.”

“And you’re right,” A nod, then your eyes went back to the books. “What I'm looking for isn’t for me.”

“Oh.”

“It’s for Dylan.”

“Dylan.”

“Dylan Hastings.”

He went quiet for a moment, but you didn’t give in to the curious desire to see what the expression on his face was.

“... Private classes, then?” Was what Jonathan asked after a beat, to which you nodded again. “For you to leave Boston and come here, I imagined that the offer at the Research Department would be more tempting.” 

Indiscriminately, his comment made you a little annoyed, but you tried not to let it show. You weren't usually mean, it's just that maybe you always had the wrong dose of sarcasm and even indiscretion. Whether it was his intention or not, you seemed to try a little too hard not to be rude.

“You really seem bothered that I came here.”

“To the library?”

“To Columbia.”

You sensed him taking a small step closer, which made you retrieve in your spot. Jonathan sighed.

“I’m not.” 

“Mm.”

“You deserve to be here. With your background and such.”

“I know.”

“Can you please look at me?” 

It was your turn to sigh, defeated by a simple task of being polite even when you didn’t have any obligation to do so. When you gave in, turning your eyes to the man, you saw that he was serious, but not angry, as if just waiting to test what should be his side in the conversation. 

He didn’t say anything for a moment or two, measuring your face while brushing his fingers on his bearded chin. 

“... We can talk about what happened. I know this-”

“We can’t,” Not a question, not a small broken voice of sadness. You said it with an almost expressionless tone, arms crossed over your chest. Jonathan was surprised by the sudden interruption, blinking a few times. 

Again, silence. And when he didn’t give any indication to fill it, to say something, you turned your eyes and body back to the shelf, arms dropping to your sides again. 

“You always wanted to teach here,” He broke the silence again, this time not even needing to ask you to look at him. You did it right away, snapping your head in his direction. 

Took you some seconds to understand what he meant. 

“I honestly expect you to think I don't want to talk about this because I don't want to talk to you.” 

Harsh, of course, but enough to keep him away. The sarcasm, the venom dripping from your voice, it should be more than a reason for Jonathan to put himself on his place, to be away from you, to just fucking forget it. He was doing just fine for two whole months, no one needed that drama again. 

With that, he left, and you cursed yourself with closed eyes for feeling bad about it too. 

****

“You know that's not the answer.”

“I would know if you told me.”

“If I told you, you would still not know and we would still be here.” 

Dylan narrowed his sharp blue eyes at you, pursing his lips before looking back at the copy of Not Much Ado About Nothing. 

“When I'm older, I'm going to pay people to give me answers.”

You looked around, seeing a Renoir on the left wall and a solid wood china cabinet right next to it.

“I'm sure you will,” And added: “I would be really happy if you shared some of your resources with me, tho.”

****

You thought about it a lot and knew that if you were thinking, it was because you had to decide what to do, which could include nothing. You could let the matter drop, make Jonathan forget everything and just carry on as if nothing had happened, which seemed prudent. Maybe 'doing nothing', maybe continuing to live and work your dream would be ideal. You loved being an ordinary person, who did ordinary things and didn't live within the limits of drama; you loved peace. But the problem was that, to 'do nothing', it was also necessary to do something, take a step, make a decision, and these were actions, even if they were silent withdrawals. 

The research fund had increased circumstantially that semester. Your articles were doing very well and, at that time, you could hope, even from a distance, for a chance at leadership in your own line of research. Like good nerdy academics, the Department didn’t throw celebration parties, but directed the money towards purchasing new printers, updating books in the library and investing in publications in the university magazine or field research trips. They commented that it could frustrate you, being young and not being able to have coworkers with whom you would drink in questionable bars, but you always smiled and replied that it was okay, that you had already booked the clubs and drunk Uber rides for a past time. 

And for some reason, this moment of good news, of positive points, made you stop there, with a cup of coffee in your hand and right in front of Jonathan's office.

He had to double-check that it was you who was standing there after you entered, closing his mouth before he could use the condescending tone of a teacher toward a student, lowering his expectations of meeting a desperate oil heir from his Dostoevsky classes for… you. And what would be you, standing there with an unreadable expression? 

“... Good morning?” He asked, unsure, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

“Yeah, well, yes. Good morning.” You said. “I’m not gonna do a lot of small talk, that’s probably not the right place to do so, I just…” 

Jonathan was blinking at you as if you had a second head, still confused by your appearance and probably by your rambling. 

“I want to apologize for how I treated you the other day. At the library,” You words had a small effect on him, almost imperceptible. “It wasn't my right to act so harshly even if I disagreed with you.”

“I still think you were polite. I don't remember anyone telling me to fuck off in such a controlled manner.”

“Jonathan…” You scolded him with a sigh, averting your gaze from him with a head shake. 

“No, please, I’m being serious. I deserved it.” 

“That’s not the point,” You pressed. “It is, probably, but what I’m trying to say is that we could… put a rock on the whole situation and move on. We’re both adults, we can do that.” 

He stared at you for another long moment, licking his lips and considering something inside his head. Then, calmly, he nodded, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. With small steps, you sat there, eyeing the papers splayed all over and then the way he leaned back in his own chair, relaxed. 

“How was your search for the book in the British Literature session?” Jonathan asked casually, even grinning at the mention of your trip to the library. 

“Good. I spent a lot of time looking for the damn book and then discovered that Dylan had an exclusive copy,” You rolled your eyes at the memory, crossing your legs to get comfortable. “But it was worth it. It's been a while since I read Not Much Ado About Nothing.”

“Oh, Shakespeare.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I thought you always found him quite boring.”

