#their hoodies; they actually have different cuts to reflect their personalities

[polarisbear]

i have a whole prsk bocchi the rock au in my head. like. you could put nightcord there and it would work 100% like you can’t tell me bocchi and kanade aren’t the same character design.

this also leads to the funniest position swap where mafuyu is ryo and ena is kita. which. hqkahsksh the idea of ena fawning over mafuyu’s transmasc swag is extremely funny and vaguely out of character. though nightcord say mafuyu is pretty a lot so i don’t know

[myseungsunglove]

Love without words | Ksm

Pairing: Seungmin x Reader

Warnings: angst, smut, fluff (specific warnings under the cut)

Word Count: 2.6k

𖠫Summary: There is nothing quite like a night with Seungmin to erase all need for words between you.

✎A/N✎: I hadn’t really intended to pair this concept with Seungmin’s accident, but it seemed a good entry into a more intimate moment. There isn’t really any talk or speculation about the accident itself, just the minor aftermath of emotions that lead to the reader comforting Seungmin on his birthday. Just a soft series of moments that lead to a healing experience for both of them. Please understand this in no way reflects any actual events, obviously. Just felt like I needed to mention that in case anyone gets any ideas.

This is probably one of my favorite pieces I have ever written. So I really hope you guys enjoy it.

◠ ◡ ◠᭚ιαᵕ̈

「© October 13, 2023 by mysweethannie」

✘MDNI✘

smut warnings: unprotected sex, soft & intimate

Generally speaking, you aren’t a particularly loud person. So it came as no surprise to Seungmin that when you reach high levels of pleasure with him, all words escape you. You aren’t really one to scream out in ecstasy either. Instead, it’s like someone has stolen away your ability to utter a sound. You are reduced to breathy sighs and airy whispers that vaguely sound like Seungmin’s name. Not to say that Seungmin can’t make you vocal, but during the more intimate moments and less dominating encounters, quiet passion is your default. Your mind, body, and soul seem to melt into Seungmin. You feel as though you quite literally become one. Every touch and movement of your bodies, no matter how big or small, are all you need to express your deepest feelings for each other.

Seungmin is much like you in that regard. He isn’t all that vocal during your most intimate moments either. The two of you are so much alike in some ways it seems unreal at times. In matters of the bedroom, the two of you are generally much more quiet than a “normal” couple which makes for some really intense moments shared between you.

Tonight is going to be one of those nights.

It is Seungmin’s birthday. He was recently in a minor accident that left him with muscle soreness and a few scrapes and bruises, but no major injuries. Even without major injuries, doctors insisted that he cancel his schedule for the upcoming week and rest to practice the utmost precaution. This means no New York and no birthday celebration with STAYs. You had planned an elaborate evening in New York to celebrate his birthday outside of his schedule for the festival. To say that he was disappointed to be sidelined for his birthday weekend would be a major understatement.

“You could have gone with them,” he laments, his voice low and pouty as he stares out the window. It is a gloomy, rainy day which fits the somber mood. Seungmin is tucked into himself on the couch, his knees up close to his chest, a soft wool blanket draped over his legs, bundled up in an oversized navy blue hoodie and clasping a cup of tea with both hands.

“Seung,” you sigh from your place in the kitchen, as you clean up the birthday breakfast you surprised him with. “I wouldn’t have left you on your birthday, no matter how much you insist that you’re okay,” you say, wiping your hands with a dish towel and folding it back properly to lay it over the handle of the oven door. You turn and face him to see he is still looking out the window.

“You may be physically okay,” you hedge, your face revealing you aren’t entirely sure of that statement. He had slept nearly 15 hours the night after the accident and that was after he had slept most of the day that followed the accident as well. So despite his insistence that he was fine, his body seemed to have a different opinion than his brain.

You reach out and grab his chin, slowly turning his gaze up to you.

“But I know you are devastated that you aren’t in New York,” you tell him, your words soft and your eyes caring as you meet his gaze.

“Please don’t pity me, jagia,” he grumbles, trying to pull away from you, his jaw set in frustration, his eyes determined.

You step onto the couch then, your legs crossing in front of you as you sit down in front of Seungmin, one of his legs moving to dangle off the edge of the couch. This leaves room for you to lean into his space and grab both sides of his face with your small, delicate hands and slowly pull his lips to yours.

He groans softly against your mouth. It’s only when he grunts briefly, the sound a little different than usual, that you realize you have partially sat on his leg, which he had felt the most soreness in since the accident.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, pulling away from the kiss. “I’m so sorry, babe,” you say in panic as you move to scramble off of his leg. At some point, Seungmin had set down his tea and his hands were gripping your waist. He held you in place, not allowing you to get away from him. When you look at his face, his eyes are closed and he is gently shaking his head.

“Stay,” he breathes, and if you hadn’t seen his lips move, you may not have heard the next word. “Please.”

“Seungmin,” you whisper, your hands finding purchase in his black hair, your fingers dancing along the nape of his neck as your lips crash together once more. This kiss is more desperate and full of longing as he moves to hover over you, breaking the kiss momentarily as you fall onto the couch, your back resting against the soft cushions, Seungmin’s large hands still firmly planted on your hips, but slowly moving up your torso as he kisses you.

Once settled, he pulls away and looks into your eyes, his walnut colored boba eyes round and dark with desire.

“Happy Birthday, Seungie,” you smile up at him, grasping the bottom of your shirt and pulling it over your head, to reveal your bare chest to him. Without a word, he scrambles off the couch, grabbing your hand and pulling you to a standing position. You don’t have to ask where you are going as he drags you out of the living room.

He leads you down the hallway and into your shared bedroom. Once you cross the threshold of the room, he pulls you ahead of him and guides you to the foot of the bed. The back of your knees hit the mattress at the same moment Seungmin’s lips find yours again, his tongue tangling with yours, eliciting a soft sigh that is expressed more through the rise and fall of your chest than an audible sound.

You grapple with the hem of his hoodie, pulling it and the t-shirt beneath it over his head as he lifts his arms with a small groan, your lips forced to part from his momentarily.

You kiss him quickly and then bend over to rid yourself of your shorts. As you stand, your eyes meet his and he blinks slowly, his eyes roving your body like it is the first time he has ever seen you naked. His pale, broad chest rises slightly with a sigh, his tongue darting out between his lips as he drinks you in.

You move then, crawling onto the bed and coming to rest on the mountain of pillows piled against the headboard, resting on your elbows as you watch him. Seungmin sheds his sweatpants and crawls onto the bed to join you, his body coming to rest on top of yours. He fits perfectly between your legs.

You cradle his face again, looking into his eyes. He holds your gaze long enough for you to know that no words are needed. He needs comfort and right now you need him. You will give him anything in the world to take away the sadness in his eyes. He bends down to kiss you slowly, your chests pressed together and he can’t help but cant his hips against yours as your tongue slips into his mouth, tasting every corner it touches.

Your hands wrap around to the back of his head, your fingers dancing along the now longer strands of hair that are there. His lips leave yours and start a trail along your jaw and down your neck as his now fully hard cock slides through your wet folds. Your hips buck up to meet his movements, your mouth hanging open as you breathe heavily, a reaction to the movement of his lips and hips.

Just when you think you can’t take his teasing anymore, Seungmin retreats from his attention to your neck and grabs his dick in hand, lining it up with your entrance. His eyes watch intently as the thick head of his cock breeches you, your body arching in response, a desperate attempt to draw him deeper into you.

He leans into you, getting the hint that comes without words that you need him. His lips meet yours as he pushes all the way into you, the sweet stretch of his long, hard member pulling a quiet, desperate sigh from your lungs, the smallest hint of a moan present but barely perceptible as his hips finally meet your pelvis. He doesn’t move for what feels like minutes as he kisses you, long and hard, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth.

It’s not until you bite his bottom lip at the same moment that your hips buck into his, that he realizes he hasn’t moved. He slowly pulls out of you and slides back in with ease, your body following the rhythm he sets. You move slowly like that for a time, the tip of his cock reaching that spongey pleasure spot inside of you as you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him impossibly closer to you.

His hands drift up from your waist and fully encompass your breast as he leans back and pulls his hips away from yours and quickly snaps them back. You can feel his heavy balls slapping against your ass as his movements quicken.

Wanting to take care of Seungmin, you press your hands against his chest that is now glistening with sweat, and push him back so that your positions are switched. He slips out of you, but you are quick to scramble back on top of him, grabbing his cock and lining it back up with you and sliding down onto it, until he is fully inside you once more. Your hands rest on his chest as you take a deep breath. Seungmin’s long fingers are digging into your thighs, his eyes shut tight, his lips closed tightly as he forces himself to breathe through his nose.

You move then, your hips rocking against his, your clit rubbing against his pelvis as his cock moves against your walls. His hands dance up your sides, sending shivers down your spine and causing goosebumps to break out across your skin. You’re hot and cold all at the same time. Both of his large hands grasp your breasts and you lay your small hands on top of his, encouraging his movements as your fingers interlace with his, kneading your soft, ample breasts together.

“Y/n,” Seungmin whispers.

The sensation of his hands on your body and the whisper of your name on his lips causes you to be filled with need. You begin bouncing on his cock, the smack of skin the only sound to be heard in the otherwise quiet room. If you listen closely, you can hear the rain pelting against the window outside.

You feel that familiar coil start to tighten in your gut, your movements becoming more desperate and you clench hard around Seungmin’s cock as you chase your high. No words are necessary for him to understand that you are close so he sits up, his arms sliding around your waist and up your back, pressing your chests firmly together as you ride him fast and hard.

He kisses you fiercely and lifts you at the same moment, your back once again on the bed as he moves relentlessly inside you. Suddenly you aren’t the only one chasing that sweet release.

His hips meet yours with punctuated precision, the need to feel even closer to you growing by the second.

“Seungmin,” you whisper, the quiet signal that you’re close to letting go.

His eyes meet yours and his hips slow, languid and purposeful as he dips down to connect his lips to yours. His tongue slides against yours and that is all it takes for you to explode around him, your walls fluttering frantically and your legs spasming uncontrollably. A small gasp escapes you, your head falling against the pillow, your mouth hung open in a silent cry of pleasure. Seungmin works you through your release, watching you intently as you gasp for air. As your walls’ euphoric contractions dissipate, Seungmin finds his release, burying his face in the dip of your neck, his teeth nipping lightly as he spills into you.

This action prolongs your dissipating orgasim, your hands finding purchase in Seungmin’s soft locks as your bodies quake together.

Seungmin slumps against you, spent. The energy of your releases now gone, your chests both heave against each other, your heavy breathing the only sound to be heard for several long minutes.

As your heart rates slow, Seungmin’s lip travel along the column of your neck and up along your chin. You moan weakly at his feather light kisses before his lips find their home against yours. You smile against his mouth as you hold his face to yours.

“I love you so damn much,” he mumbles against your lips. He slips out of you slowly, earning a whine from you at both the loss of contact and the loss of him. You reach out to him with grabby hands, beckoning him to return to you.

He smiles at you fondly, chuckling quietly. He reaches out and grabs one of your hands, pulling you up and to the edge of the bed.

“Shower first, then cuddle.”

You spring into action and move together to the bathroom to clean up. You're hot and sticky with sweat, so a shower is a pretty wise decision.

With the goal of cuddling in mind, it doesn’t take long to clean up, eager to climb back in bed with Seungmin.

After you dry off, you drop the soft towel and lift the comforter crawling underneath its warmth, closing it quickly and snuggling in. Seungmin takes your towels into the bathroom to hang, and returns naked, a soft sigh leaving your body at the magnificent sight of him. He too lifts the comforter, climbing in after you, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling your back in close against his body.

“I love you, you know,” you say, turning your face so that you can see his eyes.

“I know,” he says with a slow blink and a small smile.

You turn in his arms and kiss him slowly.

“Happy Birthday, Seungie,” you whisper against his lips. “There is nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.”

He hugs you tighter and kisses your temple softly.

“Me too, love.”

He snuggles into you and you both fall asleep this way, thoughts of the accident and the New York trip the farthest things from your love drunk minds.

It doesn’t matter where you are with Kim Seungmin, as long as you are together, all you’ll ever need is him.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

for the 5 sentence fic game - malex (Max/Alex), forgiveness? if it's not too out of ur depth :3

ok this was such a good prompt that i bust past 5 sentences and just kept going. so…here we go:

————

Forgiveness

a max/alex drabble, rated g

When Max meets Alex again, it’s a crisp autumn day — the kind where the leaves curl in on themselves, as if holding a secret. What secret, Max doesn’t know, but he has never really been in the habit of keeping many secrets.

The park is not where he expects to see Alex. But that’s the thing about parks. They’re a central nervous system for cities. City planners used to design with this in mind, before cars took over. Max remembers this fact from an encyclopaedia that he used to read, under blanket with a torchlight, when he still had the time to, during karting.

And now, Alex is in the park. Alex is older. Hair the same, if longer than it used to be in their F1 days. Face clean-shaven, but sharper in the cut of his jaw. Eyes, still creasing upwards when he sees a thing he likes.

As it turns out, Alex smiled a lot more when he left Red Bull. His smile practically a quantum force of its own when he finally won a GP.

And as it turns out, to his surprise, Max may be one of the things Alex also likes.

“Is that really you?” Alex exclaims, hands tucked in his pockets, wool scarf loose on his neck. Max feels somehow underdressed in his nondescript hoodie. Being a five time world champion, even over a decade later, meant people would stop you for photos.

“It’s me, mate.”

Alex makes a noise that seems like delight. They do the bro hug, and he animatedly explains that Lily is in Shanghai for a project involving augmented reality home golfing that is run through a mobile phone holoprojector. He rambles a little bit about weather — which for some reason the English still are obsessed with — and Alex asks whether Monaco has changed much (Max tells him it hasn’t).

“Are you heading up to Milton Keynes?” Alex says.

There is no loadedness behind the question. Max has only been back to Milton Keynes for Redline work since he retired.

One thing about Alex is that he was always carefully guarded when he needed to be. But Max never found him truly capable of ill intent.

“No,” Mad says. “I’m actually here because Pen has a thing about horses now. I have a break from touring stables and such.”

“Horses! Ah! There’s this great place down by Richmond, the owner’s an old classmate of mine. Let me pass it to you.”

Classic Alex. Always trying to help out, be nice, create a connection. So Max grabs his phone from his pocket, and lets Alex fuss around with it.

So the task is done, and there isn’t much to do now but move on. That is what Max has done well. Move on, in a way that he knows how, eking out a place for himself in Sim driver development and helping others learn the ropes. Much like Alex clearly has too, remaining as advisor to his last team.

Max finds himself reflecting on the younger men they were so long ago. Max was a lot more impulsive then. Quick to anger, a hunger inside him with so much to prove. But every person who did what they did always had the hunger. It just manifested in a lot of different ways.

And the interaction is nearing its end. But Max still can’t quite find a way to make his legs move. Around them, someone occasionally jogs past, and there are some ducks quacking happily at a nearby pond. It is peaceful.

Alex’s phone buzzes. He glances down at it, brows creasing in concern.

“Sorry, there’s some emergency at home involving my five year old and…” Alex squints at his phone. “A muffin tray of glitter. George is always far too lenient with his godson.”

Max smiles. “I heard about that. George, I mean. Not the glitter. I am not psychic.”

“That would explain your super-powered abilities, wouldn’t it?”

“Ha!” Max says, and he means it. “Anyway, I remember exactly how it is. That age.”

Alex smiles back knowingly.

The leaves rustle in the trees. The ducks are still quacking. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud, warming them both.

It is comfortable, in the way Alex always makes people feel, since the Williams years.

Max stops his leg from twitching.

“Listen, Alex. I never got a chance to say it before.”

“Say what?”

“That I…”

And Max finds himself pondering it. What does he mean? That he’s sorry? Sorry that a formula one team only truly ever has enough room for one person? That he should have asked how Alex was, like how he makes a point to do so now, with all his Redline youngsters? That he wishes he had called or texted him in the intervening years to see how he was, that he wishes they had stayed in touch? That he misses his old cars more than anything in the world, even if he’s happy with what he’s done and the way the puzzle pieces of his life have landed, and he always wonders if other drivers did too?

Max swallows a lump in his throat that he didn’t know was there. In the end, he says exactly what is on his mind.

“I’m really glad that you seem well.”

If that’s not the answer Alex was expecting, he doesn’t show it. He always seems borderline spiritual these days. As if he’s discovered a secret and invites you to understand it. A little bit like a monk, but one who definitely drives over the speed limit. (Max saw that video: a special karting one Alex did for family content, and he still carves a magnificent line.)

The monk in question smiles. It’s warm, like the sun. How lucky for those who grow close enough to Alex, to feel it.

And in that sage, still boyish way of his— surrounded by ducks, subjected to the inclement weather, in the artery of the place where worlds meet — Alex tells Max, back:

“I’m glad for us, too.”

————

from prompt thing here except i will actually try to stick to 5 sentences for the next one(s)

[ladyfromaspookyforest]

ST Season 2 Wardrobe Analysis

Lucas, Max, & Dustin

Hello! I never talked about Lucas and Dustin in season 1, so I'll probably go back and do it at some point, but for now, I'm keeping my season 2 momentum. What we should note about season 1 heading in is that Dustin wears graphic tees and sweatshirts all the time. He also wore the same hat all season, which is also the same hat he wears for all of season 2.

I've talked a lot about characters having a specific color associated with them (Will, Mike, Nancy, Steve, and El all do) but Max, Lucas, and Dustin don't have this.

EPISODE 1

Dustin's graphic tees fascinate me because I feel like there's a hidden message in every one and I'm not smart enough to figure them all out. Here, in his first scene of season 2, he's wearing the periodic table. Dustin loves science. This isn't news to us. But this may or may not hint at the relevance science will play in his storyline this season.

Lucas wears a lot of shirts like this one with a white v-neck and rings on the sleeves. These shirts are a staple to his wardrobe, basics with a sporty accent.

Max is generally associated with bright colors. I know some people interpret this as rainbow imagery and read it as queercoding. Personally, I feel like Max's bright colors represent California. They mark her as an outsider. We do see lots of bright color in season 4 when we actually GO to California, and if you've watched the GQ interview with Amy Parris (costume designer), you'll know they established separate color palettes for their various locations.

Different seasons, different strokes (in both senses of the word). Season 2 and season 4 have different vibes, but also season 2 takes place in the fall while season 4 takes place in the spring. So the Hawkins colors above are bolder than what we see most characters wearing in season 2, but just like this, Max's wardrobe reflects a different color palette than the rest of the cast.

I actually have so much to say about this California color palette thing, so I'll need to cut myself off, but just think about the fact that Will was bullied from a young age for being visibly queer and in the original draft, Joyce mentions that his clothes are too colorful. Then in season 4, we see a girl flirting with him while he is wearing a bright red striped t-shirt. In California, his queerness is NOT visible. The brightness in Max's wardrobe reflects this same culture and now that she's in Hawkins, she is (like Will) standing out. And this is something that's never commented on within the show, but in real life, I can imagine that looking like Max (a tomboy) in Hawkins, she probably WOULD be pegged as a lesbian, despite not being one. But that was probably a bit much to work into a heterosexual love triangle, so it's understandable they didn't go there.

Regardless, the brightness signifies difference and standing out for both Max and Will in Hawkins and both Max and Will have relationships with California in which they would have LOOKED like they belonged, but did not necessarily feel like they did.

Dustin's dinosaur hoodie says "Brontosaurus/Thunder Lizard/The Science Museum of Minnesota." "Thunder lizard" is the loose translation of Brontosaurus excelsus, meaning that this hoodie specifically calls out species identification. Dustin first hears D'art in his trash can this same night. A couple episodes later, he attempts to classify and then name his species.

Also, "Thunder Lizard" makes me think "How do you know if it's not just a lizard?" This sweatshirt is a big nod to D'art, therefore causing my insanity in trying to uncover the meaning of all of his shirts.