“I still do,” The comment made him smile more openly. 

All of that calm atmosphere brought some sort of comfort, but you were still sitting on the edge of the chair, circling the elephant in the room while sipping on your coffee. After a moment, when he just took a deep breath and clearly left the ball in your room, you stared at your pants for a moment, thinking of a better way to start the topic. 

“I won't ask what happened that night,” You started, having quite bitter flashes of the restaurant, the stares, even the pity from the waiter. 

“You should.”

“Maybe, but I still prefer not to. What happened in your life isn’t my problem.” 

He nodded. You knew that because when you raised your head, he was observing you quietly. 

“I'm not with her anymore.” 

It was strange that, for Jonathan, this was the most convenient thing to say, as if he had to give you an explanation of that, specifically. You took in the information with tight lips, brushing your fingertips on the coffee cup in your lap.

“... Mm.”

“But I shouldn't have been with her at that time,” He confessed. “I still loved her or thought I did, I don't know. There was just a lot going on at once and so we… That was the last time. With her.”

Again, you took the information, letting it flow in your insides. In fact, you were right to listen to any argument from him in the past. If he told you that back then, that night, the story would be more than something to forget and maybe you two wouldn’t even have that conversation.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because it may not seem like it, but two years can give someone a lot of maturity,” A pause. “And you were always very firm in knowing what you wanted to deal with and what you didn't. When you decided you didn't want to hear about my shit, I realized that I didn't care about you as much as I should have. This was something you didn't deserve and I know that if you still have your reluctance towards me, I shouldn't force it.” 

It didn't seem rehearsed, but thought out – there was a difference. It was thought of as a class he was teaching, as a subject he was aware of and just said, in an automatic, reflected thought. You used to have mixed feelings when he spoke to you like that before, and this time you realized it was no different. He wasn't patronizing you, but he wasn't being completely emotional either, which could be slightly incoherent for someone who was speaking his mind. You accepted anyway, because before you didn't have something very solid, not enough for such expectations, and this time the relationship was even less close.

“... Makes sense,” You all but nodded, taking another sip on your coffee. “Quite relieved that you gave it some thought.”

“I did. I care about that now.” 

Whatever he meant, whatever his ‘care’ should mean at the moment, you waved off with rationality. Jonathan just didn’t want to feel even more bad about what happened, if he had hurt you – a young, naive woman. It could do things to him, a father, who wouldn’t want his daughter to face what you might've faced. Like fixing his early mistakes to have a word on the future, if necessary. 

“Better late than never, right?” He tried after a beat. 

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?”

“Nn-nn. I didn’t come here expecting you to put the same meaning on it as me.”

“And what was your meaning?”

The question made you squirm in your seat, just a little, just enough to notice that he knew you would react somehow. Still, you played it cool: shrugged, looked around. 

“You were the hot professor coming off a messy divorce, Jonathan,” You said with a scoff. “That's basically the ideal guy recipe for any frustrated girl.”

“I never thought you were frustrated.”

“But you saw something,” With raised eyebrows, you said it for sure, a truth he would try to hide with kind words and a sense of regret. “You loved Mira and I never asked you to stop doing that. And you remember, don't you? When we kissed for the first time? I told you that you should only keep going if you were sure and you did it. You still smiled and said you wanted to do it the right way, take me to dinner and be a gentleman. The impression I got after that night was that you needed more time to fuck your ex again and make sure we weren't going to work out.” 

It came out so naturally, tho, like you just organized all of the thoughts and insecurities and expectations you always had when it happened, that Jonathan just stared at you without a reaction, as if it was all new to him. Maybe it was. You labored such a huge crush on him back in the day, he was always more smart, more charming, more polite, more pretty – no one could even come close to what you created of him. And when he came to that restaurant smelling like a woman, smelling like Mira, you knew that Jonathan, the sexy professor with kind smiles and a toe curling kiss, was just a pathetic immature projection of a good man for you, one that you could invest in. 

He just considered it as if he were giving something a bain-marie, calmly melting it so that it was right, warm but not hot. You stared back at him, expressionless and calm. 

“This sounds more like frustration,” His voice came out, low and ashamed. 

“Wouldn’t you say.”

Jonathan nodded, looking around his desk as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“... I'm only here because I knew what I was getting myself into. My naivety was to trust that you, at that moment, could lead to a fruitful relationship. It was the wrong time and yeah, okay, it happens. Everyone has one of these.” 

“You still didn't want to talk to me about it.”

“Because the first thing you said when you saw me here was that I should be in Boston, like I was a fucking plague.” 

“I didn’t mean that.”

“But implied. You looked like you just saw a ghost.”

“I was surprised.”

“... Really?” You sighed, brows raised in disbelief. He rolled his eyes at the teasing, but complied anyway. 

“Shocked.” 

“Yeah, that makes more sense.” 

“Still.”

“Mm.”

“You’re just as pretty as you were two years ago,” The sudden comment made you stop mid-sip, staring blankly at him at the admission. 

“I know,” You said casually, taking a full sip then and seeing him smile. 

“One of these days we can have a coffee together. You still haven't told me what it was like in London,” He changed the subject subtly. 

“I can tell you what it was like right now.”

“Can you.”

“It was nice.”

“Cold.”

“So cold,” You nodded. “Lots of smart people.”

“I could have guessed.”

“And good pubs with good beers.”

“Mm.”

“Simple like that.”

“I'm sure you have more details that you won't remember now.”

“Is it like a test? I have to study and say what satisfies you?”

“You're not a student anymore, I wouldn't do that. If it can make you say yes, though…”

“Oh no, it would make me say a huge no.”

“So tell me what would change your mind. I can work something out.” 

He wasn't serious, was he? You literally said he was toxic and there he was, inviting you to coffee as if none of the conversation had happened. This made you shake your head negatively with an incredulous smile, looking around once again as if the answer was there, among the bookshelves and other things in his office.

“Well, if I remember correctly, you owe me a bottle of wine,” You said with nonchalance, getting up from your seat and groaning a little in the process. “Chilean. Camembert.”

He didn't respond to that either, perhaps because he knew it wasn't an invitation, but the opposite: a reminder that despite your willingness to set the record straight, it didn't mean you wanted to be friends. Because defining and being friends were different things and you were always very diligent to imply things in a confusing way. That wasn't in your words, nor in your tone; it was in the way you stood up and dismissed any chance that he might use the time as an opening for charm, a chance for reconciliation that probably had to do with your connections at Columbia and the effects that circumstance might have on his position. 

You went there to reaffirm that and only that. That you wouldn't be an obstacle, that he shouldn't be an obstacle, and that you had a bottle of Chilean wine from two years ago that hadn't been paid for from the right person.

Because the least he could have done when he showed up on a date he invited you to with another woman's perfume, smelling like another woman's sex, was pay for the damn bottle of wine.

****

The bottle of wine appeared on your table in a discreet brown package, with no indication of its contents. There was no note, or anything written, just the glass, the label and the drink itself. You didn't smile at that. If anything, you took the bottle to a dinner you had at Rahul's house later that day, and when he asked, you just said you couldn't drink it all alone at home.

None of your friends drank alcohol that night. The empty bottle was in Rahul's recycling bin the next morning.

****

The truth, raw and honest, was that Jonathan was a visibly pathetic but attractive man. It was notable, whether in classes or at conferences, that even though he hid himself in department store-looking clothes, with a very disheveled look, Jonathan caught the attention of students, colleagues and people in general. This look probably only increased others' interest in him.

He walked with the confidence of any university professor in that age group, hiding in the personality of a father, an academic, who aroused curiosity, which whether or not it was a full plate for women with daddy issues or a sense of salvation.

Yes, then, he was fucking attractive.

You were never alone in the same place, at least not after the conversation in his office. What you had of Jonathan were these little pieces, fragments of his figure walking around campus and hallways, almost always distracted by something or just determined to get somewhere. He wasn't stupid, nor foolish, because he was aware that that effect made him gain some admirers, but maybe that was enough for you to hold on to these brief moments of Jonathan in your daily life.

He always looked back, in these halls and around campus. Briefly, just like you, with a succinct exchange of glances and a polite nod. Sometimes he would say 'good morning' to you and Rahul, or whoever was with you, and he would always look at you again when no one else was paying attention to him. Little by little, this made you feel that tingling again, the anxious heat of being under the watchful eye of someone for whom you had, even if unconsciously, a growing attraction.

One time he went to the research room because he knew one of your colleagues and, in the middle of a healthy discussion about a research method you were applying, he touched your forearm to get your attention, accompanied by a nod of the head and a 'do you remember when we did this?’. Afterwards, one of the Human Sciences professors invited you to follow a Socratic debate in the class and Jonathan was there, watching you so intently that he hardly turned his face to follow the next person speaking, and soon you started talking looking at him.

He did not approach, as you suggested, but remained in your orbit.

Rahul was along with you when a peculiar interaction took place. The two were mentioning a new methodology for computing grades in the university system and you casually made notes on the subject. Jonathan turned to you and listened to each word with a look that wandered between your mouth, your gesturing hands and your eyes, which always had a roll, a squint or a widening. When he spoke again, you found yourself noticing his serene expression, the fingers that touched the beard just below his lips and how he scratched the right side of his neck every now and then, perhaps because the beard was growing in that area.

It was clear that Rahul had something to say as soon as you dispersed.

“I get it now.”

“Mm?”

“You and Jonathan,” He said with a calm tone, watching you go from confusion to shyness in a second. “This isn’t a judgment.”

“I know.”

“Because it's natural to have unconscious sexual tension between you.” 

You looked at him with raised eyebrows, stopping in your tracks to gather what he just said. 

“... Sexual tension?” 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes at your lack of realization. 

“Let's be honest, in these two years, despite what happened, you never imagined what it would be like with him?”

Rahul should have never opened his mouth to talk about this, because suddenly this hypothetical situation turned into a plague. In the shower, on a boring day, when the Facebook request caught your attention: you caught a glimpse of Jonathan. It wasn't that graphic and you didn't have hot dreams about it, but you knew what it felt like to be touched by him, what the weight and feel of his hands was like, his kiss, and sometimes you found yourself thinking about it.

When you saw him in person, walking around the university, you noticed how he ran his fingers through his hair, how the movement of his legs gave glimpses of the shape of his thighs, how his t-shirts and blouses sometimes missed a detail about his chest and stomach. This got worse when you started having some casual encounters with other guys. You went out with a bartender and when it was all over you realized that he looked a lot like Jonathan and that you spent the whole time in an imaginative world thinking it was him.

Damn, you thought. You couldn't keep your word for even a second.

****

When the inevitable happened, the two of you were alone – thank God. It was like a perfect, clichéd scenario: late at night, you were alone in the research room and he showed up looking for someone who wasn't you.

“I thought you were already home,” He said, looking around before landing his eyes at you, who were standing on the small ladder to return a folder to the filing cabinet.

It was a bad day to wear a skirt. You were sure that your tension at being attracted again, added to the lack of cloth on your legs, made you even more aware of the shiver you felt when you went down the steps and saw him close.