I neglected to point out the similarities between Lucas's and Will's outfits in my Will/Mike post, but their outfits are stylistically extremely similar. They're in matching silhouettes, dark wash jeans, similar colors. It's quite obvious after episode 1 that Will is going to be a huge focal point for season 2, and there are a few cues that tell us that if Will is stepping into the spotlight, Lucas is doing it too.

EPISODE 2

I already talked about the Ghostbusters costumes in my Mike/Will post, so get the full scoop there! But I want to talk about the two Venkmans thing for a sec.

Lucas's refusal to be Winston purely because he's black, choosing rather to be Venkman is a big cue that Lucas is determined to no longer be a side character. Mike was established in season 1 as the Main member of the party. So the fact that Mike is the other Venkman tells us that he isn't the sole Main Character anymore. This is another one of those cues I mentioned before (yes, the two Venkmans thing has a variety of other meanings, but I'm not going to get into all those).

Max's tee is a soft yellow in contrast to most of the yellow we've seen from characters like Will, Mike, or Dustin. Her jeans are also a lighter wash than most of the denim we see in Hawkins. She wears either the same jeans or very similar jeans all season, so even when she's wearing a darker piece like this jacket, she still has brightness from all angles despite her tee being covered. Her sneakers are also a bright grass green, which does not match any of the colors in her outfit. This is something that happens often with Max's outfits. Her accessories don't match but rather add yet another bright color to her look.

EPISODES 3-4

This is another one of those shirts I mentioned at the start for Lucas. Something I find interesting here is that Lucas and Mike's outfits tell a cohesive story. Cover up Dustin and Max and we have Lucas's belt going with Mike's pants and the brown in his sweater, Lucas's pants matching Mike's sweater. Dustin fits less so.

Okay, listen. Maybe I just WANT Dustin's tees to be prophetic and they're not, but the brontosaurus one really was. This one has no text, just a green print of a hot air balloon. I'm creative. I can think of plenty of ways this could go and they all feel wrong to me, but I'm gonna spitball for a second:

Dustin is under the impression that D'art is his great discovery and he has big dreams of getting to classify D'art as his own species when he shows up in this shirt; his head is in the clouds (eh? eh?)

D'art is in his hat right now, so D'art's the one up high in an enclosed space.

Hot air -> freeing Will from the Mindflayer

But here's the one I'm going with if we're using the tees to foreshadow events of upcoming episodes: Dustin beginning to drift away from the party. As I mentioned before, Mike and Lucas match pretty well here. Mike, Will, and Lucas were all in the same colors in the episode before while Dustin was in purple. In episode 1, his bright yellow tee stood out against the others. He, like Max, doesn't really fit the color scheme. And he is about to embark on his two-season-long journey of feeling left out of the party.

Meanwhile Max is decked out in bright colors and she too feels left out or left behind. Mike is absolutely determined to keep her from party participation, her outsider colors not only applying to the school or the town at large but to the party as well.

Max's hoodie is once again this soft yellow and she's paired it with a blue ringer tee underneath. The color combo is very beachy and the sweatshirt has sailboat details on both the front and back (there weren't any particularly good angles to snap this from, sorry).

EPISODE 4

Okay, I'm sorry, but is this an owl? I have no idea. Pretty sure it's a bird with an eyepatch, though. The tee says "Pennville Pirates" which I'm fairly certain is not a real thing. I wasted too much time on a google hunt trying to find out. Pennville is a real town in Indiana, very possibly where Dustin could have moved to Hawkins from, but as for the pirates...P sure they don't exist.

I've thought a lot about why pirates? It's not like Dustin goes on a thieving rampage. The closest he gets to pirate behavior is his dishonesty by hiding D'art and his Attack on D'art in the cellar. But at the end of the day, I think the Pennville part is what really stands out. The fact that Dustin joined the party last was mentioned briefly in season 1 when he mentions to Mike that Lucas is his best friend. He clearly already has insecurities about being less a part of the party than the others and this only grows in seasons 2 and 3, though we never directly address the fact that he was last again. This tee therefore feels like a subtle reminder.

Lucas wore this jacket in episode 2 and he wears it again later. It's clearly a staple item of his wardrobe. He also wore a similar jacket multiple times in season 1:

Lucas is someone who likes a fairly simplistic wardrobe, owning a lot of similar items in various colors (Max does this too only in brighter colors). So when he's wearing these staple pieces, this is something I associate with Lucas being himself. I'll come back to this. The striped sweater has a little more color and character than we usually see on Lucas, potentially a hint at Max's influence.

Max is back in the jacket she wore in episode 1. And she may or may not be jean-repeating as well (they all look the same to me, I'm so sorry). She is an outfit repeater. I talked about Jonathan's outfit-repeating being a sign of his economic status and we know from season 4 that Max's mother has low-income, even after she takes on multiple jobs. But what she has now, financially, we can't really be sure. If the money is all coming from the Hargrove side of the family and Max's stepfather is a violent, controlling piece of fuckass garbage-fire trash, it's completely possible that Max doesn't see much of this money. However, she does appear to have a much more expansive wardrobe than Jonathan. And back to Lucas (and others) wearing the same jackets often, jacket repeating in particular is not necessarily a sign of how much money someone has.

However, a lot of Max's outfits have not seemed quite appropriate for the Hawkins weather. It doesn't look like she's gotten new clothes since the move. Again, this could be a consequence of her not getting much spending money or it could be a personal preference. But we do see her taping up her skateboard (presumably after Billy broke it off screen) later, so it seems likely that she is afraid to ask for things.

EPISODE 5

I couldn't decide if I should include it or not, but I actually do think this "outfit" poses some questions. Like, why does he own all of this stuff? He's clearly not a sports guy. So are these his belongings? Or were they his dad's? We don't know anything about Dustin's father. We don't know why he's out of the picture. We don't know if he's alive or dead; if Dustin's relationship with him was good or bad; if Dustin knew him at all/if he was EVER in the picture for Dustin or if his mother has always raised him alone.

All we know is that someone in this household at one point in time played hockey. Whether seriously or unseriously, poorly or well. Maybe Dustin's mother tried to get him into sports once and it didn't work out. Or maybe this stuff belonged to a father they don't talk about, but whose belongings are still around. But he grabs it from a very accessible location in an indoor closet (though we don't know if he's already put it there ahead of time for easy access). So while I can't draw any conclusions from this getup, I think its existence is curious.

This jacket is very like those tees he likes to wear with the stripe accents. It's also similar to the types of jackets Max often wears, but his jacket is more reflective of a letterman jacket, plus he's paired it with khaki pants. These details give Lucas's outfit a sort of sporty prep look while Max's style is skate sporty. Add in the plaid button-down and I'm actually just confused.

This is kind of a blend of different vibes we've seen from Lucas (i.e. his first outfit/third outfit being on the sporty prep side and his second/fourth outfits being on the smalltown fall vibes side. I'm not a fan. And Lucas is torn here, trying to figure out how to be honest with Max and also respectful of his friends. Maybe this outfit wasn't intended to be as ugly as I personally find it, but it feels like a visual representation of this internal struggle. The jacket leaning towards Max, the shirt leaning towards the party.

And while Lucas is sporting my least favorite of his looks for the season, Max is in my personal fave. She's in that soft, sunny yellow again and stripes, of course, plus a cozy grey sweatshirt. I don't have much to say about it other than that this is the warmest, most fall-colored of her outfits so far, potentially signaling her growing attachment to Hawkins.

EPISODES 6-9

How do we know shit's about to go down? Lucas has a bandana on.

This outfit feels much more comfortable than the last one. He's got his sneaks and his stripey tee and this jacket we've seen him in multiple times. He looks natural. And though I said that bandana thing like a joke, when Lucas puts on his bandanas, generally, we DO know that something dramatic is about to happen. We've been given a couple shots of him putting them on as a very intentional step in the preparations, for example, before he goes to spy on the lab in season 1. Lucas putting on a bandana isn't just a signal to the audience that shit's getting real, but it's something he does intentionally to prepare himself for conflict. I imagine this is a method of hyping himself up, boosting confidence, creating a visual for himself that he associates with bravery and triumph, likely a consequence of movies he's seen.

Max is in a striped tee and sporty-striped jacket again. Sorry for that second pic, but I wanted to get her jeans and shoes in the shot. Her shoes are red and blue and don't match, like at all. But Max is not a fashion girly and their vibrant color still fits her vibe. She and Lucas are both wearing orange striped tees as they grow closer to one another.

Similarly, Dustin is also wearing orange as he and Lucas make up. What is utterly bizarre to me is that the graphic tee Dustin spends the most time in (episodes 5-9), we can't see. His hoodie is zipped in all four episodes. The most I was able to read off it is "Race Yourself." The illustration is of a man on the moon, so this is presumably related to the Space Race, but the entire wording is never revealed. The message we are left with is "race yourself." Why. I don't actually have the answer to that. Try as I might, I am just not that smart.

Our girl wore pants to this dance (queen). And I don't think I'll ever be over the fact that her mom puts ONE barrette in her hair and says "It'll be worth it!" This outfit is low-key a mess, in my humble opinion, but that actually gives it some charm. The sweater has yellow cuffs, blue shoulders, a red waistband, and multi-colored stripes, and then she wore it with coral pants and that ONE barrette plus a watch in yet another shade of yellow. It's so colorful and it just screams Max, but it is not formal in the slightest. And this is an incredible contrast to pretty much all of the boys (and El) who all go out of their way to Dress to Impress.

ESPECIALLY Dustin. Dustin's outfit is actually my favorite out of the whole party's Snow Ball looks, but the effort he put into his hair shows how much he is trying to emulate Steve, a known womanizer, rather than being himself. His friends make fun of it, but god bless Scott Clarke for telling Dustin he looks snazzy. Dustin told Lucas he saw the connection (the "electricity") between him and Max, so he isn't trying to impress Max here, but he spends the dance hyper-focused on girls to the point that he ends up crying alone. Another contrast to note here is Will, who had no desire to impress any girls and yet got asked to dance by one calling him "Zombie Boy" which (first of all, rude) shows that she asked him to dance because he was being himself. Versus Dustin putting on an impression of a knock-off Steve Harrington, and getting laughed at.

This is another instance of Lucas and Mike's outfits looking kind of similar. They're both in grey and stripes with similar silhouettes with their jackets (open) and button-downs, going back to the two Venkmans thing with these boys both being leading lads/love interests. Lucas's shirt is slightly unbuttoned with no tie or bow-tie. His look is the most casual of all the boys, which fits with Max and the fact that after getting over the fear of trying to ask her to dance, he relaxes and these two manage to connect.

Other Season 2 Wardrobe Analyses: Mike & Will El & Hopper Nancy, Jonathan, & Steve

[constellationcrowned]

Kariom is a very tactile person and he has a tendency to fidget with things; with said fidgeting generally being contained to his own person, his clothes, hair, possessions, and etc. This isn't strictly a nerve based habit of his but it will be a stronger impulse if he's nervous or anxious and the act of him doing it will be more noticeable, have a greater effect, etc. There's a marked difference between Kariom's fidgeting when he's feeling normal and in control versus when he's anxious and trying to actively calm himself down and redirect his focus.

Regarding his clothing Kariom has a tendency to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves, generally by lightly pulling on them or by rubbing the material between his fingers while holding onto it. Long sleeves are the norm for Kariom for the most part---be it the clan robes from his youth or his more casual wear of sweaters, his jacket, and the occasional hoodie, and so on---which helped this comforting habit to flourish and it was far more prominent and noticeable in his youth although Kariom can (and will) fall back onto it as an adult if he's feeling stressed or defensive but instead of messing with the ends of his sleeves whenever he crosses his arms he'll occasionally start rubbing his sleeves or, at the very least, squeezing down. He'll occasionally mess with the zipper tabs on his jacket pockets as well but not as often, and if he does it's more that he's messing with the tab rather than opening and closing the pocket itself. If he's wearing a hoodie that has strings attached to it he will fiddle with them.

As a youth he also tapped and fiddled with the bell Flynn more or less gave him---the bell that matches Vega's---because he likes the feeling of it and he likes the sound it makes but considering the circumstances he generally hides this from others (especially Flynn) lest he end up feeling embarrassed. If he's sitting down he'll tap it with his fingers and if he's standing he'll inconspicuously tap his foot to make it ring and once he eventually (maybe) cuts it off of his leg Kariom keeps it in a pocket close at hand. He also likes to swish and lightly flap the clan/star-reader's robes that have the longer and looser sleeves---think of it like him trying to fly, move air around, and etc, it's largely a pleasant feeling and very (not to mention appropriately) bird like---but this is another habit he tries to keep to himself.

Regarding his actual person Kariom has a few tics that aren't as pronounced but still become apparent if you know what to look for and pay attention to the frequency. If he finds himself getting particularly frustrated he might smooth his hair back with his hands almost as if he's trying to physically and metaphorically collect himself, he'll also flex his fingers while they're down by his sides and, if that doesn't help or if his feelings escalate, he'll ball his hands into fists as a way to express tension and, perhaps oddly, release it. Mainly because the act of Kariom clenching his fists or body forces him to realize that he's tense and after that he'll attempt to actually breathe and loosen up. It reminds him of the process he uses to calm his anxiety (primarily the three count breathing exercises) and he'll try to use it in that way if he can. He also likes rocking back on his heels quite a bit and will generally start doing so if he's anxious to move or go somewhere.

Regarding possessions the Star Theater is The Big One. It is his go to in regards to fidgeting with things and it will bring him the most comfort, peace of mind, and so on, so it's what he'll be seen messing with the most. This fidgeting usually involves Kariom tracing one of the Theater's three rings with his fingers but he'll also maneuver them so that they catch and reflect ambient light as well as tightly grasp the accessory in his hand if he's particularly distressed or becoming overwhelmed for whatever reason. The Star Theater is the first thing that he'll reach for, an instinct of his that is heightened the more distressed Kariom is. Even if he's undergoing the effects of a Shuffling and can't remember what the Theater is or what it's for he'll find himself drawn towards the tool intrinsically linked to his duty and will draw comfort from it.

What he does with the Theater and the rapidity of his movements is honestly a great way to get a read on Kariom's emotional state whether he's talking or not and it's something that those close to him know to pay attention to.

[timextoxhajima]

Accelerate [Dana’s 600 Special]

Track: Feel It by Michele Morrone / Drunk-Dazed by ENHYPHEN / Insanity by THE BOYZ

Member: I swear he’s not even my bias

Genre: i-ion know-

Word Count: it’s pretty damn long so please don’t make me write a part two

Taglist: @hyunjaethereal​ @lsangyeons​

The first time you laid eyes on Lee Hyunjae, you were both in Italy as he was being blinded by a billion flashes in his face. The light reflects off his dark hair - which was once a brighter color - as he maintains that polite, miniscule smile on his face. Most of the photographers and interviewers were male, for the sole reason that female photographers and interviewers would be too stunned to continue at their job. 

Not that the males rushing to get a shot of his face or a string of words out from him now weren’t stunned themselves. 

Despite being hailed for looking like every woman’s wet dream, Lee Hyunjae was more known for being South Korea’s youngest first class F1 racer. Sure, if he ever bothered to utter a single syllable of speech to you, you could pass out on the spot. 

But right now, all you wanted was to get an exclusive modelling contract from Louis Vuitton to his manager. Not Lee Hyunjae, not his bodyguards, his manager.

“Lee Hyunjae! Do you have anything you want to say before your final race of the season? How do you feel about being so close to coming out top?”

His manager stands a step behind him to Hyunjae’s right, and gives the racer the green light to respond. The flashes and sounds of clicking from the cameras were so overwhelming, it’s impossible for you to even imagine how it felt like being in the spotlight.

But the celebrity couldn’t receive the question any less gracefully, and offers one of those swoon-worthy smiles before leaning into the microphone.

“I feel nervous but I’ve prepared for this. Consistency is key and I believe in myself, so if that answers your question...” 

“Do you have any other plan other than racing? Word has it that you’ve received offers to be the face of Gucci and Louis Vuitton!”

The contract in your briefcase is still ironed out safely in its file when you pull it behind your legs, away from plain sight.

Hyunjae turns to look at his manager when the question posed obviously isn’t one of those in the list prepared, so the manager steps forward, and coincidentally spots you at the back of the crowd. He recognises you from the meeting he had with your higher-up.

“My apologies but Mr Lee isn’t permitted to answer to any of these, so if this is all then we must be going. Thank you for coming to the conference tonight.” 

Lee Hyunjae and his manager step back away from the microphone and bow for the press to continue their aggressive, merciless snapshotting. You wait patiently for the duo to disappear behind the conference area, and for the press to switch their attention to the pictures they have on their camera before you make your round backstage. 

The 5-star hotel is grand in all the ways possible: chandelier, white wines and champagnes being served in waiting areas and water was served sparkling. Finally fishing out the tag that you were given at the registration for entry to the event, you hand it to the lady at the meetings’ conference registration counter.

You wonder how the Louis Vuitton logos on your clothes and briefcase had gone unnoticed earlier at the showcase. Even on the tag, the ‘LV’ logo was so apparent. How far does the company need to go in order for them to have the logo printed in some shiny, golden print on the tag-

“Welcome to the F1 internal press conference and meeting, Miss l/n!” She pulls a sticker off a page and presses it onto the tag below the LV logo. “If you need anything at all, please just approach one of our staffs. All waiters and staff concerned will have a red tie tonight.”

“Alright, thank you,” The tag gets slid across the table to you. “Where’s the nearest washroom?”

“Oh, she’ll show you the way,” The lady gestures behind her for one of the staff members with a red tie to accompany you. 

“Oh-” Slightly taken aback by the aggressive escorting, the younger female grins at you before holding out her arm in the direction of the washroom. “Thanks.”

The hotel’s grandeur only gets more and more apparent as your heels click through the hallways and corridors. For an event night, the hotel’s pretty desolate. Then again, the press conference happened outside where all the photographers and journalists were. The one you were here for was an internal press meeting, and last you checked, there were fewer than 10 names on that list. 

“I can find my way back to the main hall after,” The slight panic in your voice humors you when the staff member seemed ready to wait outside the washroom. “Thanks.”

She bows and takes her leave only after you enter the bathroom; you can tell from the sound of her shoes echoing down the corridor. The scent of lavender is so overwhelming, you could almost taste it. Walls of cream and silver strokes cut through the tiles, a vase made of bronze sits in the corner of the platform where the sinks were, filled with roses.

The crisp reflection of yourself stares down at you in the mirror; it’s one of the few times you were dressed in branded goods head to toe. None of the articles of clothing you were wearing right now, you owned. Usually, you’d be gaping in awe at how beautiful these places where - after all, you were in a five-star hotel in Italy. 

But no, after almost five years of working with Louis Vuitton as a brand ambassador and subsequently becoming an assistant model-scout has numbed your habit of wandering eyes. 

The LV briefcase gets set on a dry area of marble, your fingers automatically clutching the edges of the sink as the jewelry on your ears, neck and hands twinkle under the fluorescent lighting. The makeup looks close to perfect - because someone had done it for you. Your clothes and shoes fit right down to your skin - because they were tailored for you. 

You were more upset you couldn’t sell it off and donate the money over having actual ownership of these fabrics. 

News of the orphanage had reached you hours after you touched down in Italy, and your heart yearns to stop the ache that seeps through you. They had run out of funds to continue the orphanage, the kids already enrolled would be split and sent to other organizations instead. 

What you had once called your home was going to be non-existent in another years’ time. Those whom you called your teachers, mentors, parents... were going to be in places you were not familiar with. The children that you always bring back food, clothes and toys for were going to be separated into different cities and states. As if not having a family was not bad enough, the people you now called your family was going to be split apart. 

You hadn’t noticed your eyes were closed until you opened them, the weight of the makeup on your face urging you to rub your eyes and skin but the discipline written into your hands stop you from doing so. 

Standing back to fix your posture, your eyes land on the one garnish on your body that doesn’t belong to Louis Vuitton - the ring on your middle finger. A gold band that looked more like a wedding ring than anything else. 

It had the name of the orphanage engraved on the inner side, so it feels lighter on your hands than it would otherwise be. 