“I wanted to finish an article. I can think better when I'm alone, you know.”

“I know.”

The two of you looked at each other for a few moments and there it was, the tension palpable, the heat rising in your stomach and leaving you a little disconcerted. He got it. He took a step closer and it made you blink, looking away at the desk.

“Everyone left an hour ago, I think. If you're looking for Mr. Jones, he won't be back until Monday,” You said, fidgeting with the papers splayed out on the desk, trying to tidy it all into their respective places. 

His body was there, next to you, almost touching your arm but not quite. You knew he was very close to the heat and the scent, not having the courage to turn your face to see him.

“Is that so?” Jonathan asked, voice low. 

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay.” 

You organized the last stack of papers, took a breath and turned to him in time to see him measure the curvature of your ass against the skirt, as it was slightly inclined. He didn't hide it. In fact, he didn't even hide his observations as he glanced up at the discreet opening of the two buttons on your blouse before stopping at your face. 

His kiss was the same as the one you remembered, but this one had more certainty and heat. When your mouths met, sharing a wet kiss, Jonathan didn't hesitate to grab both of your ass cheeks, grunting when he felt them and squeezing them firmly. A chair was dragged as you let his tongue invade your mouth and soon you felt the edge of the table pressing you, which you understood immediately.

It was fast, almost desperate. You grabbed his hair when you heard the clasp on his belt come undone and you almost broke his glasses when you felt him roughly lift the fabric of his skirt. He didn't even care and you didn't apologize. Jonathan didn't prepare you either because he didn't need to – you were ridiculously wet. It was a firm penetration, which made you gasp against his mouth, without waiting, and soon the two of you were a mess of kisses and moans and whimpers with each aggressive thrust. 

The desk creaked with the force of his hips and, fortunately, it resisted when Jonathan lifted one of your legs to go even deeper, even firmer. You moaned softly, restrainedly, and felt a bite at the junction of your neck and shoulder when he heard you moan his name. Jonathan was big, well endowed. You would feel all that the next day, but at that moment none of it mattered. It was a meeting of unresolved frustrations and aggressive, improvised, urgent sex.

He came inside after making you cum twice; he was hugging you when he did it. You were both panting, his face pressing against your neck as you held his head and hips, staring at the ceiling as you tried to regain your decency. 

You organized yourself in silence, without saying a word. Your panties were sticking, his spent dripping out of your pussy, but if he noticed, he didn't comment. The table hadn't been disorganized, at least, and you had to pull up the sleeves of your shirt with how hot you were feeling. 

“Sorry about it,” You were the first to say something, seeing him eyeing the crooked leg of the glasses carefully.

“It was already like this before, don't worry.”

“... Okay.”

You didn't know what to do with yourself, nor did he. For a moment, you just ran your hands over your skirt, then your mouth, then your hair, unsure whether you should say something or just let him go.

“Are you finished with your work?” Jonathan asked then, making you shake your head. 

“I’m done.”

“I’ll take you home then.”

****

You didn't tell Rahul, but you suspected he knew something as soon as you met on Monday. He didn't say anything, didn't even hint, and you were sure that if he really wanted to know, you would tell him. What you imagined, of course, was that maybe it was just a one-time, unexpected and certainly necessary thing that wouldn't happen again. And that you haven't stopped thinking about it.

God, you wished you could forget, but it was Jonathan and it happened. So, best case scenario, you've moved on, gotten back into the routine.

All the energy this began to drain from you, all this… vivid memory of the sighs of pleasure he let out in your ear, the mark he left on your neck and the grunts he made that night, that you wanted so much before and suddenly happened in an unusual way, you took it out on things in your life. Gym, morning runs, a little yoga, an extra half hour in Dylan's classes to watch him practice fencing, another extracurricular activity that Mr. Hastings made him do. Distractions, in fact, because you didn't want to poke at whatever that intense moment with Jonathan would trigger, even if it was poking you again.

“I get the impression you're trying to avoid me.”

He found you in the middle of an Architecture student exhibition on campus, scaring you while looking at a 3D project of a hospital or something like that. You glared at him, saw that he was focused on the students' desk, and when you looked around, no one was paying attention to the two of you.

“I’m not.” Pfft. Of course. “What gave you that impression?

“After what happened, it's natural for you to avoid me if the sex was bad or if I was an asshole or if, I don't know, any other reason people avoid people after something like that.” 

“I don't know if you really want to know my answer.”

“I do. Tell me.”

You stared at him for a moment, then sighed when he showed no intention to run away from the topic. 

“It wasn't supposed to happen.”

“So you regret it.”

“No, not regret, I just… Does this sound even remotely healthy to you? The two of us suddenly fucking inside a room at this university?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time it ever happened here.”

“I’m serious, Jonathan.”

“Well, I am too. People here are traditional, not puritan. And we are both single people who are evidently attracted to each other,” He reasoned, that same stance of having two hands inside his pants pockets and a neutral expression on his face. 

You considered it with silence, then turned back to the project you weren’t even paying attention to begin with, working more as a way to move on from the topic. 

“The first time you really wanted to take me to dinner,” You mumbled. 

“The difference is that the first time I didn't know what I wanted. I know now.”

“And that do you want now?”

Jonathan approached discreetly, arm lightly touching yours as he also pretended to look at the architectural work in front of you.

“I want to fuck you without rushing.” 

****

Because that was it, just fucking. That's how things went, without the anxiety of seeing him every day, without the passionate hallucinations of what it would be like to have a 'relationship' with him. Jonathan went to your apartment most of the time because of Ava, but in the weeks she spent with Mira, you fucked all over his house: sofa, bed, bathroom, kitchen.

Mira wasn't an issue either because you didn't talk about it. You only asked once and demanded honesty, at least in this regard, and he said that the divorce had been consummated shortly after you went to London. You only knew about the times he spent with Ava because, after a while, the times he came to you were seasonal enough to form a pattern.

He asked about Europe again, with a more curious and attentive look. You said it was cool, actually, and surprising. When you mentioned Charles, he didn't react or make any comment on the matter.

“I heard you're going to try out for a substitute job after spring break.” 

You were leaning against the headboard of his bed when you heard him ask. Jonathan had come out of the bathroom after discarding the condom and was sitting next to you when he appeared with this curiosity.

“From Rahul?”

“Mm-hm.”

That made you shrug. 

“It’s not much.”

“It’s something.”

“Yeah,” You nodded, fidgeting with the sheet covering your legs. “But it's still not much. I will be paid per class and Columbia is very traditional in having consistent professors.”

He didn't answer that, which gave you comfort and relief. You didn't want to talk about work there, at that moment, where any objective had to do with everything except Columbia, except the rich students or the next semester's curriculum.

“Are you going to have to give up Dylan?” That was what he asked, starting to place gentle kisses on your shoulder, up to your neck. You gave him space, hand holding the back of his hair, burying your fingers into his messy curls. 

“Perhaps…” He bit your earlobe, making you sigh. “Why are we talking about it?”

“Mr. Hastings said a lot of nice things about you at that fundraiser.”

“The one you didn't want to go to?”

“Mm-hm…” Jonathan pulled the sheets away from your body, sliding between your now open legs and pressing more kisses on your belly, going lower to give some attention to your thighs. “Did you talk about this? About you leaving Dylan?”

“Vaguely,” You adjusted yourself, already expecting him to go just a little more bold with that closeness of his. 

“He looked quite upset.”

“Jealous?”

It was the first time that someone reached this criterion, which was trivial. You were even smiling when you said that. Well, Jonathan didn't smile. He stuck his head between your legs, made you cum with his mouth and nibbled on your lip as he penetrated your pussy with a long but deep movement.

Of all the meetings, that one was the most full of passion and desire. You left his house completely sweaty and sore. Two days later, when you met again, Jonathan invited you to dinner. You looked at him with an amused expression, not understanding where that was coming from.

“I was a scoundrel, that's all. I want to be able to have the right to be jealous of you without being a complete asshole.” 

That made you smile. Really smile. 

“You know you're going to need more than dinner for this, right?”

“What I know is that I can start with a bottle of wine,” He smirked. “Chilean, Camembert, yeah?” 

[vexic929]

Child in Time

Chapter 2

Warnings: none

Chapter 1: link Next chapter: link

"So let me get this straight," Joe said, leaning forward on the sofa and resting his elbows on his knees as he processed what Barry had told him. The soft glow of the lamp cast a warm light across the room, highlighting the worry etched on Joe's face, and the worn leather of the sofa creaked slightly as Joe shifted his weight. "Somebody - you think you, from the future - dropped off a baby in your lab with no warning and now you think that you need to be the one to take care of him. Tell me again why you can't do the responsible thing and drop him off at a hospital?"

Barry sighed and ran a hand through his hair, exhaustion seeping into his bones. Had he eaten enough? Probably not, he'd been so preoccupied...Joe spoke again before Barry could respond.

"Barr, look. You're barely out of college, you're still figuring your own life out. You're not equipped to take care of a child, especially one with...whatever issues you said this baby has. You haven't even had him for one day and you look dead on your feet, how are you gonna take care of him long-term?" Joe asked and Barry shrugged helplessly.

"Joe, I can't just leave him. I don't know why I brought him here but I know there has to be a reason."

"How do you even know it was you who left him?" Joe countered.

"I left a note-" Barry started but Joe interrupted.

"You know as well as I do that notes can be forged." Joe insisted, his frown deepening.

"Who would forge my handwriting to hand me a baby?" Barry asked incredulously.

"I dunno, Barr, who the hell would give you a baby in the first place? You're not ready to be a dad."

Barry leaned back in his chair tiredly, scrubbing his face. "So, what, I should just let him go into the system?"

"I'm not saying that-" Joe started but the sound of the front door handle twisting interrupted him and they both turned to look as Iris walked through. "Hey baby girl, it's kinda late. Everything okay?" Joe asked after a moment as Barry tried to pretend they'd been talking about anything else.

"I know, I'm sorry, everything's fine, I think I missed packing up a couple of my notebooks and one of them has like all of my notes from Sociology 102," she said, setting her bag and coat down by the door. "What are you two up to?"

Joe shrugged nonchalantly and Barry leaned on the arm of the chair he was sitting in, trying unsuccessfully to look as calm. "Nothing." They each said and Iris pursed her lips, raising an eyebrow in suspicion before heading upstairs to retrieve the notebooks.

Barry let out a heavy sigh and Joe turned to him again, studying him closely. "You sure about this, Barr? This is a hell of a responsibility to take on - and I'm not just talking about the parenting part. I know you're gonna do your damned best and love that kid, I'm not worried about that, but if he has other parents out there you might have to give him up after all this trouble is done."

The thought made Barry's insides twist uncomfortably but he shoved the feeling aside. "I know."

Joe sighed. "Alright, if you're set on this, I'll trust your judgment. Guess we better get things set up, then - in your room, I did enough time dealing with a baby at 2 in the morning."

"Who's dealing with a baby at 2 in the morning?" Iris echoed, entering the hall, notebooks in hand.