A deep breath expands your chest as you take your briefcase and step away from the sink, attention scrutinising yourself more than you actually would.

The corridors of the hotel collect you back into its wealth again, drawing the thickest line between the realities of people like you and those who enjoy the luxurious life. 

The racer’s manager was sitting at the end of the meeting table when you enter, and you immediately recognise half the list of names you had seen before. Gucci’s manager was here personally. Another racer and his manager were here too. Stefano Domenicali and Michael Masi were here. 

Why were they here? Their names weren’t on the list.

“Ah, Miss l/n!” Masi gets off his seat and holds out his hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”

“Honor on my part,” Reaching out a palm, you smile the most graceful smile you can find in the muscles of your face. 

“Can I get you a drink? We’re still waiting for Mr Lee before we begin our discussion on the collaboration.”

Collaboration?

“Pardon my ignorance but... I thought I was here for a sponsorship or a model-contract request for Mr Lee... I wasn’t expecting your attendance or... a collaboration.”

Domenicalli chuckles heartily at his seat as he whirls around to gesture to one of the staff members in the room. “Will you get her a Mojito?” 

Then he stands up and pushes his glasses up his nose bridge. “We’ve been looking for a company that’s willing to do a three-way partnership with us and Mr Lee’s agency. Right now, it’s boiled down to both Louis Vuitton and Gucci so... it depends on which contract Mr Lee’s agency is more interested in.”

“Oh... Um, if that’s the case then I’m not entirely sure if the contract I have with me right now is appropriate-”

“Oh, it’s not. LV has already told us you’d sell them better unscripted than if planned,” Masi leans forward and mutters away from your ear. “Don’t tell Gucci though. Their manager’s only here because they panicked.”

He pulls away and before he can say anything else, the door clicks open with a staff member pushing the door open for the star of the night. 

“My apologies,” He’s changed out of his formal suit and is in a more comfortable set of hoodie and baggy pants now. “Did I keep everybody waiting?”

“No, not at all!” Masi throws his hands up into the air and beckons you to meet Lee Hyunjae. “Might I introduce... Miss l/n from LV. She’ll be the one pitching the collaboration for LV today.”

Hyunjae’s eyes are wide and clear, despite his fringe covering his eyelids. “My pleasure,” He holds out his hand and you take it to shake, but he doesn’t stop there.

Lifting the back of your hand to his lips, the contact is soft and gentle on your skin. 

Your hairs stand against your will and goosebumps erupt all over your neck when he pulls away, eyes now locked with yours. Nobody else in the room bothers to provide a reaction - it’s like he’s done this before and it’s perfectly normal. 

The rest of the evening is spent listening to your own pitch, and Gucci’s, but you couldn’t really keep your head in the game when... all that was in Lee Hyunjae’s head was... you.

You’d be lying had you said you were comfortable with how much he was glancing at you across the table, obviously not listening to Gucci’s pitch at all. His manager was the one busy jotting down all kinds of things, almost like it was an act of dictation. But the racer’s eyes fail to leave you for any longer than five seconds, and it was becoming glaringly obvious that he wasn’t really paying attention to the pitch. 

Gucci’s pitch finally finishes, giving you some kind of escape because now his manager is pummeling him for not listening to the benefits provided as Gucci’s ambassador. The contract document from LV was sitting before you, very single term and condition now inapplicable because you had just pitched something that wasn’t in the instruction manual.

God help me not to get fired.

“Mr Lee has some to a decision,” Masi claps his hands together, earning the attention of everybody in the room. “The Formula One federation would like to officially welcome Lee Hyunjae as the brand ambassador in a stellar collaboration... with Gucci.”

The Gucci ambassador scout smiles with triumph as the room provides a round of applause, you included. 

“Thank you so much, Miss l/n, for coming down. Your pitch was nothing short of commendable and I will make sure your manager will hear of that, alright?” Masi and Domenicali take turns shaking your hand. In your peripheral vision, you watch the Gucci ambassador shake hands with both Lee Hyunjae and his manager. 

Masi and Domenicali finish up with you, and Lee Hyunjae’s manager approaches you for the handshake with his client behind him. “That was a stellar... impromptu pitch, Miss l/n.”

A gentle chuckle rolls off your tongue as you pull your hand away, tightly clutching the briefcase. “I work better when things aren’t planned, so...”

“We’ll... we’ll keep in touch, LV. You’re an excellent scout with marvelous presentation skills. It makes me sad Mr Lee didn’t choose you.”

Your eyes drift to Hyunjae’s and he’s already looking at you like he hadn’t eaten in three days and you were a bowl of soup.

“Of course we’ll keep in touch. He’ll still be valuable asset and ambassador after his contract with Gucci ends,” Ignoring him, you return your attention to his manager. 

“Now, let’s hope the Prince of Korea doesn’t screw anything up, yeah?” His manager grins as he pats Hyunjae on the back. “Anyway, it’s been a mighty pleasure. We’ll be in touch.”

You lower your head as a small nod, turning on your heels to exit the room. Even then you can feel his eyes on your back. 

By the time you’re back in your hotel room (which was in the same hotel as you had the internal meeting), your feet are half dead from the heels you were wearing and the makeup on your face was starting to wear off. It took a nice, warm bath and a rather long conversation with your own manager on the phone as he congratulated on pulling through an impromptu pitch. 

He finally finishes, and you drop your phone into the towel by the bathtub as the steam fogs up the mirror. But your peace is cut short when someone rings the doorbell of your room. 

“Room service for Miss l/n!”

Tightening the robe around your waist, you pull open the door and watch the hotel staff hold out a bottle of wine and an envelop. “Mr Lee Hyunjae sends his regards, Miss.”

Surprised, you receive the bottle. The hotel staff bows and leaves, letting you turn around and the door click shut. 

To: Miss l/n

I apologise for the inappropriate staring earlier this evening. This is an attempt to compensate for my behaviour. I’ll be leaving Italy the day after tomorrow so if you could do me the pleasure of having dinner with me tomorrow... I’d like to be acquainted.

I’ve made a reservation at La Terrazza for 7pm. I’ll meet you in the guest lobby downstairs at 6.30 to pick you up. 

Love, 

Lee Hyunjae

You can see how the material of the paper trembles a little between your fingers. The thought runs, So he’s a creep and a national treasure. He can’t hurt you, right?

Again, the evening gown is more than fitting on you. It’s been tailored to hug all your curves at your chest and your hips and thighs and it exposes your leg where the slit is. It’s like LV knew you had an important evening appointment coming up and had you pack all these different sets appropriate for the event. 

The usher standing by the guest lobby nods when you head for the door, and he pushes it open to reveal only one person in it: Lee Hyunjae. 

On the phone, he whirls around when he hears the doors swish against the carpet flooring. His eyes are glimmering under the soft, rosy lighting and the glossy collar of his suit looks like plastic from the reflection. 

“I gotta go, I’ll call you back.”

The phone clicks to black before he opens his blazer and slides it into his inner breast pocket. 

“I’m gonna guess that’s your manager,” Your fingers wrap around the clutch tightly as he takes a few steps toward you, obviously very stunned by how different you looked compared from the previous day. 

“Uh, no, actually,” That million-dollar smile gleams at you. He reaches up to his forehead and scratches his brow. His hair is styled upwards so seeing the glory of his forehead was pretty enticing. “My mom. Making sure I’m doing well and fine here.”

He stops a safe distance away from you, finished with taking in whatever of you his eyes and memory can allow him. “Not gonna lie, I thought you were gonna stand me up.”

“I think LV would fire me if they knew I stood the Lee Hyunjae up.”

Hyunjae licks his lips then purses them together, attention finally peeling off your face as he reaches for your hand. He presses his lips into the back of your palm, then casually hooks your arm around his while he walks to your side. “Ready to go?”

At a loss of words for his flirtatious mannerism, all you can afford is a nod.

But as if your vocabulary bank wasn’t already exhausted, you can’t help but stare in complete astonishment when you are led to the matte black Sian Roadster already waiting at the drop-off point right outside the lobby. 

“Have them send the Dior package to Miss l/n’s room by 9pm,” He instructs the bell boy by the hotel entrance as he reaches for the vehicle door. 

“Wait, what?” 

“Yes, Mr Lee.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait a minute,” Your vision is finally peeled off the car when Lee Hyunjae pulls the door open. “What Dior package?”

“Just a token of appreciation from me, that’s all,” He releases your arm as he guides you into the vehicle. “I knew if I gave it to you over dinner, you’d reject, so...”

Twitching his eyebrow, he smirks and retreats, closing the car door. 

Flirt.

The vehicle moves off with a sharp rev of the engine, and you almost feel guilty for being able to be comfortable in in your clothes, shoes, sports car and on the way to a fancy-ass restaurant. 

If only things could be like that for everybody and everything. 

“So, when are you leaving Italy?”

“Oh, um... tomorrow too actually,” Rome’s lights are wondrous on the outside, some of them blinding you. “I have... something to attend.”

“Hmm, that’s... vague.”

You turn to eye him at his silent call for clarification. “I’m attending a closing event; help out with administrations.”

“Like... a pet store or something?”

“Yeah, ‘or something’.”

“That confidential, huh?” He lets out a soft chuckle. 

The gut in your abdomen tells you not to look at him. He’ll see right through you, figure out that there’s something more to it than something ‘confidential’. 

“Yeah,” You mask it with a sigh. “Funds and things.”

You can feel his attention sink into your back as silence befell the atmosphere. 

There’s a kind of light in his eyes when he talks about racing. When he’s describing the feeling of adrenaline in his fingers, gripped around the steering wheel. He’s unexpectedly kind to the service at the restaurant, then again he was a celebrity and he had a reputation to uphold. 

It’s the kind of light that made you panic throughout dinner, because there’s no way this specimen of a man would ever pay you a second thought. Maybe you were going to be his Italy fling that he would boast about to his friends and colleagues and they’d laugh at you without you even knowing. 

What was a rich, handsome racer even doing, single? It was too good to be true, and even if it was, you? Of all people?

Dream on.

“It’s been... an amazing night. Thank you so much for dinner.”

Lee Hyunjae walks you into the lift, letting you press the button to your floor first. 

“I’ll walk you back. I have time.”

Standing with your feet together, in the safety of your gown, your hands are holding your clutch like your life depended on it. You could tell that he wasn’t the most comfortable now, not with his hands over one another and placed politely on his abdomen.

When the lift door dings open, the silence remains. He trails behind you as you walk your way to your room, hands fumbling through your clutch to search for your keycard. The slick of the door is fast and you push the door open, with a black and silver box with the label ‘DIOR’ printed on it sitting at the foot of your bed. 

“Oh, my God!” You rush in and grab the box, eyes widening as you turn to him, who has one arm extended to keep the door open. The box was almost as big as a pillow.

There’s a soft, warm smile on his face. A stark contrast to all his flirty ministrations throughout the evening. “Goodnight, Miss l/n. Sleep well and have a safe flight.”

“Wha-” Then he lowers his head, and turns around. “Wait!”

Without another moment of hesitation, he disappears down the corridor and the door swings shut. 

It feels ironically empty. Your hands are carrying this Godforsaken box of a gift and yet you cannot think of a way to properly thank the person who gave it to you. With slight reluctance, your fingers find the edge of the cover.

It’s a beautiful Dior blazer, packaged with a perfume and a cosmetics set. The cream letter in it is handwritten and signed the racer himself.

I wish we had more time. Love,  Lee Hyunjae

The nauseating sensation of your heart sinking in your chest beats all the logic in your brain when you find yourself reaching for the door handle. The box is mindlessly thrown back onto the bed as you rush out, kicking off your heels in the moment of folly. (Of course, remembering to use the door latch to keep the door open.)

“Hyunjae!” You call down the corridor, and he was just about to enter the lift. He turns, providing you with a gorgeous view of his jaw. 

It feels like a fairytale, when you run down the carpeted corridor, barefooted and still in your gown. The urge to throw your arms around him far supercedes your brain yelling at you not to, but you do it anyway. 

He catches you by the waist as your rest your forehead in his blazer, arms already struggling to meet the height of his shoulders. 

A whisper. “I wish we had more time too.”

He pushes you back by your upper arms, tucking one bit of your hair behind your ear. “If time is what you want, then I’ll make time.”

“But... I- Will you get in trouble?”

He looks you dead in the eye and subtly shakes his head. 

Time stops. 

Fear. That’s what you’re feeling. 

Then he tilts his head and slowly leans in. 

“I don’t think I’d care if I do.”

His breath hits your upper lip and your instincts flutter your lids shut. 

White wine and strawberries from dinner. That’s what he tastes like.

Warmth radiates off his palms and into your cheeks as he holds your face close to his, unable to resist the satisfaction and sweetness you were providing him. In this moment of intimacy, he loses all sense of realism and urgency - all he wants is you to himself, for the rest of the night until the sun rises. 

Then he’d have to worry about never seeing you again because his manager had chosen Gucci over LV. 

But right now, he has your heart and soul in his hands, as does his in yours. 

Being the romantic and (probably) egoistic man of a celebrity he is, he lowers himself and slides his arms where the back of your knees would be, somehow never breaking the kiss. The material of the gown dribbles over the cotton of his suit and your arm circles behind his neck, only minimizing the distance between the two of you. 

It feels like you’re getting married in this black and gold sparkly evening gown when he pushes the door open with his back. The scent of the room is inviting, but definitely none in comparison to the scent of his cologne beginning to stain your hands and your clothes. 

Gently resting you into the cool sheets of the bed, he pulls away to remove the Dior package off the bed, placing it on the mini coffee table by the bed. 

You were never one to deal with one night stands. Hell, the only person you’d ever slept with was some stupid kid back in the orphanage when your stupid teenage hormones were running-

He pulls off his blazer and leans in again, picking your awkward hands and resting them on the knot of his tie. His fingers are grazing the skin on your upper arm, trailing down to your cheek and then your hairline where he combs his hands through your hair. 

The knot on the tie comes undone with some slight tugs, and you slide it out from under his collar. Undoing only the first one, you rest your palms against his chest, creating a small rift where the air rushes to your lips where his should be.

He’s slightly stunned at the slightest breakage, but he is overwhelmed with more care and concern than he was upset. “Why? What’s wrong?” He traces your jaw and rests his fingers on your chin, noses almost touching.

“Are you sure... You want to do this? I can’t risk you losing your career,” Your index finger traces the likes of his cheekbone. “You barely just started.”

Hyunjae shakes his head subtly, taking your hands to his lips and pressing them into the back of your palm. “When I saw you in that room, I was... star struck. You’d think being the celebrity in the room would mean everything, but I felt like I was nothing if I didn’t know you, much less be able to get close to you.”

And for someone who hasn’t really had a biological family to love, his words stuck. 

“I just... knew. There are some things in the world you can work for, but I don’t think any amount of effort can give me you.”

His brown orbs find your gaze and it melts you thoroughly. Like ice cream on a hot day; like the way the ocean washes against the sand by the beach, taking grains of sand away with it - the same way Hyunjae was winning you bit by bit, if not already all of you. 

Your hands find his collar again, and it tightens around the stiff material to pull him back down. He smiles into the kiss, hands pressing into the mattress by your hair while you undo the rest of his buttons. His skin is hot under the shirt, blood running on the adrenaline and tension he was riding on from the intimacy. Muscles pumped and heart racing, you finally get his shirt off and he does you the honor of dropping it to the ground. 

He gives you time to gasp for air while he dips his nose into your neck, inhaling your perfume and the scent of the hotel shampoo in your hair. His back muscles tense up under your cold fingertips as you run them along his spine. It’s almost beast-like, when he flexes his arms and every single move shifts his shoulder blades under his skin. His lips leave gentle pecks in your neck and your exposed collar bone, letting goosebumps erupt all over your skin. 

His hand caresses your waist as a way of request, and you arch your back just enough for him to find the zipper on the back of your gown. The vibrations of the zip being pulled downwards already feels like little bolts of electricity up your spine, and the straps around your shoulders loosen with every inch unzipped. 

He’s done, when his fingers return to your shoulders to push the straps off. The cool air kisses your skin in spots where he isn’t touching with any part of his body. The silk of the gown gently slides off with every inch of a movement you make, more and more of your torso exposed to him. 

Sliding one of his arms under your lower back, he pulls you out of the dress instead of stripping you of it as he helps you further up the bed. Your hands press into the mattress in a bid to help him shift yourself without breaking the sloppy, messy kiss. Your back finally meets the pillows and he pushes the gown off the bed with his leg. 

Chin tilting to the ceiling, he finally creates some distance between the two of you, eyes drifting down to your collar bone and chest still covered. His palms are hot around your waist as he trails butterfly pecks on your cleavage, while your fingers find his hair to tousle and grip. 

Goosebumps start to surface when his breath is heavy on your stomach, then he reaches your underwear and it’s almost embarrassing to have him kiss you. 

Your clouded vision is manually stuck to the ceiling when you can feel your face burning with adrenaline. The tickle of the material when it gets pulled off your hips and down your legs bring your cheeks more color, and before you know it, Hyunjae has your breath hitched in your throat. 

He rests your thighs on his shoulders as he works his way around, the bare minimum sanity left inside you decides to grip onto the sheets instead of ripping out his hair. 

Chills shoot up your spine mercilessly, emanating in the form of lewd mewls directed into the air. The crown of your head meets the cushioned head board of the bed when his grip on your thighs tighten to keep you from squirming too much. 

Without warning, he drags a finger down your sensitiveness and slides it in easily, the sensation erupting a more-than-shameful groan from you. Pulling away, he adds another finger before shifting his attention back to your upper body, now eyeing the last piece of material covering your chest. But he captures your lips first to earn your attention, and your arms naturally find your way around his neck to keep him close. 

His free hand goes around your back to unhook your lingerie, and it’s nothing but a new addition to all the clothes on the carpet now. He removes his fingers, and breaks the kiss first, for the sole reason of giving you a perfect view of him licking his glistening skin. 

You can feel your brows furrow with frustration now, the warmth from him dissipating when he leans back on his heels in a kneeling position. By providing you a gorgeous view of his being while he undoes his belt, he’s only adding more fire to the fuel. 

It’s significant enough to stretch out the material of his boxers, and so he climbs over you as he removes his last bit of clothing. He harshly yanks you downwards into a lying position by your ankle, and the sharp friction against your back is an addition to the heat between the two of you. 

His breath is heavy on your lips as he rests his palms by your ears, weight pushing in the mattress. “Tell me if it hurts, love.”

Then he presses his lips into yours, like his life depended on it, and in one swift motion, he buries himself inside you like it was the most natural thing to do. 

You suck all the breath out of him as you gasp into the kiss, and he finds your arms to hook around his neck and shoulders. 

If you could feel the taste of honey throughout your body, this must be how it feels. 

He gives you some moments before he starts grinding his hips slowly, his palms finding your thighs and digging into your flesh as he hooks them around his hips. 

Breathless, you pull away first, whimpers in the back of your throat louder than what you would’ve expected. His nose dips into your neck again, arms now stretched out to use the headboard as support when he picks up the pace. 

Cursing under your breath, you feel guilty for the bliss that was spreading through you. Your nerves are all heightened by the adrenaline and your vision is blurred from the sole nature of the intimate act. 

He’s not fast, but every spot he’s hitting feels like cloud nine over and over again. 

Like a spark in the dark, the sacred spot reveals itself in the form of harsher breaths and groans. Your fingernails dig into his back and your thighs are losing stamina to remain wrapped around him. 

“That’s it,” He breaths into your ear, pressing a kiss into your lower jaw. “Come for me.”

Tremors burst through your body like lightning in a storm upon his request. He helps you ride it out with a few more thrusts before he pulls out himself, releasing on your stomach, chest heaving. 

Resting his forehead on yours, he smiles. “Let’s hope that one day I wouldn’t have to worry about pulling out.”

You scoff, slightly tired. “We’ll see.”

You are woken up by the unfamiliar warmth you normally don’t have under the blanket. White sheets and tousled hair come into your field of vision before you can process the face, partially hidden, but eyes wide open.

“Jesus,” Your morning breath billows out between your lips and you swallow to dampen your dry throat. The room looks too damn bright for it to be morning. “What time is it?”

“7am. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time. My manager hasn’t called me so... we have time to spare.” 

You shuffle around under the sheets and your arms slide under the pillow where its cool. He shifts and pulls out his arm to rest on his tricep, palm under his ear and hair as he perches up his head. 

“What?” You pull the blanket up to your face and inhale the scent of it. It smells like him now. 

“You look pretty when you’re asleep.”

“What?” You frown, but a smile is on your lips. “How long did you watch me sleep for?”

“Not long, don’t worry. I’m not a perv.”

“Well, considering we just slept together after 24 hours of knowing one another-”

“Hey, we’re both about to be deported back to Korea to work. Give us a break, would you?” He groans and shifts again, this time trying to pull you into his chest. 

“Ah,” Snorting, you let him cradle you in his arms, his bare skin pressed warmly into yours. “‘Deport’? That’s what you call your job?”

“Only because you’re involved now,” He pecks you on the lips. “So... can I ask about your ‘administrative matters’ you said you needed to attend?”

Right. The orphanage is closing down. 

The guilt washes through you again. 

“Oh,” A look of seriousness overtakes your facials, and he notes the change in expression. “Um... I- Well... It’s an orphanage. It’s closing.”

He blinks at you, gaze filled with wander. “Were you a volunteer or...?”

Silence. 

You can’t bring yourself to say it. 

Unable to bear the incoming judgment he might provide you, your eyes dart away. 

“Hey, hey,” He finds your chin and tilts it back up to his attention. “What’s wrong? I don’t see anything wrong with being who you are. Why are you ashamed?”

“I... I’ve lived all my life with that label. ‘Orphan’. It only got better when I came out to work.”

“Is that why you are so worried? That... we might affect something and possibly implicate that?”

“Maybe.”

He sighs, thumb stroking your cheek as he shakes his head. “Nah. It shouldn’t matter.” Pulling your head into his chest, you can hear the steady thumping of his heart through his skin. “’Administrative matters’, huh? Are you like a... committee member or donator?”

“I’m an unofficial sponsor ambassador from LV. Well, LV was supposed to arrange for official funding, but they just never really had the time or resources to build the rapport. The orphanage was doing too badly for any company or brand to want to help and invest their attention on.”

“Mm,” He hums, stroking your hair. “I’m sorry about that. I truly am.”

“It’s okay. Nothing could’ve been done about it anyway. All I hope now is for the kids to be safe, no matter where they go.”

It feels empty again, having Hyunjae being ripped from your side at the airport once the plane touched down. The manager was surprisingly not surprised to know that you had spent the night together, the only question he had asked being something that concerned a future pregnancy, which the two of you have already confirmed negative. 

It’s late when you reach back your apartment, and you ready yourself for the private meeting with the committee members of the orphanage. Though tired and severely jet-lagged, you cannot miss this meeting. It’s the last time you’ll see all the caretakers and members of the organisation in the same room.

You shift into the taxi in a new set of clothes, but topped with the Dior blazer and smelling like the Dior perfume, you feel like you were probably going to get slapped once you reach the meeting.

The building of the orphanage looks so run-down, it could be mistaken for a prison had it not been for the words HILDA’S ORPHANAGE in big, block letters above the entrance. Before you can exit the taxi, your phone starts vibrating in your purse.

It’s the President of the orphanage.

“I’m right outside the building, going in soon,” You push open the car door and thank the driver. 

“The meeting has been cancelled. Someone bought the orphanage and we’ll be managed under a new system.”

“What?”

“Surprise.” 

You turn around and see the last person you’d expect to see here, in his hands, a folder of documents and a small bouquet of flowers. 

“Um,” Your eyes are stuck to Hyunjae, but you’re still on the phone. “The buyer... Does it have anything to do with Gucci or F1?”

“Yes, it’s an F1 sponsorship but there will be more details into the managerial and planning system. Some things will have to change.”

“I’ll... I’ll call you back.”

Hyunjae watches you lock your phone in shock, attention unrivalled. He takes a few steps towards you and you now realise he’s still in the same clothes he was in on the plane. His eyebags are obvious but the prideful grin on his face makes him glow. 

Stopping about an arms’ length away from you, he holds out the folder.

“I checked with my manager and he checked with F1. They green-lit it, but on a few conditions. I heard them out before I told them it would be more likely than not you’d accept it, so here are the legal documents. All the terms and conditions and sponsor contract are already in here, so you and the President can sign it when you deem fit.”

Taking the folder, you didn’t even notice your hands are trembling as you flip through it. 

But your eyes flitter up from the page when you notice the printing: 

OWNER’S SIGNATURE (Y/N L/N): ____________________

“It’s yours if you sign it.”

Now, he holds out the bouquet. “I thought of putting it under my name but I don’t want you to think you owe me a favour and have it bugging you all the time.”

Gently shaking your head, as if you could shake out the surprise, you close the file and look to him in awe. “But I’ll still owe you, big time. This is... this is everything, so thank you.”

He sucks in a deep breath and shakes the bouquet of flowers a little. 

“You can return the favour by going out with me. Properly, whenever I have time, and I promise, no Dior packages.”

Taking the bouquet into hand, you throw your arms around his shoulders, tears welling in your eyes.

[imagineaworld]

mr & mrs smith | b.b

in which bucky and y/n go undercover

pairing: bucky barnes x reader, platonic/romantic undertones

word count: 2k

warnings: none

undercover missions were usually fun. coming up with a character and a backstory was something y/n enjoyed doing the night before the mission. this time, however, her character and story were already decided.

“you two,” tony stuck his head around the corner of the door into the common room and beckoned with his finger. “come with me.”

y/n shared a confused glance with bucky from across the room. they had both been sat on opposite sides of the common room, bucky reclined on an armchair, head in a book, and y/n sat in the windowsill, her head also buried in a book. 

shrugging, y/n headed after tony, bucky following suit, wondering whether they were in trouble or not. when they got to tony’s office, bucky took a seat next to y/n, bouncing his leg up and down unconsciously.

y/n put a hand on his leg. “it’s alright,” she said, flashing a reassuring smile.

bucky smiled back, awkwardly patting y/n’s hand as it rested on his leg. he never knew how to respond to physical affection.

“alright you two,” tony chucked a file across the desk to them. y/n took her hand off bucky’s leg to read through it. “got an undercover mission for you. this time, i decided your aliases.”

“what?” y/n complained. “that’s no fun.”

“quite the opposite,” tony said. “you two are in the honeymoon suite.

bucky choked in surprise. y/n’s jaw dropped.

the two weren’t the best of friends, but they weren’t enemies either. y/n was always kind to bucky, and very physical in her affection. on multiple occasions, when going to bed, she would hug everyone good night, including bucky if he was in the room. bucky tried not to think of it personally, she did it with everyone of course. but sometimes it was the only physical affection he got for days. 

“you couldn’t have picked someone more compatible? like bruce and nat?” y/n suggested.

“vision and wanda?” bucky chimed in. the thought of going on a mission with y/n made him nervous, because she made him nervous.

tony shook his head. “has to be you two. this mission requires a particular skill set. you spend the night in the honeymoon suite, plant some bugs, secret cameras, y’know?”

“why?” y/n asked.

“after you two check out, a prominent member of a terrorist organisation will check in with his equally prominent new wife. see what information you can get, hm?”

-

y/n chucked her suitcase into the trunk of the loan car. “i’m driving,” she announced.

“why you?” bucky asked, leaning against the car, dressed in dark jeans, a plain t-shirt and a zip-up hoodie to cover the majority of his metal arm.

“you’re an old man. plus you don’t have an actual licence.”

bucky protested as y/n climbed into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. grumbling to himself, he got into the passenger seat. “here you go,” he said, handing her a gold ring. “goes on your left hand.”

“yeah, i know,” y/n muttered, slipping the ring on her finger. she held her hand out, admiring the wedding band. bucky put his hand next to hers, wearing a matching band. “i always thought if i was marrying a hundred-year-old man, he’d be my sugar daddy.”

“i can buy you a coffee at starbucks,” bucky offered.

y/n chuckled. “you know what? i’ll take it.”

bucky watched y/n from the passenger side as she drove. the pair drove for an hour until they passed the nearest starbucks, where bucky bought them both a latte and a pastry for the rest of the journey. another half an hour and they arrived at the grand hotel tony had booked for them. 

they each grabbed their suitcase from the trunk. “okay, metal man,” y/n murmured. “keep your left arm hidden behind my back.”

“no shit, captain obvious.” y/n elbowed him in the side. “yeah, that’s exactly how a newlywed couple would act,” he said sarcastically. 

“okay, newlyweds starting now.”

the two walked into the hotel, suitcases in tow. bucky’s metal hand was on the small of y/n’s back, hidden from the view of the receptionist as the two of them checked in. for him, it felt strange to be touching her like that, but y/n showed no signs of even acknowledging it.

“hi,” y/n greeted sweetly, in a voice bucky had never heard before. “we’ve booked the honeymoon suite.”

the receptionist typed something into the computer. “mr and mrs smith?” she asked. bucky and y/n nodded, fake smiles plastered on their faces. “third floor, let me just get your room key,” she headed into the backroom.

“mr and mrs smith?” bucky whispered.

y/n rolled her eyes. “must have been tony’s idea of a joke,” she whispered back.

“i don’t get it.”

“never mind.”

the receptionist had returned, handing y/n a room key. “enjoy your stay,” she smiled.

“thank you,” bucky and y/n said at the same time, heading up to their room.

-

inside the honeymoon suite was beautiful. there was an expensive-looking chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, gorgeous floral wallpaper adorning the walls. on the walls also hung beautiful paintings and embellished mirrors. at the back of the room, there was a huge, decorated bed. just one.

“there’s only one bed,” bucky pointed out.

of course, there was only one bed, it’s the honeymoon suite. bucky hadn’t thought of this. 

y/n abandoned her suitcase and flopped down on the massive bed. “it’s a movie.”

“what’s a movie?” bucky asked as he sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed beside y/n.

“mr and mrs smith,” she explained. “angelina jolie and brad pitt play a husband and wife who are both assassins, but neither knows about the other because they work for different agencies. until they get assigned to kill each other.”

bucky chuckled. “sounds good, actually.”

in the golden light reflecting off the ornately carved, brushed-gold headboard, y/n looked ethereal. bucky took in her exquisite facial structure, the way her hair splayed across the pillow where she had laid, how her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks as she closed her eyes.

“about the bed situation,” y/n said, snapping bucky back to reality as she opened her eyes to look at him. “you mind sharing? it’s pretty big and i don’t take up much space.”

bucky just shrugged, not really sure what to say.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to, you can tell me,” y/n reassured.

“no, it’s fine, honestly,” bucky replied, not entirely convincingly.

y/n got up from the bed, picked up her suitcase and opened it on the bed. she rummaged around underneath a bunch of microphones and cameras to pull out a bikini. looks like we’re filming a porno, bucky heard her mumble under her breath.

“i’m heading to the pool, wanna come?” y/n asked, disappearing into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

bucky tapped his metal arm. “can’t.” 

when y/n came out of the bathroom, she had on a simple black bikini. she threw on an oversized shirt, grabbed her towel and her book. “alright, i won’t be too long,” she said, heading out the door.

-

happy to have some time to himself, bucky made his way out onto the balcony, taking a seat in a sun-lounger and started reading his book. it took him a while to get the image of y/n in her bikini out of his head, but eventually, he managed to focus on his book. in the midday heat, he slipped his t-shirt off over his head, shirtless in the sun.

he had been so lost in his book that he hadn’t heard y/n come back, or realised how much time had passed.

“whatcha reading?” y/n asked, surprising bucky. she was sat on the sun-lounger on the other side of the balcony, her shirt also discarded on the floor like buckys.

“i didn’t hear you come in,” bucky murmured.

“that’s the point,” y/n shrugged, opening up her book.

“to kill a mockingbird,” bucky answered her question. “saw it on a list of ‘ten books everyone should read’. have you read it?”

“yeah,” y/n used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked at bucky. “i really liked it. you enjoying it?”

“so far,” he said.

y/n diverted her attention back to her book, but bucky found it difficult to do the same. y/n’s body was exposed, leaving little to the imagination. bucky wasn’t yet used to the new way women dressed nowadays. he most certainly wasn’t complaining though. her hair was damp, slicked back and trickling droplets across her bronzed skin. her face was makeup-free, glowing in the sunlight. her long legs...

“what?” y/n asked, noticing bucky staring at her.

his cheeks flushed as he mumbled, “nothing.”

“i can cover up if it makes you more comfortable?” she offered, not unkindly.

“no, it’s fine,” he spoke louder now. “i think it’s great that women can wear whatever they want now.”

“you sure?” she checked.

bucky cleared his throat, closing his book. “yeah. i’m gonna take a cool shower now anyway, too hot.”

he headed inside, leaving y/n in her bikini on the balcony. 

-

by late evening, y/n and bucky had ordered room service for dinner and were now sat opposite each other on the humungous ornate couches. between them was a glass coffee table, holding two glasses of red wine. bucky was already on his second glass.

"so," y/n said, making conversation. "you think nat and bruce will ever make it official?"

bucky looked confused. "is it not already official?"

y/n shook her head. "nat talks my ear off about it, how she's not sure if she should make the first move or wait for him to." 

y/n wore a pink silk pyjama shirt and matching shorts, exposing her long legs, which she crossed in front of her as she sat. she took a large gulp of wine and carefully topped up her glass. bucky wore dark sweatpants and a dark t-shirt.

“why don’t you have a boyfriend?” he asked, the wine giving him an edge.

y/n looked slightly amused. “what?” 

“why don’t you have a boyfriend? or girlfriend?” he added.

“i guess i haven’t found the right person,” y/n shrugged.

he contemplated this for a moment. “so, are you...” bucky cut himself off. “never mind. none of my business.”

y/n knew exactly what he was going to ask. “a virgin? no, i’m not. you?”

“no.”

“i didn’t think so,” y/n said with a smile.

bucky frowned. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“well, have you looked in the mirror? you’re not exactly ugly,” she said with a laugh.

bucky wasn't sure how to interpret that. he wasn't used to compliments, nor was he used to speaking so openly about sex. did that mean y/n thought he was good-looking? perhaps he hadn't been mistaken all those times he thought y/n hugged him just a bit longer than everyone else.

he didn't say anything, just poured himself some more wine. 

"why don't you have a girlfriend? or boyfriend?" y/n threw bucky's question back to him.

bucky thought for a while. he hadn't really thought about having a relationship. he didn't think anyone would want to be with someone with as much baggage as he has. but he didn't want to share that with y/n. "haven't exactly figured out this modern dating," he said, taking a sip of wine. "don't like the idea of going on a date with someone i haven't even met." 

"i tried it once," y/n confided. "nat dared me, a few weeks ago. didn't go very well." 

bucky raised his eyebrows. "why not?"

"men are pigs," y/n shrugged, not wanting to go into much more detail.

perhaps she wasn't interested in bucky then like he had thought for a second there. ask now, he thought, while its the topic of conversation.

"there's got to be someone you like though?" he asked.

he watched her shoulders rise and fall as she sighed, contemplating. "it's not a priority for me, i guess. if i find someone, cool. but i'm not looking. i think love just happens sometimes, you can't always look for it."

"i'm sorry your date didn't go well," bucky spoke lowly. "anyone would be lucky to have you."

y/n chuckled. "you think?"

"i do."

"you're real sweet, you know that?" y/n smiled softly at bucky. "anyone would be lucky to have you, too.”

[yellowocaballero]

Jon's Trapped in Temporal Time-Out: A TMA Time Travelling Tale

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

I kept on bitching about how much I dislike the beginning scenes of TMA time travelling AUs so my friend @lazuliquetzal​ (who wrote the best TMA time travelling fic in the fandom) told me to put my money where my mouth is. It’s nowhere near her level, but in my defense it’s probably even stupider than Reflection. 10K of stupid under the cut. 

Sasha was tipping some whiskey from her secret flask into her tea when Tim poked his head into the breakroom and announced that he had found a corpse.

Sasha and Martin, hunched over their paltry lunches and pathetic lives situated upon a rickety metal breakroom table and equally rickety metal chairs, stared at him. 

“Like,” Sasha said finally, “a human one?”

Tim shrugged. “Humanoid? I didn’t want to poke it and see if it was fleshy, so I guess the jury’s out.”

Hm. Sasha put her flask away. The day was no longer boring, so it was unnecessary. 

The most relevant questions ought to be asked first. “Should we tell Jon?”

“He might throw a bitch fit about how corpses are unhygienic, so no?”

Martin drained his tea and stood up from the rickety metal chair, resigned. “I’ll get the broom.”

****

There was, indeed, a corpse in the Archives.

More specifically, in the stacks. The worst place to die, or least be dumped. Sasha had to admit the logic of it: it was the darkest depths of the library that Martin had informed her was ‘somewhat creepy’ and ‘kind of ominous’ so ‘please stop sleeping there you’re going to give me a heart attack’. After Martin flipped on a few lights that were never flipped on (apparently Elias was a cheapskate, which explained the breakroom) they could all gawk at the corpse to their heart’s content. 

Very kindly and thoughtfully, Tim asked Martin if he wanted to stay out of the library and maybe to ‘tell someone’ or something. Both Sasha and Tim had mutually and silently agreed that Martin seemed the type to have a delicate constitution. Granted, he hadn’t seemed the type to win Magnus Anarchist every month by breaking into abandoned buildings with absolutely no shame, so maybe he was the kind that surprised you. 

But Martin had just looked a little unimpressed. “Do you seriously think this is my first corpse? I went to university.”

That somewhat intimidated Sasha, who abruptly worried that she had missed out on an essential university experience again. “Is that a typical university experience?”

Martin paused a beat. 

“Uh,” he said, “yeah, sure, of course. Hazing, you know.”

“Is that what hazing…?”

“Fraternities.”

Tim, from where he had been standing at the entrance to the stacks snapping on the sterile gloves he had liberated from the cleaning supply closet, looked delighted. “You were in a frat too, Martin? What kind of hardcore frat had corpse hazings? Was it the Sigma Gammas? My frat always thought they were way too crazy, but we were a business one -”

“You know what,” Martin said, “let’s just worry about the corpse.”

After Sasha tied her hair in a ponytail and Martin snapped on his own gloves, they awkwardly approached the aisle where Tim had been trying to find a reference book for Jon. Sasha was worried that they would have to hunt for it a little, or that there would be a bad jump scare, but when they found it she saw that it wasn’t subtle at all.

It was sprawled on the ground, face mashed into the cheap and somewhat gross carpet. Sasha approached it with absolutely no hesitation, which Tim and Martin gladly let her do, and squatted down to get a better look at the figure. 

She definitely needed to make a coroner’s report. She was the objective expert in coroner’s reports. 

 “Tim, can you run back and get one of Jon’s silly little tape recorders for my coroner’s report?”

“Did you just see that on the telly?” Tim asked skeptically. “Because if you did -”

“Oh, here one is. That’s really convenient!” Martin grabbed one off the shelf and pressed play, letting the tape roll. “Good idea, Sasha. We need proof to Jon that we were researching.”

Probably...not what Jon meant for them to be researching, but Sasha liked to believe that it was the intent that mattered. She pulled a pencil out of her pencil skirt pocket, poking the figure thoughtfully. “Report by Sasha James, Archival Assistant.” There, now it was work. “At 1:30pm today, Tim Stoker discovered a corpse in the Archives, thereby referred to as John Doe -”

“Do we have to call it John Doe?” Tim complained, standing next ot her and crossing his arms. “Then we have too many Johns, it’ll get confusing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sasha said dismissively. “Ours is Jon, this guy’s John. Completely different.”

“Sasha, I’m not sure that’s how words work.”

“What are you, an English major?”

“Yes! I was an editor for a living!”

“Sorry if I don’t listen to guys who were fired from book editing school -”

“Uh,” Martin said, “have we checked to see if he’s actually dead?”