Barry's heart ached with the weight of everything he was keeping from her as he scrambled for a good excuse, feeling a bit like all he'd told her lately were lies. "Uh...a friend."

Iris pursed her lips. "Who?" She asked, suspicion evident in her tone.

Barry cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly feeling something like a desert. "Oh, um...a friend from college, you don't know them. They had a...family emergency. I'm just...you know, stepping in."

Iris frowned, clearly not buying it. "Since when do you have friends with babies?"

"Missed a lot in nine months," Barry said, trying to keep his tone light. "It's no big deal, really. Just helping out."

Joe interjected, clapping Barry on the shoulder. "Barry's just doing what he always does, helping people. Right, Barr?"

Barry nodded, grateful for Joe's support, even if it was a bit thin. "Yeah."

Iris studied them both for a long moment, clearly still unconvinced but choosing to let it go as she gathered her bag and coat. "Alright. Well, if you need any help while you're...babysitting, let me know."

Barry smiled, though it felt strained. "Thanks, Iris. I'll keep that in mind."

—

"Well, the blood tests look good," Caitlin said, crossing the room with a stack of papers to show Barry, who was standing and rocking the now sleeping infant idly in the doorway. The med bay was quiet, the soft hum of machines and the scent of antiseptic in the air. Barry peered over her shoulder as she flipped through them. "He isn't deficient in anything, he's even already had some of his immunizations. He's perfectly healthy, at least physically."

Barry breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down at the baby who had smushed his face into Barry's shoulder, his tiny fists gripping his T-shirt tightly. He stroked the soft wisps of hair gently almost on instinct and Eo let out a tiny sigh before burrowing further into his shirt.

"Good. Did you test...I mean...can we see if he's mine?" Barry asked hesitantly.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know and he was pretty sure that Dr. Wells wouldn't like that he'd even asked - something about Barry not becoming attached or learning too much that could alter the timeline. But Barry needed to know at least that much, he couldn't stand not knowing, especially if it turned out Eo was his.

Caitlin nodded, setting the papers aside and crossing to the computer. "I did test and...while he is not a match for you, he did match someone else."

Caitlin pressed a button and Eddie Thawne's photo appeared on the screen. Barry felt his heart drop.

"So...Eddie's his father?" Barry asked and Caitlin shrugged.

"He's definitely related to Eddie but the results aren't clear on how close. Eo does look a lot like him, though." She commented and Barry looked down at the sleeping baby again.

He really did, if Barry was honest, he could easily imagine Eddie looking similar when he was the same age. Barry felt a surge of emotions run through him that he wasn't sure he could identify. It was a good thing, maybe, that Eo wasn't actually Barry's child...right? And, it made sense - Eddie and Iris were already on the fast track to starting their life together. Though his head spun and he felt faintly nauseous as he wondered what could have happened to Eddie and Iris if Barry was now Eo's guardian?

"Barry?" Caitlin's soft voice cut through his thoughts before they could spiral further. "You okay?"

Barry blinked and adjusted the baby in his arms. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just a lot to process, you know?" He said, forcing a smile.

Caitlin smiled in sympathy and crossed the room again to lay a hand on his arm comfortingly. "I know. This is a lot to take in, but you're not alone. We'll figure this out together."

As Barry set up a nursery in Joe's house and finally settled Eo in for the night, he couldn't help but feel a sudden, overwhelming sense of uncertainty for the future. Granted, everything had been a bit uncertain as of late, but as he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the crib where Eo slept soundly, Barry felt a pit in his stomach. He knew Joe was right - this was a monumental responsibility, one he wasn't entirely sure he was ready for.

Barry leaned back, rubbing his eyes and trying to clear his thoughts. The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors. Joe's house had always been a place of comfort for Barry, a sanctuary where he felt loved. Now, it was also Eo's sanctuary, a place where another little boy could find safety, maybe a family.

Barry sat there a moment longer, letting the quiet seep into his bones, before changing into pajamas and climbing into bed, exhaustion pulling him under before his head had even hit the pillow.

[skitskatdacat63]

Mark Alan, Count of Queanbeyan

+ explanation & lore

Okay first I'll explain the drawing itself, and then go into Mark's lore a bit, so stay with me!!!

First of all, yep. Mark with long hair. When I first conceptualized how he'd look in this au, I just genuinely could not imagine him with the typical long curly wig. And that irked me, bcs its just sooooooo historically inaccurate for him to have had short hair, no wig. I sketched him and Jense out as chibis, I drew Mark with short hair, and literally wrote "haha wow he looks so bad with long hair!!" Hello, can I take back that statement? It's actually shocking how good he looks???? Maybe it's a testament to my skill that I could make this work. But I did! And man, shameful to admit, but this might be my best portrait ever 😭😭 Funny tho, guy I've barely drawn, and never as detailed as this, ends up being one of my favs. Mark, you bastard!!

^ lmao as you can see, I tried out a more Seb type wig and then realized ahhhhh nah, he needs a different style. And it worked so, yay!!! I've thought a lot recently, "man it would suck back then if you looked shitty in a wig" and I rescind that. I'm telling you, you think a man would look bad in a wig? I say think again, you're just not conceptualizing the right type of wig for him.

Also wow, its crazy thst I can finally actually visually see what he would look like next to others like Seb and Fernando in this au. Hehehe look at them!!! The boys!!!! Just need Jense :,)

Anyways, I digress, some lore notes about Mark since I don't think I've really talked about him in this au on main much.