Sasha and Tim fell silent. Sasha looked at Tim. Tim shook his head. 

“Seriously, mate?” Sasha asked, unimpressed. 

“I didn’t want to touch the corpse!” Tim cried. “So sue me! It’s not as if he’s moving!”

Pussy. Sasha gently reached out and pushed aside a little of the corpse’s very long and pretty curly hair. What was that, 3C? Jesus, that had to be work. Sasha was 3A and the amount of hair care products she owned was insane.

She waved her hand at the boys for silence and put her thumb against his pulse, concentrating hard. Martin quietly walked over and crouched down too, eyeing his chest. 

“I don’t feel a pulse,” Sasha said finally. 

“Also, uh, I’m not a doctor,” Martin said, “but he’s definitely not breathing.”

“I told you,” Tim said defensively. “You just look at the thing, and you go - yep, that’s a corpse!”

“Corpse appears to be an ethnically ambiguous adult man with very nice hair,” Sasha said loudly. Martin helpfully held out the recorder to catch her voice better. “Maybe 190cm. Incredibly skinny - potential cause of death. He’s dressed in...some very ratty clothing. Potentially homeless.”

“It definitely smells,” Tim said, pinching his nose. Sasha didn’t blame him - the clothing was an overlarge green hoodie, ratty and threadbare, and his jeans weren’t any better. His boots were worn and soft leather. “Maybe he’s a homeless guy who snuck in and died?”

“That’s so sad,” Martin said softly. “Also a little gross.”

“Have some respect for the dead, guys,” Sasha said, as she poked the dead guy with a pencil. “Tim, go flip him over.”

Tim held his hands up, stepping away. “I couldn’t possibly. Martin loves flipping people over.”

“This again?” Martin asked, frustrated. “This is just like when you made me handle the Rawlings case because you’re scared of the suburbs!”

“They have too many eyes, Martin!”

“I am surrounded by cowards,” Sasha noted for the recorder. Nothing for it, then. Sasha carefully straightened, wobbling on her heels, before solidly wiggling her hands underneath the corpse’s chest. He was cold - dead a while. 

It was surprisingly difficult to flip over a limp adult man. Sasha was strong, but the corpse’s flesh was weak, and he was all floppy. Eventually Tim got over himself long enough to help her, making a very disgusted face the entire time, and they were able to finally get a good look at the man’s face.

Abruptly, upon seeing it, they all quieted. 

There was something about seeing a man splayed out on the ground that was a little funny, if you worked for the Magnus Institute and had probably encountered a Leitener two years ago and lost all empathy. No more impediments in the search for science. But there was something very different about looking at a person, who had a nose and lips and a very ratty hoodie, and knowing that it was no longer a person. Just a lot of cloth and meat and blood and organs and nice hair that once was a person, back when things were easier and the world was a little less harsh.

But maybe Sasha was caught by sentimentality: after all, the corpse looked a little like Jon.

Judging from the stunned faces of her compatriots as they all bent around the figure, they all thought the same thing. Tim’s jaw was open, and Martin’s hand was covering his mouth in shock. 

“Man,” Tim said. “This sucks. And it’s really creepy.”

“He must have been really gorgeous,” Martin said. “That’s so sad.” 

Actually, Sasha tilted her head and took another look. He had sharp and severe features, elegant and striking. A large and thin, sharp nose, and equally sharp lips. His face was just as sharp and gaunt, as emancipated as the rest of him. He had strange scars trailing up his neck and curving around his jaw, but it just kind of accentuated the intense atmosphere. 

It was probably a pretty stupid thing to focus on, but in her defense it wasn’t really the face of a homeless guy. Well, maybe. Hot homeless people existed.

Sasha frowned. She’s only met one other person this hot. 

“Hey,” she said, “doesn’t he look like Jon?”

Both the men titled their heads. 

Finally, Tim said, “Nah, he’s hotter.”

“Agreed,” Sasha said. “I think the scars really do it.” 

“Uh, guys,” Martin said. 

Sasha grabbed her tape recorder out of Martin’s hands, resuming her coroner’s report. “Subject appears to be in his thirties. Weirdly attractive, but that’s probably not as important as we feel it is.” She looked down at his hands, carefully using her pencil to push up the sleeve. “What looks like an aged and badly healed burn scar on his right hand. Supports homeless guy evidence.”

“Knife scar over his throat,” Tim quietly observed. “Someone tried to kill this guy.”

“Guys,” Martin said. 

“Well, I guess this is the point where we worry about body disposal,” Sasha said, straightening. “I think Elias could handle this discreetly and professionally, but that might involve letting Jon know. And I don’t think any of us want that kind of stress in our lives.”

“So, are we not even pretending to want to call the cops, or…?”

“Listen to me!”

Both Tim and Sasha shut up, somewhat guiltily. Martin had straightened too, fists balled, looking firm and determined and resolute - everything that Martin wasn’t, really. Martin lived unsure of himself, never expressing his own feelings or ending every opinion with an “I don’t know, maybe, that’s just my thoughts, what do you think?”. 

So Tim and Sasha paid attention, and when Sasha nodded encouragingly at him he seemed to find further courage. Solemnly, with the air of a wise man by the side of the road, Martin said, “This guy isn’t hotter than Jon.”

Christ. Sasha takes it all back.

 Tim propped a hand on his hip supportively as Sasha rolled her eyes. “Look, mate,” Tim said, “I know that you think Jon’s the hottest person in existence, and maybe objectively he’s fine as hell, but once you know him for longer than three months he loses all attractiveness. It would be like being into the DMV clerk. The really pretentious cousin at all of your family reunions who tries to explain your own job to you. The dude in your English class who thinks he invented feminism.”

“That was you,” Sasha said. 

“I am the objective expert in Jon,” Martin said firmly, shutting down the dissent. “He’s, like, my muse, okay? And can I say, as I have spent so many long hours memorizing the curve of his jaw - that’s the same jaw.”

If Sasha had a retort to that, or if Tim wanted to judge Martin for his taste in men further, neither of them had a chance. There wasn't an opportunity to say anything more, because the corpse opened its eyes. 

Sasha’s first thought was this: wow, what green eyes. 

Sasha’s second thought was: the fuck?

His eyes didn’t focus on her, or snap anywhere. They drifted a little lazily, fixed on the right, but the man was undoubtedly aware. His fingers twitched, he tilted his head from left to right, and his left hand - doubtlessly the hand that still felt texture - clenched the thin and cheap rug. The man’s jaw slackened a little, as if in surprise. 

For their part, the Assistants frantically looked at each other, all conveying the exact same thought - you said he was dead!

Sasha froze to her spot, petrified. She could handle corpses, or coroner’s reports, or mysteries. Sasha was intelligent, unkind, firm, socially incompetent, and a Libra. She could handle the dead, but the living? Sasha had no idea what to do with alive people.

But Tim did. He hesitated two moments, reeling back in shock, before he abruptly composed himself. He crouched down to the guy, and modulated his voice to sound calming and firm. “Hey, don’t strain yourself. Are you alright? Do you hurt anywhere?”

The man turned his head in Tim's direction, hiding his expression from Sasha, but she saw Tim’s eyes widen. Martin, standing closer to his feet, wrung his hands - clearly torn on what to do, uncertain how to help. Martin always hated being uncertain how to help the most. Which was pretty unfortunate, because Martin always wanted to help, and Martin was always uncertain. 

“Can you speak?” Tim asked gently. “If you can’t speak, go ahead and knock on the floor for me, okay?”

“If we pack him into your car, we can say that we found him on the street,” Sasha piped up. As much as she distrusted NHS, and as much as the NHS refused to touch anybody who had ever stepped foot inside the Institute, they could hardly refuse somebody if they just lied their ass off about it. “They’ll have to treat him then, right?”

“We could make it so much worse if we move him,” Martin said quickly, just as strangely firm. “We need to take our chances with 999.”

“We don’t even know if he’s injured,” Sasha pointed out, somewhat optimistically. “Maybe this whole thing can just, like, not be a problem.”

Yeah, Sasha definitely preferred corpses. 

The man was opening and closing his mouth, before he coughed wetly. Sasha clinically noted that it was the first time she had seen his chest move. As Tim reached forward, murmuring gently, and helped the man sit up, she saw that his chest didn’t move at all.

“Alright, let’s try to get you up.” Tim helped the man shift so he was leaning against the bookcase - uncomfortable, but a better position if he started coughing up blood. “We should fetch you some water - Martin, I don’t think he has any injury like that, he just seems out of it. His eyes aren’t focusing on me at all.”

Strangely, the man scoffed at that. The sound made him cough again, but the derision was unmistakable.

The derision was extremely familiar. 

When Sasha looked at Martin his eyes were wide behind his glasses, and she knew that he had heard the same thing that she did. 

Finally, with a raspy and hoarse voice, the man said, “Well, isn’t this fucking fun.”

Everybody stared at him. His voice...different, definitely, with a less posh accent and strained vocal cords scratching his tones. But when Sasha glanced at Tim, she just knew that he was remembering when Jon had insisted on coming into work with a terrible cold and Martin had to bully him home. He had sounded eerily like…

“Is this your idea of a joke?” the man said. 

Tim, from where he was crouched next to the guy, turned his attention back to him. “I’m a funny guy, but last time I checked head injuries aren’t a joke.” He tracked his finger across the man’s eyes, frowning when they didn’t follow. “You definitely have a concussion, mate. If you can walk, we need to -”

“Lord, alright, I get it.” The man raised his burned hand and clumsily rubbed his eyes. “You’re mad at me, I’m sleeping on the couch, whatever. Is all of this really necessary?”

“Uh,” Tim said intelligently. “Mate, I’m not your boyfriend.”

The man waved his other hand in Tim’s direction as he pressed his fingers into his eyes in exhaustion. “I’m hardly speaking to you.” Tim’s jaw dropped in shock as the man angled his face upwards, the crown of his head jamming uncomfortably against the metal shelving. “In my defense, I was doing the best I could with the resources you gave me. It’s water under the bridge. I’ve forgotten about it already! So let’s just get back to our eldritch hellscape.”

Everybody stared at each other. 

“We should move this into the break room,” Martin said. “There’s tea there.”

“Oh, don’t be rude,” Jon said, “making Martin into a caricature of himself. You like Martin, you told me so.”

“Counterpoint,” Sasha said weakly, “the bullpen has Jon. And I really don’t want to explain this to Jon.”

“I don’t even know who this one is,” the man said. “What? Not going to tell me?”

“Okay, like, fucking rude, but whatever.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking to,” Tim said firmly, reaching out and putting a firm hand on the man’s arm. The man didn’t recoil or jerk away, just looking down in vague surprise. “But they aren’t here right now. You’re in the basement of the Magnus Institute, alright? I’m Tim Stoker, at your service, and these are my coworkers. I think you have a brain injury. If you can walk, we need to get you -”

“I can’t eat here,” the man said, but he made no effort to remove Tim’s arm. He moved his other hand, pressing it against Tim’s own, as if they were friends. “Cutting me off from my Knowledge -” it was capitalized, Sasha could hear it “ - chaining me to my desk, for - what? You’re not even answering me? Come on!” The man’s voice raised, and for the first time Sasha could hear something ragged in it. “Don’t give me the silent treatment!”

“Jon.”

It was Martin, standing at a distance from the man - from all of them. He was wringing his hands again, shoulders hunched and tense, but his expression was caught in that same mysterious firmness. 

The man didn't react. Not in surprise, not in shock, not in unrecognition. He just scowled a little, ignoring all of them. 

“Jon,” Martin said, louder. “This isn’t solving anything. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I’m not the one being stubborn, Martin,” Jon - Jon?! - muttered, folding his arms. Like an infant. Like, hypothetically, something Jon would do. “I just don’t think omniscient fear gods should be petty.”

Everybody looked at each other. 

“This needs tea,” Martin proclaimed finally, and everybody nodded in silent agreement.

Every nodded in agreement - even, strangely enough, Jonathan Sims himself. 

****

This plan had a few complexities. 

The first complexity was dealing with Jon - their Boss - himself. In an act of cunning psychological warfare, Martin had gone ahead of them and used his endless and infinite subtle acts of manipulation to guarantee that Jon wouldn’t interrupt them. This situation was already Quite A Bit, nobody wanted to babysit their boss. 

Who Sasha frequently felt as if she babysat a bit. Having the youngest person in the office be the very rigid and authoritarian boss was objectively a little funny. But you know what’s not funny? Transphobia. 

Eventually Martin came back and waved them forward, and Tim gently yet firmly dragged the man upwards and put a hand on his back. 

“Do you mind if I touch you?” Tim asked. He sounded resigned about it - barely expecting Jon to respond. “Let me know how you want me to guide you.”

“Oh, it’s whatever. If you’re going to play it this way.” Jon easily looped his arm through Tim’s, who didn’t bother to mask his shock. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Sasha went ahead of them, watching Tim walk Jon down the aisle - hah! - with his arm looped through his elbow and a hand on his back. It was exactly the kind of care and meticulousness that Sasha always saw in him when it came to others. He literally walked grannies across the street. It was horrendous. She got second-hand embarrassed whenever she saw it.

Tim was loudly, extremely, messily kind. He was a person who adopted lost causes, like young men too grumpy to make real friends and women who only knew academia and never people. Sasha told him that once he got his teeth into something he never let go. It would get him into trouble one day. Maybe it already had. 

Sure enough, when Sasha opened the library door for them and peeked her head into the hallway, she saw that Jon’s office door was very firmly shut and locked. Even more incriminatingly, she heard his cute little theater drama monologues starting. Tim had found Jon’s theater aspirations very adorable and he had tried recording them to put on his Snapchat and maybe get him discovered by an agent, but unfortunately the videos made Tim’s phone bleed. They had given Martin ten pounds to taste the blood. Man would do anything for ten pounds, but seeing as they all worked this job that probably applied to all them. 

A workplace made out of people who always picked ‘dare’ in truth or dare. It was kind of a miracle they were still alive. Sasha was a little uncertain how she had survived to thirty five, actually. 

Once Sasha gave the all clear, Tim was able to bring Jon (Neo-Jon? Nega-Jon? Dark Jon? Mean Jon? No, that was just Jon) into the bullpen. Softly narrating what he was doing, he pulled out a chair and lowered Jon into it. 

Homeless Jon hasn’t been blind for very long, Sasha noted clinically. Long enough that he seemed more mildly irritated by it than anything else, but instead of orienting himself or testing out where he was he just kind of slumped in his chair. 

“Jon - uh, the Boss is taken care of?” Tim asked Martin, who was rapidly bustling into the bullpen with four cups of tea that he seemed to be under the impression would help. Tim had sat Homeless Jon in Martin’s chair, which seemed to fluster Martin a bit. 

“Uh, yeah. Gave him a normal statement to get his guard down, then five of the - you know, weird - statements and said that he has to go through all of them today. He’ll be in there for an hour at least.” 

Sasha frowned. “After two he gets a headache and gets bitchy.”

“Three o’clock exactly,” Tim said solemnly.

“Oh, leave off,” Homeless Jon said, “it wasn’t that bad.”

Everybody double taked and looked at each other significantly - which was quickly becoming their predominant mode of communication in a ruthless act of ableism. But Martin just held out a cup of tea, faltering as he clearly stopped to wonder the easiest way to give it to him. 

“Can you hold out your hands, Jon? I have some tea for you. It’s hot, so be careful, okay?”

“If the tea’s spiders I’m going to take it out on Annabelle,” Weird Jon said, but he held out his hands anyway and let Martin put the mug in them. He sniffed it cautiously, checking for spiders, before taking a cautious sip. 

To Sasha and Tim, Martin said, “I know, he’s going to fall asleep after two. I mean, it might be because I drugged his tea a little -”

Weird Jon spat out his tea back into the mug. 

“ - so we shouldn’t be interrupted,” Martin said brightly, clapping his hands. “Now! I think it’s time for explanations, don’t you?” He turned his mighty gaze upon Thankfully Blind Jon, who was occupied carefully holding the tea away from himself. “Drink your tea, Jon.”

Jon drank his tea. His expression twisted. “It tastes just like his.”

Everybody looked at each other. Tim mouthed the word ‘time traveller’ very clearly. Both Sasha and Martin nodded. It was the obvious explanation. 

“An explanation now, please,” Martin said pleasantly. “If you’re a time traveller, you can tell us. This is a safe space.”

Jon-from-the-future’s expression harshened in creases. He hadn’t once relaxed, expression permanently tightened in annoyance and disgruntlement. It was ridiculously Jon. 

Definitely a time traveller. You didn’t work at the Magnus Institute without secretly spending your life deeply hoping you run into a time traveller. Every researcher upstairs secretly prayed to discover the majesty. Everyone in Artifact Storage eagerly gathered around mysterious clocks and dared each other to touch them. Sasha, Queen of Truth-or-Dare, was the undisputed expert in making other people touch weird clocks and recording their reactions.

“Fine,” Super Time Traveller Jon said. “I know this is what you want. Statement of a stupid punishment by the pettiest little color in the evil crayon box. Recorded by the Archivist, in situ. Statement begins.”

Wow, Jon still had his job in the future? That’s a surprise. 

Martin was mouthing the word ‘evil crayon box’ to himself, looking increasingly concerned. The forgotten tape recorder, clenched in Sasha’s fist without her even realizing it, clicked and whirred. 

Then the Archivist began to speak. 

***

In the hazy amber of a memory, there exists an office.

You can see it clearly in your mind’s Eye, even now. You could likely navigate all of it blindfolded - which you now see that your god has the intention to test. Every corner of it is known to you, in the most subtle and mundane of ways. There’s a dust bunny in that corner, never tidied. A mysterious stain on the far right ceiling. The faint smell of blood, just under the vents. The hot waft of tea; your hands wrapped around a mug. 

Through these lonely offices, ghosts roam. They cling to desks and chairs; lingering in favorite mugs or in forgotten hair ties. A metal file cabinet holding neat rows of clothing, blood-stained jackets abandoned. A whiteboard with stubborn flakes of dried marker, forgotten handwriting clinging to life. These imprints no longer evoke terror or grief or pain. They are as familiar as the bloodstains and tea. Even death, eventually, is familiar. After long enough in a nightmare, it becomes indistinguishable from reality. 

There is nothing unfamiliar in the Magnus Institute.

Nothing save these voices, emerging from nothing. Every one of your six million senses have been cut off - your hundred eyes reduced to none. You are cognizant only of two familiar voices, and one unfamiliar one. A firm hand, with calloused fingers from leafing through aged paper. A creaky desk chair - Martin’s, undoubtedly, always squeaking as he fidgeted in distraction. The air tastes the same as it used to back then, before the AC broke and no repairman would step inside to repair it. Daisy did, eventually. Three familiar voices, rendered unfamiliar by the harsh tides of wind and cruel plastic hands. 

You are afraid of very little, these days. In this world that you’ve built, there is nothing that can harm you. The twisted little puppet strung up in his tower has been long since been disposed of, and the awful and terrifying future has settled into a gentle present. The apocalypse grows tedious after a while, and the buffet of fears start tasting a little samey.

But if anything could frighten you, this would. If anything would petrify you, it would be Tim’s kind smile, which died a year before Tim did. If anything could freeze you to your chair, it would be the sight of Sasha with red-rimmed eyes asking why you never even noticed that she was gone. 

The sanctuary of memory corrupted. A mental place of safety infiltrated. A mind turned inside out, exposing its vulnerable flesh to the world. 

There is nothing else this could be but your own personal hell. 

Your loyal servant crouches on bended knee, giving this final prayer to you. He asks, humbly and with great reverence, one simple question:

Why couldn’t this have waited until after I got my milk?

***

The spell ruptured.

It was almost tangible, like a change in air pressure making your ears pop. Sasha blinked harshly, rubbing at her ears and trying to soothe strange ringing. Tim exhaled heavily and Martin screwed his eyes open and shut harshly, as if he was seeing spots. 

The only person unaffected was Weirdly Christian Jon, who was slumped in Martin’s chair with his arms folded over his chest. He was still looking at the ceiling - speaking to whoever he had been addressing this entire time. 

“Just one day,” Jon was saying. “Just one day! It was going to be a nice day! We had decided to take a day trip to the Flesh garden and have a picnic! My darling and beautiful husband was going to make us a cake! ‘Walk down to the Hell corner store’, my husband says. ‘Pick us up some Eldritch milk’, he says. ‘Why do I have to do it’, I says, ‘I’m in the middle of something’. ‘We need cake for bridge night with the girls and I’ll divorce you if you don’t do it’, he says. I didn’t even change out of my nightmare pyjamas! What did I ever do to you? How are you still upset about the eye thing?”

Sasha and the Assistants, still digesting the extremely disturbing monologue, let him talk. Sasha was caught up in how it felt exactly like Jon’s little drama monologues. Granted, he had obviously gotten a lot more practice - guy could go to Broadway - but the weird lilting and falling sing-songyness was just the same. And he only ever did that for the very weird ones. The ones that they were pretty certain were actually true. 

So that probably meant at one point in the future, if Jon was speaking about the Archives as if they had worked there for years. Probably during the apocalypse. Which was happening. Which Jon had...built? Like, as a personal thing, or in a metaphor for capitalism and the human race? Definitely the capitalism thing - Jon was prone to flights of filing-induced passion that sometimes accidentally resulted in a stapler flying and punching a hole through the wall, but she couldn’t even imagine him even purposefully punching someone, much less being the Antichrist. Unless it was one of those things that just happened to you, like a rare genetic defect. 

“Seriously. What was the alternative here? Endless horrorterrors, everybody screaming all the time? It was boring. You eat one Statement about somebody standing in line at a slaughterhouse conveyor belt and you’ve eaten them all. I didn’t do it because I didn’t like you, although for the record I don’t. But you have to admit that having Eldritch Lidls are much more practical than just having a bunch of people lying around screaming all the time. It’s not as if I don’t have other eyes, I hardly miss them. There’s no chocolate cakes in the swirling vortex of mankind’s worst nightmares!”

Okay. They had to find a way to engage with this guy. He was completely ignoring them, probably because he thought that they were mean ghosts. Sasha was only one of those things, and it was hurting her feelings. Judging from the expression on Tim’s face he was thinking the same thing. 

Or - wait, Sasha knew that eyebrow. That was the ‘please please please tell the apocalypse has zombies’ eyebrow. Great. 

But Martin was just looking thoughtful again. Sasha was pretty proud of him - it was probably very difficult for the poor man to remain coherent in the face of the crazy time-traveller who was definitely hotter than their already objectively unfairly hot boss. 

“Jon,” Martin said, cutting Jon’s tired rant about how eggs benedict were much better these days, “Uh, I have an idea? Maybe you can’t get out of the - nightmare by bargaining with it. Do you know how to normally escape these things?”

Jon angled his head down and frowned in Martin’s direction. So far Martin seemed to be the only person who could shut Jon up, which was a hilarious turnaround from normal life. Sasha hadn’t heard anything about Martin being a sad little ghost, but it was hard to believe that Martin was a survivor in the zombie apocalypse. 

“You go through the statement and you walk through it,” Jon said, in a very ‘duh’ kind of way. “Give the statement, highfive corpses, whatever.”

“Right, right.” Martin wrung his hands, biting at his lip. “So maybe it’s like that. Maybe instead of asking to be let out - you just have to walk through it. Like - like it’s a maze. Does that make sense? I’m not sure, it’s just an idea.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Right as always, Martin.” Everybody’s jaw dropped, and Martin squeaked. “Fine, fine. Let’s...interact with the evil ghosts.” Jon gestured out with his arms, in a very ‘come at me bro’ gesture. “Go ahead and shoot. Hit me with how much you hate me and how disappointed you are that I never amounted to anything and started the apocalypse.”

Finally! Interrogation time! 

But before Sasha could finally find out if global warming had killed the world, Tim jumped in. “Are there zombies in the apocalypse?!” Tim cried, way too excited. “Is it like the Walking Dead? Or is it more Last of Us?”

Jon squinted in Tim’s direction. “Define zombie.”

“...hunger for human flesh, shambling, gross looking?” Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t seen any zombie movies.”

“I’m omniscient, I’ve seen every zombie movie,” Jon lied blatantly. “I just think that you’re - you know, stereotyping. Sometimes people are the undead and eat humans and they’re - they’re very normal people.”

“Yeah, Tim, be sensitive,” Sasha said gleefully. She put the tape recorder on Martin’s desk, deciding that she would definitely need a transcript of this interview later. Also maybe ask more questions about that omniscient thing, but she was sure Jon was just exaggerating. If you asked Jon today if he was the smartest person on Earth he’d probably say yes. Jon wasn’t even the smartest person in the room.

For good measure, she drew out her little notebook from her pencil skirt pocket, flipping through it looking for a clean page. “The Archives have never gotten a time traveller before. This is unprecedented in its history.” Well, she really didn’t know what Gertrude had gotten up to, but she dearly hoped it wasn’t this. “Do you have any warnings? Desperate messages from a ruined world, that kind of thing?”

“I’m not a time traveller,” Jon said flatly, “so no.”

Everybody stared at him in abject pity.

“Mate,” Tim said sympathetically, “it’s 2015. You’re a time traveller.”

“No, I’m in a pocket hell dimension in a period beyond time and space,” Jon corrected arrogantly. “Time travel doesn’t exist.”

“The apocalypse exists but time travel doesn’t exist?” Martin cried. “That’s so unfair! Like, give us something, you know?”

“Your life is very hard,” the extratemporal reject said. 

Typical Jon. A classic case of time travel and here he was denying it. Sasha crossed her arms, upset that they were wasting time debating temporal physics when they could be talking about zombies. She was a historian and had priorities. “Your denial ain’t cute, mate. You’re just wasting all of our time.” Jon opened his mouth, but Sasha steamrolled over him. “You want evidence, right? Do you need to, like, touch my face? Make sure that I’m not a sexy ghost?”

“That’s a stereotype that nobody actually does,” Jon said. 

“Insensitive as always, Sasha,” Martin condemned. 

“How else are we going to prove it to him?” Sasha said, somewhat defensively. “It’s not as if we have any evidence that we’re not sexy ghosts.”

With utmost care and incredible gentleness, Tim reached out an open hand and gently smooshed it into Jon’s face.

Jon slumped in his seat, arms folded, unimpressed. 

“No mortal who is not my darling husband has dared to touch me since I became the Antichrist,” Jon said.

“I don’t know,” Tim said, withdrawing his hand and looking at Sasha. “What’s more unbelievable: Jon as the Antichrist or Jon with a husband?”

“Jon’s gay?” Martin cried, face beet red. “Gay Jon? Gay Jon real?”

“So, like, how do you get the Antichrist gig?” Sasha asked as she silently passed Tim a fiver. Her queerdar had never been so wrong. “Is it like an adventurer quest you can do or would you call it more of a rare genetic disorder thing?”

“Definitely rare genetic disorder.”

“Then does that mean that our Jon also has the Antichrist gene?” Tim asked, alarmed. “You’d never think so just looking at him! It’s always the quiet ones.”

“No, this makes sense,” Martin said.

Tim stared at him. “So, is that, like, a negative for you, or a positive…?”

Martin’s silence was incriminating. 

“It’s a positive,” Jon said helpfully, startling everyone. They had conveniently forgotten not to talk about one very horny man’s very horny crush in front of sad grumpy time travelling crush. “He’s into it.”

“Wow, Jon,” Tim said, “what would your husband say?”

In a completely pointless show of sass, Jon rolled his eyes. “My useless husband is likely much more concerned with how I managed to get trapped in a nightmare dimension on my way back from the Hell corner store.” He waved a hand absently. “So, if we can hurry this up? Get started on the whole torturing me thing? Right now you’re just on track to annoying me to death.”

“We annoy you to death now!” Tim exclaimed, as Martin’s eyes boggled. “Isn’t that more proof for the time traveller theory?”

“It wasn’t annoying,” Jon said curtly. “I secretly enjoyed it. I always felt a little bad that I wasn’t included. Or wouldn’t let myself be included.”

That, abruptly, made everyone feel a little bad. Not guilty, seeing as Jon neither wanted nor deserved their affection, but just kind of bad. Future Jon didn’t seem any happier than regular Jon. Sasha liked to imagine that if she was trapped in an indeterminate period in time and space in a post-apoc hellscape, she’d at least be having fun.

Everybody looked at each other, equally a little uncomfortable. Tim was the one who finally took control of the situation, as the self-appointed Jon & Everyone Else mediator. He had taken up the mantle years ago and worse it with pride, and occasional exhaustion. 

“Look,” Tim said, as reasonably as possible. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, this was super cool and awesome time travel. Let’s also say maybe this was completely baller and you’re from a post apoc future where everyone wears leather.”

“That’s just Melanie.”

“Put it down as one person who wears leather in the future!” Tim cried, and Sasha obediently jotted it down.”But let’s just put all of this in a hypothetical situation where you aren’t...uh, in a bad dream? So would there, hypothetically, be a way to stop the apocalypse or something?”

Jesus christ. What a try-hard. 

Sasha crossed her arms, glaring at Tim. From next to her, Martin looked just as peeved. “Seriously, dude? Like we can just up and stop capitalism?”

“I don’t want responsibility for stopping the apocalypse,” Martin protested. “I can barely navigate the bus system. What if the Terminator comes after my mother or something?”

“You’ll be a bit better off, frankly,” Jon said. Martin nodded, conceding the point, before looking faintly disturbed. 

“But he said that he caused it,” Tim protested. “Maybe the power of friendship can fix this? I mean, the apocalypse is cool, but I feel like this is the part where we’re all badasses and we fight evil or something.” Tim’s eyes widened. “That’s what the Magnus Institute is for. To stop the apocalypse!”

“Every day I feel a slight sense of emptiness due to my internalized guilt about your death, but you are usually wrong about things,” Jon said flatly, which seemed to both perk Tim up and depress him slightly. “And no. There’s nothing you can do. There’s no one event that precipitated the apocalypse; no rules of engagement. You are puppets on strings, indulging in the fantasy of free will. Yes, Sasha, the apocalypse is capitalism.”

Everybody stood in slightly depressed silence over this. Sasha, personally, was a little relieved. She really didn’t have to deal with the whole ‘preventing the apocalypse’ thing. She’d rather spend the finals days of the world in hedonism, frankly. 

Really, the unique providence of the millennial was to live your entire life half-way convinced you were in the twilight years of the world. This hedonism and apathy was second nature. Or maybe the apathy was a Leitner - Sasha had lost track of that too. 

“Aw, man,” Martin said, summarizing the abstract and complex feelings deftly and succinctly. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, this blows,” Tim agreed. “So should I buy my muscle car now, or later, or what?”

Then Martin and Tim started arguing over fuel efficiency in the apocalypse, and Jon royally checked out of the conversation. Sasha imagined that he was internally having a bit of a Saving Private Ryan moment where flashbacks of bombshells exploded behind his eyelids or whatever the fuck. The important thing is that everyone was distracted, and Sasha could finally check up on their most important gambit of the day: making sure Jon wasn’t bothering them. 

Sasha listened carefully for the sounds of Jon’s little theater monologues, and caught only faint hints of sound. She slipped past everyone into the hallway and approached Jon’s office door, pressing her ear against the cheap wood. But she didn’t need to worry: he was still reciting away, oblivious to the actual interesting shit that was happening outside his door. Jon was a delicate plant, you couldn’t stress him out too much or he would die. Hopefully Martin’s drugged tea would kick in soon -

But Antichrist Jon’s head jerked towards her, directly behind him, and Sasha saw his unfocused green eyes fixate directly on her. No, not on her - on the door, or something beyond it. For just a second, his eyes flared a sharp and toxic green. 

“There you are,” Creepy Jon hissed. 

Well, sorry for leaving rooms without telling him, but she hadn’t thought that he even noticed, much less got resentful about it. But Weird Jon was standing up with no hesitation, and effortlessly swerved around Martin’s desk and stalked into the hallway. For the first time, his expression looked a little dangerous. It was bizarre and off putting, like seeing a ragged yet murderous two meter kitten. 

He reached out an arm and let it trail across the wall, stopping short when he felt it hit wood instead of plaster. Tim and Martin surged forward to stop him, yelling warnings, but Sasha quickly stepped back. She never impeded the timeless march of science and progress. Sasha had done far worse in Artifact Storage for knowledge. 

Jon brushed his hand down the door until it hit the doorknob and angrily twisted it, heaving the door open with unnecessary force. Tim and Martin spilled into the hallway as Angry Jon stalked inside, and Sasha eagerly hung in the door frame for a front row seat into the drama. 

“This is your fault,” Jon intoned dangerously, directly in the face of a deathly affronted Jon. 

In the spirit of the First Directive, Sasha heroically stretched out an arm and prevented Tim and Martin from spilling into the office. It was the right call. Jon stalked forward into the office, hair whipping in a nonexistent wind, expression obscured but undoubtedly thunderous, advancing on the terrified Archivist, as -

He tripped over a chair left carelessly in the center of the office, rocketing forward to land flatly on his face. 

Beside her, Martin went white as a sheet. “Oh no.”

Simultaneously, in complete and total unison, Jon and the Archivist yelled, “Martin!”

****

Jon and the Archivist sat across from each other, exuding waves of pure mutual hatred.

Tim had quickly helped the Archivist up, moving the chair forward and getting him situated there. The Archivist’s mood was not improved by any of this. Which was difficult enough to handle by itself, if manageable. Sasha knew how to manage grumpy time travelling blind Antichrists who had gotten lost on their way to the corner store.

She even knew how to handle their boss, who was extremely grumpy about being harassed by a random homeless person with nice hair. Jon hated statement givers at the best of times, much less seemingly homeless ex-corpses. Or, well, Sasha didn’t know if he was an ex-corpse, but he was certainly an animate one. 

They were both being so annoying about it Sasha was trying to determine if she should change their nicknames to something more derogatory. Thing 1 and Thing 2? Too long. 

Both of them were very grumpy about the fact that Martin had pushed aside the chair for guests in front of Jon’s desks when he deposited the drugged tea, accidentally moving it close to the center of the office. Jon had known this because he saw it happen. The Archivist had known this because he, apparently, knew Martin very well. 

Today had really been a bonding experience with Sasha, Martin, and Tim. Their skill at silent communication had reached borderline telepathy. They all looked at each other significantly as the Jons were caught in their mutual dyad of hatred, silently commiserating over the fact that their one goal had been spoiled by the greatest wildcard of all. Sasha privately liked to consider herself somewhat of a wildcard, but she was depressingly aware that the entire Archive team was composed of wildcards. Maybe that’s why half of them didn’t survive the apocalypse. 

It was a little unlikely that Jon was a survivor/instigator in the zombie apocalypse, actually. Dude definitely would have bit it if he wasn’t cheating with Antichrist powers. Now, if Sasha had Antichrist powers, this whole game would be looking very different -

“Boss, this is a statement giver,” Tim hinted desperately, hands clenched so hard on the back of the Archivist’s chair that his knuckles were turning white. “Remember what Elias said about statement givers? About how we can’t harass them?”

“I was in the middle of a recording and this man was unnecessarily confrontational,” Jon said crisply. Sasha caught her eye jumping frantically back and forth between the two, trying to reconcile them. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Martin’s horny surety, she wouldn’t have realized that they were the same person at all. The Archivist’s most defining attribute was his big and fluffy hair, and Jon was sadly lacking in the nice hair department. That fade and twists were the shackle around his ankle. So was the sweater vest, baggy tweed jacket, and ill-fitting.“He’s lucky I’m not throwing him out.”

Martin, who looked as if he was having his tenth gay crisis of the morning, didn’t seem to hold the same opinion, but he was king of bad taste anyway. 

“Remember what Elias said about harassing confused, blind statement givers? Remember that? Boss?”

Jon looked confused. “He didn’t specify the community of people with disabilities.”

“It was implied? Jon?”

“The optics would be terrible,” Sasha said, before snickering. Martin stomped on her foot. She stomped on his back, which definitely hurt a lot more. “Look, Jon, sorry about all of this. He was just - uh - really insistent that he talk to you -”

“I think if our visitor hassles Jon then maybe, objectively, you can say that Jon brought it on himself,” Martin said, in a daring show of anti-Jon sentiment.

This act of subtle rebellion was the first thing that broke the Archivist out of his cycle of hatred. He threw out a hand, bowling over Jon’s desktop cup of pens and sending them tumbling over the desk. Sasha saw him specifically orient his hand to do so. “Thank you, Martin! Your understanding of paraphysics is always immaculate.”

“Wow, really?”

“Stop complimenting my assistants,” Jon hissed, frantically diving to save his pens. “And stop - gesticulating over my desk! You did that on purpose!”

“Harassing the blind, Jon!”

“You don’t even need to tearfully blame me for how I ruined your life,” the Archivist said flatly. “You existing in my vicinity is torment enough.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Sasha said, before pausing a beat. “I meant the first part, ha ha ha, obviously -”

“This man is a very normal statement giver who will be leaving any minute now,” Martin jumped in, “so there’s really no reason for us all to fight, when you think about it -”

“If you all don’t get out of my office, you are all fired -”

“You are listening.”

Everybody stopped talking at once, staring at the Archivist. He was still staring intently ahead, straight into his counterpart. Jon was hiding it, quite badly, but he was unsettled. He hadn’t even acknowledged that he and the man looked alike - the thought undoubtedly running through his brain and soundly dismissed - but it was clearly rattling him. But there was something else that was scaring him too - maybe the Archivist’s green eyes, so foreign from his own brown? His intense and furious expression, like cut glass? The particularly strange and heavy feeling in the air, prickling down the back of Sasha’s neck?

He hadn’t even stopped the recorder. 

“You are here,” the Archivist continued calmly. “You were listening in. Why you were listening in on him, and his regurgitated aftertaste of Statements, I do not know. I felt you, and I came to you. We cannot forsake each other. Do not hide yourself from me.”

The effect was immediate. 

The Archivist’s neck snapped forward, so harshly he cracked his head on Jon’s desk. Strangely enough, Jon screamed too, holding a hand to his temple as if he was suddenly pierced by a blinding headache. Tim immediately bent down to check on Archivist, making sure that he hadn’t hurt himself, as Martin bustled around the desk to check on Jon. Jon batted his hands away, scowling, so he was just fine. But the Archivist didn’t groan, or stir, or moan. He just lay there, still and limp, and when Tim shook him he didn’t even tense. 

The air was heavy, a tang of metal in her mouth like the crackle before a storm, and Sasha couldn’t fight a shiver. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Jon, either: the way he stared at the Archivist, hand on his forehead, eyes wide and growing wider. 

“Dad…?”

When the Archivist stirred, the spell was broken, and Jon’s mouth snapped shut so quickly it was as if he had never spoken at all. He turned his head and moaned, eyes opening uselessly. They were back to their usual toxic green, no flaring or flashing. 

“Mar’in? Where…”

“I’m here,” Martin said quickly, and ducked around the desk to grab the Archivist’s hand and squeeze. For just a second, Jon looked a little jealous. Sasha had the sense that Jon had never been mothered than anyone other than Martin and Tim, and the prospect confused and frightened him so much he reacted aggressively to it. “Everything alright? You hit your head.”

“How many eyes?” the Archivist asked weakly. 

“...physically, or functionally?”

But the Archivist just ran his burned hand over his smooth hand, kneading it and feeling the skin. “Still gone. Damn it.” He straightened, grimacing and spitting out a stray tendril of hair out of his mouth. “So it’s true…”

“So what’s true?” Tim asked urgently. “Do you finally believe us about the time travel thing? Because man, I have so many questions -”

He didn’t get the opportunity to say anything. The Archivist reached out a hand, fingers brushing against his shirt, and the Archivist’s hand abruptly clenched on the fabric. Tightly, roughly, the Archivist pulled him down and extended his other arm, and caught Tim in an awkward and lopsided hug. 