He is, of course, Seb's closest servant. His Groom of the Bedchamber(yes that term makes me feel rabid.) He's actually also based on a real guy, whom was described as the Emperor's "favorite" and despite not technically having very important positions, he had a lot of influence because of his closeness and connection with the Emperor. So, yeah, I think that's gives a pretty good pic of Mark in this au :)

He's actually pretty satisfied with his role, but he does feel a bitter and jealous when interacting with others like Jenson and Fernando. Because Mark doesn't have a title, well not in the same way. He's a count, not a King, not a Prince. Yes he's nobility, but not in the same way. And he's satisfied being under Seb, because that's what Mark was raised to do, take care of and keep Seb in line. But often realizes he's never going to be on par with him, not in the same way Fernando can, even if he's Seb's closest confidant.

To build on that. He's very satisfied with his role, and even continues to be satisfied when Fernando comes into the picture. Fernando and Seb don't get along, Mark is always going to be the closest to Seb, always going to know him the best, take care of him the best. But he realizes, he would never get to marry Seb, he's not ranked high enough for that. He was raised to do what's best for the Emperor, he's never going to be able to compete with Seb the same way Fernando can. He really wants Seb and Fernando to succeed! To grow closer! But it still really hurts sometimes.

His closest friend, other than Seb, is Jenson of course(and eventually Fernando, after they stop growling at each other like they're Seb's dogs.) But he does get bitter about Jenson sometimes. Jenson is a prince, who had some great performances in battle. But eventually got tired of that lifestyle, and "retired" to being part of Seb's court. Mark can't really understand that. How do you throw that level of prestige and freedom away. How do you just become the Emperor's servant, when that was never what you were born for. But also, I think Jense definitely uplifts him, they just get along so well, and Jense truly cares for him, no other motives :)

LOL sorry I realize how depressing this sounds 😭 I think all of the above is just Mark at his most bitter, but he's genuinely pretty happy. Think of the whole "not bad for a number 2 driver thing", that's him in this AU. He knows his station, and god damn it, he's gonna be the best, most loyal groom there ever was!! He just cares for Seb so deeply, and it truly is his life path to serve him. Seb cares for him too, feels like he can always rely on him and always be reassured by him and his eternal presence in Seb's life. It's nice to have someone you can always fall back on. Sometimes literally. Yes he makes Mark carry him to bed.

Not to stray away from just Mark, but aaaaahhh the Martian in this AU. Just Mark having to put up with Seb's brattiness all the time, and care for him all the time :) He's so tired of catching Seb naked tho...Seb please put clothes on, this is not befitting of your station. Seb takes Mark with him everywhere, and they share the same bed on trips. Mark is always the first Seb goes to to ask his opinion. I said earlier that Mark feels like he cannot challenge Seb in the same way Fernando can, but Seb really wants him to honestly! He loves hearing Mark's thoughts and opinions. Mark is widely known as Seb's favorite, and is often seen as the second authority in the palace and in the court.

As for Webbonso? I think they really dislike each other in the beginning just because the roles that they're in. They both feel like they're pitted against each other, and ir doesn't help that Seb loves to tease them and often favor one in front of the other(he later realizes how shitty this is, and tries to rectify it, because he never intended to make them actually jealous, he just loves being bratty.) Eventually they realize they're in extremely similar situations(both beholden to and stuck eternally with the Emperor), and find comfort in each other in that.

Yep that's right...the palace is honestly one big polycule djkfkglg. But I hope thay explains Mark in this AU well enougg???? All you need to know: Seb's long-suffering servant.

[knbposting]

AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH @maybeanalienwhoknows is so fantastic at leaving ao3 comments and something they said just now made me SOOOO GRGRGHDSJDJJJDSJHSJHD about KAGAMI and his stupid awful attachment style.

ok. so daiki comes from a secure familial background. he has never doubted that his parents love him, he is reminded that they do constantly, and he does not believe that he has to do anything special in order to earn their love. daiki believes that they would love him even if he wasn't a basketball prodigy, or if he went pro, or whatever. they love him conditionally. therefore, he's immature about responsibilities and regularly acts up around the people he loves. he ditches people, he shirks chores, and he genuinely does not care about annoying or bothering people.

taiga comes from a household where everything is numerical. his dad's involvement in school was always through report cards and occasional parent/teacher meetings. he never knew taiga's favourite classes, he never realised what his favourite hobbies are. once he realises that basketball is distracting him from study, he accepts a contract in japan and fixes to move there. when that contract falls through, he tells taiga to go and live there. by himself. to be away from basketball. his one, favourite thing. but growing up, taiga found that he'd get the best positive attention from his father when he was quiet, and sat still, and didn't talk during those awful work parties he would get dragged to. taiga learned to do what he was told to win approval.

the way this translates from familial love, to the romantic kind, is in love as a perishable item.

especially as they're just teenagers in love, daiki's understanding of love and relationships is pretty literal. he knows taiga wouldn't do anything that he didn't want to, or if he did, that taiga would be accidentally very obvious that he didn't want to do it. he wouldn't kiss him if he didn't want to, for instance, because that's usually spur of the moment and catches daiki off-guard. taiga cannot lie about how he feels. daiki can tell that he's secured his affections. so he trusts that they'll remain.

taiga, on the other hand, has been raised to believe that he is loveable for as long as he is useful. for as long as he's serving a purpose. he has said, in canon, that his life is no more important than a cheeseburger's, and I KNOW it was a gag, but i don't care. daiki never said that. kise never said that seirin reacted in shock and horror at the thought of it! anyway, taiga cannot believe that someone as unimportant as himself would be able to leave a mark that mattered. he is determined to shake the pro basketball world, but in terms of relationships and friendships, he is a come and go kind of guy. like when he doesn't say goodbye to seirin before just LEAVING before the winter cup. that was insane. he just... didn't say anything to them.