Tim carefully straightened him and returned the hug, gracing the Archivist with the patented Perfect Stoker Hug, and the Archivist buried his face in Tim’s shoulder. His chest didn’t heave, and his breath didn’t catch, but the element of desperation was pungent and unmistakable. 

“You were right,” Jon whispered. “We messed it all up.”

“Sure, yeah, totally!” Tim said, clapping the Archivist on the back in a masculine, yet sensitive way. “So, does this mean the zombie apocalypse is totally a-go, or…”

“Sasha,” the Archivist said, and Sasha chose to ignore her own personal distaste for hugs and being touched so she could step forward and hug him too. 

He clutched onto her just as tightly as he had Tim, which surprised her a little. Jon and Tim had probably been best friends in the future, and Sasha couldn’t imagine her and Jon ever truly being close. He respected her as a colleague, but that was probably because Sasha purposefully left her manuscripts around the office and aggressively used as many big words in front of him as possible. Jon had always been an obstacle to her - innocently stupid at best, malicious at worst. To think that he would grip her so tightly…

With meticulous care, the Archivist separated from her. His expression was crumpled, and for the first time Sasha saw something over than aggravation or impatience in Jon’s face. Relaxed and soft, he looked like a different man. No - he was a different man, it was just apparent. The change softened his sharp lines into something a little friendlier; his striking exterior melting into something pretty instead of imposing. 

Slowly, he raised his hand a little to tangle it in her hair. He frowned a little, gently tugging at it and feeling it spring back into place. “So it was curly…like mine…”

A lot of little hints snowballed into one strange and foreign realization. “Do you not remember me?”

“Dolls stole your identity,” the Archivist said apologetically. 

“Like credit card fraud, or -”

“Metaphysically.” He paused guiltily. “I mourned you as an abstract concept?”

“Like I’m every woman in Hollywood?” Sasha screeched, outraged. This was not trans rights. “Alright, royally fuck that. Feel my hair, mister. Full permission to touch it. Feel that? You call that abstract?” The Archivist shook his head, eyes wide, and Sasha gently moved his hand to rest on the top of her head. “Taller than you in eight cm heels, remember? You asked me how I walked in them, and I said -”

“ - Barbie’s Princess Charm School,” the Archivist said automatically, eyes widening. “I do remember.”

Martin clearly waited around to be tenderly embraced, and was disappointed. 

The Archivist stepped away from Sasha, expression creased in furious thought. “So it’s real. So far as anything’s real, I suppose. But I don’t understand how -” the Archivist’s eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers in realization. “The manhole!”

Everybody stared at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said pleasantly, “what is going on -”

“I was walking down the street, and I remember hearing city work!” the Archivist said brightly. “They were doing their monthly ‘clearing the gators out of the sewer pipes’ maintenance! And the Beholding told me that there was an open manhole, and I said oh it’ll be fine, I’m a demigod on Earth, I don’t fall down manholes - and then -”

The door to Jon’s office dramatically crashed open, and everybody jumped straight in the air. Jon, whose office had seen two more incredibly theatrical entrances than usual today, immediately bristled and opened his mouth to earn them all another harassment complaint, before he abruptly shut his mouth. 

It was Elias, their miniature and unspeakably boring boss extraordinaire. He stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the doorframe, suit jacket askew and chest heaving. Had he ran down here?

“Is someone here?” the Archivist asked. 

“Uh, yeah,” Tim said, stepping forward cautiously. “It’s our boss, Mr. Bouchard. Elias, we’re taking a statement, can we help - ?”

“How did that get here?” Elias asked, voice strangely tense and coiled. “How did you - not even I could -”

“That makes sense!” Martin cried, thumping a fist on his open palm. “Elias wants to time travel just as much as everyone else in the Institute!”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, pathetically behind, “time travel -”

“Did the time traveller sensor alarms in the basement go off?” Sasha asked, surprised. “I thought only Artifact Storage had those.”

“Uh, Mr. Statement Giver, are you okay?” Tim asked, but it was already too late.

The Archivist had turned to face Elias, expression unreadable. Sasha felt that crackle again, weighing down the air, and she saw the Archivist’s hair puff and frizz slightly with a green crackle. His neon green pupils shone again and spun, like an infernal wheel. 

“What’s wrong, Elias?” the Archivist mocked, as energy coursed through him. “Upset that Mama has a new favorite?”

And Sasha saw in that moment that the Archivist, who possessed the most inhuman green eyes she had ever seen, had eyes the same shade as Elias. 

“Oh, man,” Sasha said, “is Elias a time traveller too?”

“Only in the most mundane way. Can’t even get a little bit of special attention, Elias? Sad!” It was second-hand thrilling to watch someone mock their boss, living the dreams of everyone in the room. Even if it was a little weird how much Jon seemed to hate this guy - nobody hated Elias, just like nobody liked him, and nobody had any strong feelings at all besides unpromoted women.

 At the door, Elias’ expression was slack in - amazement? Was amazement the right word? He was staring at Jon as if...words didn’t even describe it. At least in any way that Sasha wanted to think about. 

“Mr. Bouchard, I swear I can explain,” Sasha, who could not explain, said hurriedly. “We found this corpse and we were going to tell you, but -”

But the Archivist cut her off, as if nothing was less important than explaining himself to Elias. “Did you want to know how to stop the apocalypse, Sasha?”

Sasha froze. Martin and Tim did too. Jon, who nobody had actually bothered to brief since he was kind of the fifth most important person in the room, dropped his pen. “Uh,” Sasha said, sweating. For the first time she understood the possible upsides of not knowing something. “I mean, if I have to, but you said that it was inevitable -”

“Oh, yes. But, just once every one or two centuries, a man comes along who fancies himself fate.” The Archivist raised a hand, eyes spinning and spinning, as Elias stood frozen in the doorframe. “I’ll be honest, Jonah. This isn’t to save the world. That’s so last year. I just really fucking hate you.” Something cracked in the air. “Ceaseless watcher, smite this -”

The door slammed shut. Sasha heard Elias lock it behind him. They all stood around as footsteps quickly echoed through the Archives, and another door slammed. Which was probably being locked too. 

They stood in silence, the Archivist having clearly heard the slams. He let his hand fall, but the energy didn’t cease crackling around him. He didn’t look resentful or disappointed - just thoughtful. 

“Everything in due time, I suppose. I guess it is pretty unfair to get to smite that man twice,” the Archivist said thoughtfully. “I’ll give someone else a turn.” His mouth twitched wryly. “You know, Sasha, there’s one other way to prevent the apocalypse.”

“Is it work?” Sasha asked tiredly. 

“You may kill the man who arranged the dominos,” the Archivist intoned, before hanging his head towards a petrified Jon. “Or you may kill the man who toppled them over.”

Sasha stared at Jon. Jon stared back, frozen like a deer in headlights.

Martin silently passed Sasha a penknife from Jon’s desk. 

“I’m very qualified for this job,” Jon protested weakly.

“Queen of feminism, I very much support you,” Tim said quickly, putting himself in between Sasha and Jon in a heroic display of stupidity, “but, maybe, killing your boss to take his job, is perhaps, maybe not that much of a great idea, just a thought?”

“The job’s being the Antichrist,” the Archivist pointed out, crossing his arms. 

“The direct action against sexism, xenophobia, and transphobia is very admirable,” Tim said, eyes held up as if he was placating a tiger, “but think of it this way - if you kill the Antichrist, then you become the Antichrist, like in - uh -”

“Pokemon,” Martin volunteered. 

Tim snapped his fingers. “Pokemon! So you shouldn’t -” He halted, turning back to Martin. “Pokemon? Seriously? That’s becoming champion -”

“A - alright, alright! Everybody stop!” Jon shakily stood up, brushing aside the empty tea mug right next to him. “That’s enough of all of this! I may not know what’s going on, or who this man is, or why he looks like me -”

“Hm,” Martin said, eyeing the empty tea mug. 

“ - why he looks like a homeless person, why he barged into my office and insulted me, why you are all defending this atrocious behavior, why you are calling it the work of time travel, which does not exist and you have no proof for it anyway -”

“Jon,” Martin said, watching Jon’s arm tremble, “maybe you should -”

“Shut up, Martin!”

“Don’t be rude to him!” the Archivist snapped. 

“You’ve been rude to him twice today!”

“I’m allowed to be rude to him! He’s even ruder to me! I’m the nice one!”

“ - and you were glowing in my office, which is just frankly rude,” Jon continued viciously, steamrolling over the Archivist. “You gave me a terrible headache, you hugged my assistants very inappropriately for the workplace, you made my boss walk in before trying to smite him, you encourage violence against my own person in revenge for a job that I definitely deserve -”

Both of Jon’s arms were shaking, and Tim’s eyebrows were slowly raising. “Boss, you should sit down, I think -”

“ - I want an explanation!” Jon yelled, slamming the desk. “And I’m not going to stop until you tell me what’s going on!”

Then Jon passed out. 

Everybody watched it happen. Everybody, save perhaps the Archivist, had noticed that it was about to happen: at first a tremor, then a shake, and then a final collapse. Like a marionette with his strings cut, Jon slumped over and crumpled solidly on the floor. 

Everybody stood in disaffected silence. Martin carefully stepped over and prodded Jon with his foot. “Out cold.” He shot a considering gaze at the empty tea mug. “Sorry, guys. Looks like I accidentally used the delayed action sedative.”

"It’s alright,” Tim said magnanimously. “At least that problem is solved now. Maybe we can convince him this was a bad dream when he wakes up.”

“If he insists it was real, we’ll just ask him for evidence and refuse to believe him without it,” Sasha suggested. 

“Isn’t that kinda gaslighting?” Martin asked. “Isn’t that, you know, a little morally dubious -”

“You did drug him,” Tim pointed out.

“I mean, hardly the first time?”

“Maybe Martin should be the Antichrist,” Sasha said thoughtfully.

The Archivist’s face was doing something extremely interesting, yet inscrutable.

“I really don’t want to be Antichrist, though,” Martin said apologetically. “Does it even pay?”

“Jon did say it was a job…” Sasha said, already considering herself in the role. “Do you guys think I’d be sexier as the Antichrist? Be honest.”

“Yes and completely,” Tim said immediately, before realizing that he said that too quickly. “I mean. I’d never objectify you. I respect women. But -”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Martin said, throwing up his hands. “When you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot it’s normal and M/F of you. But when I do it, then it’s ‘gross’ and ‘get that away from me’. Great double standards, guys.”

“It’s not the fact that it’s a guy,” Tim protested, “it’s the fact that it’s Jon -”

“Oh, when you think being the Antichrist is kind of hot then it’s normal and cis of you,” Sasha said heatedly, “but when Tim respects trans women, then it’s ‘gross’ and -”

“I respect all women,” Tim said, equally heatedly, “but I do want to acknowledge the systematic marginalization of trans women within the community, especially trans women of color like yourself -”

A hoarse wheeze echoed through the office.

Everyone froze, terrified by the haunted sound, but after a second Sasha realized it was the Archivist - Jon - who was laughing. 

They had never heard him laugh before. He was practically wheezing with it, bent over with his hands on his knees, with a strained cackle that fizzed with static around the corners. He was smiling broadly, his grin splitting his cheeks, for the first time that Sasha had ever seen. 

He straightened and threw his head back and laughed too, a greater belly-laugh that was so hysterical and fragile and free that it struck something strange and raw in Sasha’s heart. He rubbed his face with his hand, still laughing, and eventually broke into coughs. 

“I understand now,” Jon said, when he stopped coughing. “I thought that you had deposited me here in revenge. You had sensed that I was happy - that the green skies were beautiful, that your large eye seemed kind that day - and that you found it a waste of emotion. But that wasn’t true, was it? It must have been an accident. I’ve never been happier to hear these idiots arguing, and you’ve lost me like a toy behind a bookshelf. The strange stupidity of it! I’m enchanted.” He sombered a little, expression falling from hysterical glee into a soft and resigned happiness. He held up his hand, feeling the crackle of electricity run across his palms. “But you See me now. The foolish man brought you down upon us, and I intercepted your lightning bolt. His eyes, mundane and paltry, are closed, and you feel my consciousness in replacement of him. I can feel you already - my Eyes opening, the Reality that we built together calling me back. When your infinite grace re-aligns with every one of my atoms, forming the fabric of my world, I’ll snap back.”

Just like that?

Sasha had thought that there would be an...adventure, or quest, or something. At least a research binge. Some kind of heroic group effort. But the Archivist was a stretched rubber band, held tightly and out of position, and after long enough straining against its center it had to snap back. A telly flickering in and out, blaring the song of a dead channel. 

“Do we have time to group hug or something?” Tim offered weakly, undoubtedly thinking the same thing as she was. “Last goodbyes? Anything?”

“Howl’s Moving Castle moment?” Martin asked urgently. “I’ll find you in the future, right? We’re still together there, right?”

“Martin,” Jon said, strangely fond, “we were never apart.”

Martin turned a unique shade of red. 

But it was Sasha who Jon turned to, face angled to the sound of her voice. His expression was still distantly fond, but there was something strange in it too - a wry recognition, a subtle knowledge, a faint recollection of a joke that only he knew. 

“Sasha,” Jon said, “so long as you’re brave, and buy ten fire extinguishers and hide them around the office, things will be just fine. Buy twelve fire extinguishers, just to be safe. And don’t ever go inside Artifact Storage again. Not even for Alicia’s birthday party. If it’s a choice between worms and Artifact Storage then choose worms, the scars add a certain appeal. I cannot stress enough, not even if you lose your jacket in Artifact Storage -”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to say to me?” Martin asked desperately, almost crying. Sasha, personally, wanted to circle back around to the worm thing. “Sad goodbyes? Waving a handkerchief? I thought you said I was alive? Don’t you have anything?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Goodness, Martin, if you insist. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. In fact, I do believe it’s about time.” 

Martin’s mind clearly projected very loudly ‘I’ve been in love with you this entire time’ in blatant wish-fulfillment. Everybody held their breaths. 

Jon drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and sternly looked at all of them. “I’m tired of holding my tongue about this, Martin,” Jon said finally, and Martin qualified. “For the last time, I don’t load the dishwasher wrong. I load the dishwasher correctly. It’s you who’s always insisting that the cups go on the bottom. It’s a freakish way to live your life, and I’ll never forgive you for -”

Static blared in Sasha’s ears and overwrote her mind, and she screamed. The sensation was a pickaxe driven into her ears, an unforgivable rip and tear, and she heard her screams echoed in concert. 

Then the pain abated, and was gone. 

Sasha, Tim, and Martin were left standing in an empty office, accompanied only by the unconscious figure of their boss. There was nothing left of the Archivist, nor any suggestion that he had ever been here - just a drained mug, some scattered pens, and a lingering sense of malaise and confusion. 

Everybody looked at each other, feeling strangely and uniquely connected. It was hardly Sasha’s strangest Magnus Institute experience, but maybe it was the funnest. 

“Well,” Tim said finally, “at least one day this week wasn’t boring.”

“Yeah, I didn’t even have to get drunk today.” Sasha sighed. “We definitely have to gaslight Jon about this.”

Martin was already carefully lugging Jon onto his chair, arranging him so his arms were folded on the desk with his cheek resting on his forearm. “We’ll pretend it was just a weird dream.” He propped his hands on his hips, satisfied. “Hopefully this convinces him he needs more sleep.” Martin gasped in sudden realization. “Maybe he becomes the Antichrist because he needs more sleep! Guys, I have a great twenty step plan for saving the world.”

“Oh, come on, we said that was too much work.” Tim shrugged and opened the office door, holding it open and gesturing for them all to come out. “I think if we just friendship Jon to death, all of our problems will be solved.”

Martin just shrugged, following him out. They really did have paperwork that they needed to get back to. “Both are vital components. But...hey, it’s not weird to put the mugs on the bottom rack, is it? There’s not really that much of a difference, right?”

“Mate, you’re a fucking freak.” Tim looked backwards at Sasha, who was still standing in the office, dazed. “Sash, you coming? Let’s go day-drinking.”

“Yeah,” Sasha said, “in a sec.”

He shrugged and left the door propped open, and Sasha heard their bickering fade slowly as they walked down the hallway. 

But she couldn’t help staring at Jon sleeping at his desk, chest falling in and out, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose. His short, carefully maintained hair and meticulous fade. His baggy tweed and ill-fitting slacks. The subtle and shameful kind of earnestness, the desire mixed with fear mixed with hope mixed with genuine desire for a better future. He just wanted to be happy, to not be afraid anymore. He seemed weirdly human, when compared with his inhuman self. Or maybe it was the other way around. 

The tape recorder on Jon’s desk was still running. Sasha squinted at it, taking a second to listen to the staticy hiss. It was familiar, in the strangest possible way. It felt familiar -

Sasha reached out and grabbed the tape recorder, stuffing it in her pencil skirt pocket. “Just remember,” Sasha whispered, “I’d make a great candidate for Antichrist.”

She ran to go catch up with her coworkers, shutting the door behind them and leaving Jon sleeping contentedly in his office, head pillowed on his arms, dreaming strange and comforting dreams.

[ageofevermore]

Eighteen | T. Holland

Summary → you’re tired of feeling like the world silences you, but after an interview with sebastian and anthony, you start to wonder if maybe it’s your fault.

Warning(s) → mentions of anxiety, mentions of sexual harassment, mentions of inequality in gender roles, use of the word slut, fluff if you squint 

Word Count → 1.9k

Note → this is a heavier topic, one that might be personal to some. if you don’t think you can handle the subject matter, please don’t force yourself to. this is relatively watered down, but it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s not being said. the ending features boyfriend!tom consoling the reader, so it does end on a fluffy note, but don’t hold out for those few ending paragraphs. 

add yourself to my taglist 

It’s getting hotter in the interviews. A thin layer of sweat sparkles on your skin, and even though the air conditioning has been turned down multiple times, there are too many people in the room to feel any drastic differences. It’s unfortunate for you. Hot flashes are a lovely addition to your anxiety disorder, and press always sets your nerves ablaze. It doesn't matter what project you’re promoting, who you're partnered with, or what you're wearing-- you’re always hot. 

Your cheeks are flushed dangerously when the last interview before lunch is called for yourself, Sebastian, and Anthony. This is your first press tour as an adult. You joined the marvel franchise years ago, when being eighteen felt like the equivalent of turning thirty, and you weren’t blind to the changes of tone. People were harsher to you, more forward. If they weren’t shutting you up, they were hinting at something less then appropriate, usually something sexual. 

The next interview started with a short introduction to the media outlet, and your interviewer. He was middle aged, kind smile, salt and pepper hair. He asked for your names, then he told you his, and one by one he shook your hands. His grip on you was criminal, lasting longer than was comfortable. Sebastian and Anthony we’re oblivious to the few extra seconds of contact between you and him, but it made your skin crawl in a familiar discomfort. 

Your fingers curled into fists, heart high in your throat. The questions started out easy. They were mostly directed towards the boys, like always, but this time you couldn’t find yourself to be annoyed. You had dealt with handsy and sexually charged men before, but he set a fire beneath you. It wasn’t behavior you should tolerate, but being a woman in the industry, inappropriate touches and glances we’re easier ignored then dealt with. When you spoke up you caused drama, made headlines, attracted nasty social media comments that called you a whore. It was easier to just internalize. 

“Y/N.” 

You hummed, looking towards the call of your name. He was smiling sweetly at you again, a predatory glint in his eyes that put you on edge. You shifted your weight closer to Anothony unconsciously giving the hungry man your professional attention and a nod. 

He shuffles through his index cards, but his eyes don’t read the scripted questions his employers have supplied him with. It’s not often male interviews do their own research, usually they’re briefed by a colleague and handed a set of questions and topic point by a higher level employee, but this man doesn’t even read the card before he’s staring you down and opening his mouth. 

“You finally got the Stark suit update,” He says, motioning towards the promo poster that shows off your CGI suit in all of its edited glory. Although the actual costume is breathtaking, the computer effects give it an entirely different, more technologically charged, feel. 