daiki, coming from a secure and loving background, is more inclined to take people at their word in relationships. he's literal. taiga will say "i think we'll be with each other when we're old," and "i love you sooo much, you big stupid idiot," and daiki is like. yeah. done deal. obviously that's happening.

whereas taiga can say all of that, mean it, but the second that something else happens that requires him to focus (like joining the nba), he can detach himself. oh, it'll hurt, but he thinks that it's a hurt that he alone will have to shoulder. he cannot imagine meaning enough to someone that he could ever break anyone's heart. like daiki's. also this fucking GUY keeps breaking daiki's heart afterward, too, by being way too casual and wanting to be friends and UGH i hate him for this. it's seriously shitty, and he doesn't mean to do it. it's the same vein as his dad calling him at 2am japan time, and then not hanging up when taiga says he's sleepy. i'm serious. it's definitely something that i can see him working through if he went to therapy but HAHAHAJSHDJHSDJH DO YOU REALLY THINK TAIGA IS DOING THAT?? LMFAOOOOOOO

[welcometothelairofthebitchking]

Why it's funny to me that people give Way sooo much shit but think Charlie is the best thing that ever happened to Babe:

Okay so first of all, I am NOT a Way apologist. That boy is crazy and sick in the head and a very deep shade of red when it comes to red flags, but the thing is? Charlie isn't that much better?? Im not even talking about the 'Charlie faked his death and it hurt babe' part. I don't even really care about that. I'm talking about up to episode 8. Because at least up until the moment that Way snapped and tried to actually r*pe babe, the things he and charlie were doing weren't that different. 'Oh but Way used his powers on Babe and brainwashed him and controlled his whole life.' Exactly. Way used the privilege Babe gave him to get close to him whenever he wanted, to put his hand on his shoulder, and use his power on him to steer things in the direction he wanted. Each time Babe thought his best friend was being affectionate, he was actually being abused in the worst way possible. Babe trusted him with his love and the power to come close and touch his body whenever he wanted, and Way took advantage of it.

And you know who else did that? Charlie did. He did the exact same thing. Actually, I can even take the paragraph above and replace the words:

Charlie used the privilege Babe gave him (long term sexual contant never shared anyone else, cuddling in the bed and touching throughout the night, the kiss oh my god the kiss) to get close to him whenever he wanted, to put his hands on his body, and use his power on him (aborbe everything) to steer things in the direction he wanted (the grand plan, am I right? The one him and Jeff worked soooooo hard on). Each time Babe thought his sex buddy/lover was being affectionate, he was actually being abused in the worst way possible. Babe trusted him with the power to come close and touch his body whenever he wanted, and Charlie took advantage of it.

'But he did it to protect Babe'. That does not matter. Babe isn't a child. Charlie doesn't get to decide to protect him without asking his opinion. Babe is an adult. He can make his own choices. Moreover, his senses have been with him all his life. They shape his whole identity and who he is. Actually, given his fucked up childhood and how he was raised, given that his whole career and number 1 'identity' depend on them (because it wasn't just a number 1 spot, it was who he was. Pit babe always wins. Pit babe won't be pit babe if he loses.), Babe probably thought most of his worth comes from his senses. He said that once, that he's not sure he'd be worthy if he doesn't have his senses (and here the point isn't that he would be worthy, it's that HE thinka that)

And charlie just comes and? Decides to take them? Decides to take the whole identity of someone he 'loves' in order to 'protect' them without giving them a choice or even explanation?? That's fucked up. When I got to that point of the series, I legit thought this is a kind of r@pe, and worse than the sexual kind.

So the thing is, what he did was fucked up. It doesn't matter what his motivation was. I'm sure that Way too actually thought r@ping Babe and putting a baby inside him by force is the best way for both of them too. Which, obviously, bonkers, but my point is that your intentions don't cancel out the harm.

Everyone in this show treat Babe as some sort of object or kid that doesn't know what is good for him. No one gives him a choice while it's literally HIS life. They just come in and use him and his trust. They just manipulate him and lie to him, and no one considers how much that would HURT.

And you know what the real difference between Way and Charlie is? Obv. That charlie is 'selfless' and does everything for babe rather than the sake of his own desires/safety, but I assure you a writer can twist that. I can easily write the same situations and characters (up until chapter 8), and this time make charlie the red flag. In a case like this, the real difference is the way the narrative guides you and your emotions along, and the most important part in that is Babe himself. It's about who babe chooses to forgive. Who he decides to stay with despite the hurt. It's not about choosing between a saint and a red flag, but choosing between two people who have hurt you. And you choose the one who you love so much, you would keep hurting for.

And that's the beauty of it. Despite what this might come off as, I'm not a charlie hater. Not at all. I like him and babe together actually. I like Way too. And I love all of them because they are incredibly fucked up people trying to do what they think is right and I find the struggle interesting. My point is that, we are too fixated on finding a green flag and a red flag and choosing between them, when in situations like this, when all characters have been through hell, there will be no green flag. You can't rip a person apart and then bitch about them being red like blood can be any other color.

My point in making this wasn't to say charliebabe is abusive or toxic. It can be at points, but my point isn't that. What I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't fall into the trick of the narrative. You shouldn't decide a person is good and saint like just because their intentions were good or because they're the one the protegonist choses. You shouldn't ignore the hurt they do. The show moved sooooo fast from what was the biggest betrayal to me and I don't see anyone talking about it, simply because Babe decided to forgive and forget and the narrative pretended everything was perfect with a mama joke and a hug