“Yeah,” You nod, a forced smile on your lips as you try to ease the uncomfortable tension from your tone. “She’s finally--” 

He cuts you off before you can give him any explanation for the upgrade. He isn’t the first one to address your new wardrobe, but he’s the first one to leave you antsy and uncomfortable. Sebastian frowns when you’re cut off, but he doesn’t think much of it. He lets the man continue, though a professional sharpness pulls his grin into a scowl. 

“Were you able to wear undergarments underneath it? It’s tight, doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Was there ever a moment where you reflected how much your wardrobe has changed through the years?” He asks, a dirty grin on his lips. 

Sebastian and Anthony are shocked at the blunt, inappropriate construction of his question. The public eye knew nothing of your battles with body image, or health concerns that lead to surgery. Your mind was plagued with doubts and self-criticism, and his invasive, pervy question both infuriated you and broke you apart. 

You stutter to find an answer, heat overwhelming you. Your hand grips onto Anthony’s arm, and you can’t decide whether anger is what burns your skin or anxiety. Are you making a big deal of this? You don’t know. You feel like you have every right to feel violated and uncomfortable, but you’re a young woman in the entertainment industry, isn’t this the kind of ignorant commentary you signed up for? You don’t know anymore. You grew up with people always having an opinion on your appearance, sexualizing you as early as twelve. You’ve carried around pepper spray and  self-defense keychains long before you even had an understanding towards predatory men and sexual assault. You’ve been conditioned by the world and the media to carry on with your day, no matter the broken boundaries or disrespect. You’re tired of remaining silent, feeling like your less than your male counterparts. Women and men should hold no differing values in society, and yet you walk to your apartment with keys between your fingers and Tom doesn’t even lock his front door. 

“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question.” You choke out, voice hard and nowhere near the soft and frilly pitch it usually obtains. You’re livid, absolutely pissed to the point of a quivering cupids bow. You’re humiliated, and horrified. Your feelings are everywhere, but you remain as professional as you can. If you yell, try to defend yourself at all, you’ll be painted as a diva in every media outlet for the next week, subliminally inviting backlash and slut-shaming comments into your social media messages. If Sebastian and Anthony come to your defense, they’ll be sung high-praises. 

The double standards men and women are held to, especially in the industry, is infuriating. 

He stumbles out a response, but his time is already up. For the first time today, you’re thankful these interviews are only ten minutes. He leaves the room, shown out by security, and even then he still sends you a wink over his shoulder as if your glimmering eyes meant nothing. 

“Hey,” Sebastian's voice is soft, his hand on the small of your back. You flinch away from his contact, head heavy in memories you’d rather forget. 

“Sorry,” You mumble, voice trembling with tears that you refuse to let fall. You’ve already been humiliated, you don’t need to further paint yourself as some helpless teenage girl. “I’m sorry. I’m going to go find Tom.” 

Anthony and Sebastian nod tightly. They watch as you quiver in your heels, hands clenched into fists at your sides. They’re proud of the way you handled yourself, though still absolutely enraged that any adult would find it appropriate to address you like that, especially in a professional setting. 

You stumble into the dressing rooms, right into your boyfriend's chest. Your mind is racing, but the minute you attach yourself to him, you break down. Shy sobs break Tom’s heart. He holds the back of your head to his chest, other hand on the small of your back and wrapped around your waist as you cry. You’re trying to stay quiet, but the attention is already on you. Chris and Robert are worried, and Zoe’s trying to act like she hasn’t noticed, but they don’t all watch as you try to console yourself with your boyfriend's warmth. 

“What happened?” Tom’s voice is soft, trying to keep this a private moment. He tries to move the both of you back into a corner, but you panic and squeeze around his waist tighter. “Baby,” 

You and Tom have been dating for six months, and although you’ve shared with him stories of your traumatic experiences as a woman living in LA, he’s never seen anything upset you like this. 

“I’m such a slut.” Your words come out so shy and small, you aren’t even sure you can hear yourself. No matter how  many times you tell yourself that your makeup and clothes don’t give men permission to make passes or feel you up, it’s getting harder to believe that your verbal consent is as strong as your clothes. Maybe you are asking for it, and in a wave of nausea, disgusted with yourself, your arms leave Tom’s waist to pull at the bottom of your borrowed dress. 

You’ve been hit on in sweats before. In ball gowns and crop tops. Somebody’s even pushed themselves against you while you wore Tom’s hoodie, but you still convince yourself that it’s your fault. That you we’re asking for it. 

Tom’s jaw sets harshly into place, and he tilts your chin upwards to meet his eye. His brown stare is hard, only adding to your distress. Maybe he agrees. Maybe he’ll blame you for what just happened. He’s probably going to break up with you. Other guys just can’t keep their hands and eyes off of you. He doesn’t want a slut for a girlfriend. 

“What the fuck did you just say, Y/N?” His tone causes you to flinch, words bouncing off of the dressing room walls. Everyone flinches, hearing only his heavy response. You try to divert your attention, but Tom squeezes your jaw, forcing your eyes back on his. “Say it again.” 

“I’m such a slut.” You sniffle, submitting beneath his fiery glare. Tensions are high as you try not to break down again. Apart from Tom, everyone in the room has watched you grow up, never losing that shy and sweet sense of yourself. You’re an exuberant light, a brilliant scene partner, a rising star who has big things in store for the future. You are many things, but a slut, isn’t one of them. 

Tom looks behind you, glaring straight at Anthony and Sebastion who are both stone eyed and still. They’ve not calmed down any since leaving the production room, instead, it seems their anger has only risen. The sight of you so distraught churns their stomachs. 

“Some asshole tried to make a pass.” Sebastion said in short, words angry and delivered as such. 

Tom’s breath hitched, his arms tightening around you and pulling you closer to his chest. His chin digs into your crown, eyes pinches shut as his hot exhale feels heavy. 

“You aren’t a slut, Y/N.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, but you try anyways. Tom has no patience for it, and so he tilts your head back and plants his lips against yours harshly and eagerly, desperate to show you love and intimacy. “You. Aren’t. A. Slut.”

You nod, ducking your head back down into his chest as you try to believe him-- try to remember that you never asked for hands around your waist, or cupping your boobs. Wolf whistles, or handshakes that turn into forced frontal hugs. You didn’t ask for any of the harassment, no matter the outfits you wore and what they revealed.  

Tom lowers his voice, whispers melting into your hair, “This isn’t your fault, baby. Please believe me. None of this, is your fault. It’s disgusting and inappropriate, and you don’t deserve to deal with any of it.” 

You sniffle. You can’t tell him you believe him, not yet. Not when your heart is so heavy. Maybe one day you’ll believe him, but that’s just not now. 

taglist (urls with a strike through won’t let my tag) →

@deionswannabegirl @killingbxys @mauvesdior @mischiefandi @dmonchld @waddlenut @tanakaslastbraincell @hollandsxheart @quacksonhehe @tothemoonandbackx3000 @stiles-o-dylan24 @tikapollak @tomthetease @spookybooisa @geminiparkers @teen--marvel @rogersparkerbarnes @sarcasticallywitty15

[laddieseddiemunster]

A poly lost boys x reader who gets bullied in school. But hear me out! So she gets bullied but one day they(the bullies) pour this sort of 'bleach' over her and it gets into her eyes and her hair color changed. And so she avoids the boys as much as possible so they show up to her house and see her how would they react and deal with the bullies?

Thank you for the request! Also the part where she gets bleach in her eyes I cut out because she would have permanent damage in her eyes if that were to happen. So only her hair gets bleached. I hope you don’t mind.

Another long fanfic :) hope you enjoy!

Bullied (Poly!Lost Boys x Fem!Reader)

warning(s): angst & violence

Being picked on every now and then is one thing, but being brutally bullied by the most popular girls in school is another. The worst part was, everyone seemed to love and worship them. You hated going to school. Everyone believed their nasty comments about you, and soon you didn’t have anyone on your side.

The boys were your only escape from it all. They treated you like a princess. You were gorgeous to them, and that’s all that really mattered. Their complements made you feel special and confident. As long as you were beautiful in their eyes, the nasty girls that were bullying you opinions didn’t phase you. Of course it still hurt, but you had the boys, and you loved them.

You got used to the bullying after a while. The boys were unaware of it because you didn’t know exactly how they’d react. They were a bit protective of you. Before you met the boys the bullying wasn’t as bad, but when you started dating them it got worse. Those horrible girls found out and started called you a whore and slut for dating four boys at once. They were jealous. You knew that, but the harsh name calling got to you sometimes. You never let them see you cry though. All they wanted was to get a reaction out of you, and you knew that.

This day didnt start off any different from the rest. You went to school, got some dirty looks from your schoolmates, and went to your classes. The only difference was, you hadn’t seen the mean girls who’d bully you. Perhaps today would be better than you’d thought.

Lunch came around and you were forced to eat some of the disgusting cafeteria food. The smell made you want to gag. As you were walking towards the lunch tables [insert bully girl name] called you over to her. You didn’t trust her one bit. She had been bullying you for a while, so why should you trust her?

“Come here! I just wanna talk to you,” she said waving you over to her. You rolled you eyes thinking that she was just going to pick on you. You decided to walk over anyway, but standing a couple feet away from her to keep your distance.

She looked over at you, giving you the up and down stare. “So, hows your day been?”

“Okay, I guess,” You said feeling very confused. There was no way this girl would want to start a friendship with you.

“Well, I called you over here because I wanted to ask you a few questions,” She said which made you feel a bit worried.

“What kind of questions?” You asked giving her a questioning look.

“Well i wanted to know if you were really dating those four guys?” She asked with a slight smirk on her face. “Or if it’s just a rumor.”

You rolled your eyes again thinking she was just going to call you a whore. “Yes I am.”

Instead of doing that, she sighed and looked to the ground. “You must be lucky.”

“Yeah umm, yeah I guess I am,” You said with a small smile creeping on your face as you thought of how lucky you were.

“Actually, umm,” she said with a pause. “I didn’t call you over here to ask you questions.”

You sighed. “Then why’d you call me over here?” You asked with slight attitude knowing that this girl was not trustworthy.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said fidgeting a bit.

“For what?” You said giving her a strange look. If she was going to give you an apology for all those years of bullying, then you wanted to hear her say it.

“I’m sorry for...” she paused again. Her eyes looked to the ground as she was speaking. Then all of a sudden her expression changed. Her apologetic frown changed into a slight smirk, but at the same time she was giving you a look of disgust in her eyes. “I’m sorry for your boyfriends, because they have to deal with an ugly slut like you!” She smiled as if she was proud of what she was saying. You sighed again while mentally cursing yourself for even believing that she’d give you an apology.

“Now!” She yelled but you could tell that she wasn’t talking to you. She backed away from you quickly as if she was running for something. Then all of a sudden you felt some drops of liquid start to fall on you. At first you thought it was rain, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. You weren’t too fazed by it until you recognized the smell. It was a strong smell that was hard to forget. Before you could try to run away, a whole waterfall of the substance was dumped on top of you. As if someone was standing above you with a bucket and on purposely dropped it all over you.

The smell was now stronger than ever. Your hair and clothes were now all wet, but not with water. You noticed your top had completely lost its color, and a nightmare you’d never thought would happen to you was happening. This was bleach. You were practically inhaling it, so you started to cough. A sound that happened to be louder than your coughing made you pause. Laughter. From the girls you hated the most. You looked above you and saw that a couple of them were standing on the building you were in front of, so you were right below them.

Reality sunk in quick. This was no nightmare. Your worst enemies had just poured bleach all over you. Your hands started to shake. Not out of pain, but out of fear and shock.

“Hey y/n!” One of the girls said while still laughing. “It’s not so bad. Maybe your boyfriends will like you now, since your hair is bleached.” She cackled.

Your heart sunk to your stomach. Bleach can ruin anyone’s hair, and it was all over you. The sound of those terrible girls laughing filled your ears as you ran to the nearest bathroom. You looked in the mirror and realized your hair was already loosing its natural color. You let out a loud gasp, but to you it sounded silent. You didn’t look like yourself.

Quickly, you turned the handle for the sink letting the water run on your now bleached hair. You tried desperately to remove the beach and get your original color back, but nothing worked. The roots of your hair were now all the same yellow/blonde color.

“Oh, don’t be upset!” Said one of the bully’s. “You don’t look like your ugly self anymore!”

“Go away!” You yelled at them with your bottom lip trembling as you were trying to hide the fact that you were on the brink of sobbing. “Leave me alone!”

“Aww, you gonna cry?” They taunted you. “The little baby’s gonna cry!” You pushed past them and ran out of the bathroom letting tears escape your eyes. You could still hear their laughter and insults from behind you, but you didn’t look back. You ran all the way home not caring that you still had a couple classes to take. Their bullying was never this bad. You were able to handle it for a while, but they crossed the line.

The reflection in your bedroom mirror wasn’t the person you recognized. You felt ugly. Your hair was now all bleached, and you didn’t have the money to go and get it done. All you could do was try to get used to it. Your confidence level was now at zero. You had grown to love your natural hair, and now it was gone. All because of those horrible jealous girls.

The thought of the boys seeing your new hair that you thought was hideous made you want to crawl up in a hole and never come out. You hated seeing the way you now looked, so how would the boys react? You cried yourself to sleep at the thought of them leaving you because of how ugly you now looked. You decided not to go to school for the next few days. Facing the girls wasn’t something you were ready for yet. You didn’t even want to see the boys. From fear of their reactions, you didn’t visit them or call them.

The boys were a little confused on the first night of not showing up on the boardwalk, but they decided not to worry too much about it. They just assumed that maybe you needed some space. After a week of you not speaking to them, the boys started to get worried. You would never just stop talking to them out of the blue. They were all confused, and even a little sad. David knew you well enough to know that you wouldn’t stop talking to them unless you were upset about something. The only problem was, he couldn’t understand what it was. None of them could. They assumed you were mad at them because you weren’t speaking to them, but they had no idea what they had done.

David got pretty impatient after the first week, and he let the boys know that they were going to go to your house if you weren’t going to speak with them. If you wanted to break up, they wanted a reason why.

You had been trying to get some sleep from the nights of crying, but you were taken off guard by hearing the sounds of motorcycles outside your house. You recognized that sound. It was a sound you knew only too well. The boys were here, and they were here for an explanation that you weren’t prepared to give.

Kicking your blankets out of the way as you got out of bed as quick as you could while looking for something that could possibly cover your hair. You found a hoodie and immediately put on. There was no point in trying to escape, you knew the boys would find you. Right as you were putting the hood over your head, you heard your window open.

“Baby?” You could tell by the tone of voice that it was Paul. “Why have you been ignoring us?” You didn’t dare face him. You could already tell that he had his usual pouting sad face on that was just too adorable to be mean to.

“Y/n,” Marko said. “Please, look at us.” His voice was slightly shaky, as if he was worried you wanted to end the relationship.

Your back was still towards them. You knew there was no way out of this, but that didn’t stop you from trying.

“Please go away,” you said feeling tears start to form in your eyes. Marko decided to not listen. He walked up to you and grabbed you lightly by the shoulders forcing you to turn to him. He had a confused yet soft expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” He asked you while putting his hands on both sides of your face. That question just made you feel worse, and the tears that were threatening to fall were now falling. Marko’s expression was now turned to worry and sadness. He hated seeing you cry. He wiped your tears away with his thumbs before doing what you were trying to avoid. Marko grabbed the sides of the hoodie, and pulled it off of your head.

Your eyes started to tear up again waiting for him to tell you that you looked terrible. Instead, he reached over to touch your bleached hair, and the frown on his face turned into a smile. “Wow.” he said. “You look gorgeous.”

Then they all came up to do with a look of awe in their eyes. You were definitely taken aback by their reactions. You expected them to hate your new hair, but it was the exact opposite.

“Daaammnn sugar, look at you,” Paul said while brushing his fingers through your hair. You giggled at his choice of words.

“It doesn’t look bad?” You asked.

“Bad?!” Marko exclaimed. “Far from it!”

“You look beautiful,” Dwayne said with a smile on his face. “Just as beautiful as you were before.”

“Y/n,” David said catching your attention away from the other boys. “Why have you been ignoring us?” You cringed after hearing that question. You were able to avoid it the first time, but something tells you that you won’t be able to this time. “Did you stop talking to us because you dyed your hair?” David said with slight sarcasm, but also slight attitude.

“N-no. No, it wasn’t that,” you said looking away from the boys.

“Then what was it?” David asked. You could tell he wanted an answer right away, and there wasn’t much you could do.

You sighed. “I didn’t do this to my hair,” The boys looked at each other with a look of confusion on all their faces. “It was forced.”

“What do you mean?” David asked while stroking your face with his knuckles.

“These girls pulled a prank on me last week,” you said half lying. “They dumped bleach all over me, and it changed my hair.”

“A prank?!” Marko asked raising his voice. “That’s no damn prank!” You knew Marko got angry a lot quicker than the other boys did. This wasn’t something he was going to sweep under the rug, Marko was going to want revenge.

“Yeah!” Paul agreed. “Why would they do that to you?” He asked still touching your new hair.

You shrugged your shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess they just don’t like me.” You refused to tell them that the bullying was caused because the girls were jealous of you for dating them.

“Well who are these girls? I wanna give them a piece of my mind?!” Marko exclaimed.

“No!” You knew that the boys were vampires. You found out accidentally by walking into the cave when Marko was feeding. It didn’t go to well, but the boys managed to convince you that they would never hurt you. But, you already knew that Marko wanted to kill your bullies. “You’ll just make things worse!”

“They deserve this!” Paul said only making matters worse for you. “No one does this to our babe!”

You groaned knowing that the boys wouldn’t stop arguing until they found out who the girls were. You wanted the bullying to stop, but at the same time you didn’t want the girls to die.

David put his hand under your jawline making you into his eyes. “Y/n, tell us who the girls are.” You could tell by the way David was speaking that this wasn’t a request, this was a demand. He wanted to know, and he wanted to know now. You walked to your bookshelf and grabbed a yearbook from the previous school year. Flipping through the pages, you found your grade category, and pointed out each of the girls to them.

“That’s them?” Dwayne asked sounding surprised.

“Yeah, you know them?” You asked him.

“Babe, those girls have been trying to get with us for ages. We always rejected them,” Paul said which made you smile.

“Well, what are we waiting for?! Let’s go get those girls!” Marko said clearly ready for a killing spree.

“No! Please don’t kill them,” you said grabbing onto Marko’s jacket. “They’re jerks, but they don’t deserve to die.”

“I think they do,” David said smirking at the idea of slaughtering your bullies.

“How about this,” you paused grabbing all of their attention onto you. “You guys can scare them by showing your vampire faces, and they should stay away from me after that right? They’ll probably be too scared to get near me, and no one at school will believe them!”

“I like the killing idea better,” Marko said while pouting in a playful way.

“Please.” Now you were the one pouting.

The boys looked at each other. You knew that they would rather kill all the girls, so you got lucky when they agreed to your plan.

You knew that the mean girls would go to the bonfire late at night for party’s or just to hang out, so that made your plan a bit easier. The boys loved to scare people almost as much as they loved killing, so they were excited for it all to unravel. You rode on the back of David’s bike as he drove to the bonfire with the other boys riding behind him. He drove with a smirk on his face, which meant he was ready to scare the shit out of those girls. You’re his baby, and no one better hurt you.

Luckily, when you all got there, the girls were by themselves. You decided to stay with the bikes, so the girls wouldn’t see you. The thought of being around those girls made you feel uncomfortable. They were terrible people, and you weren’t ready to face them. The boys sure were though. They were ready to make them scream out of fear.

When the girls saw the boys walk towards them they immediately started to get flirty. “What are you guys doing here? Did you come to see us?” One of them said.

“Actually we did,” David said. “We heard what you did to y/n.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, it was an accident. I swear! The bucket of bleach just happened to drop all over her.” She said sarcastically.

“That was a really bitchy thing to do.” Marko said not buying any of her bullshit.

“Come on, you guys. She wasn’t pretty anyways! We did her a favor. I think you all deserve someone much prettier than her.” Another one of them said walking up to David.

The girls tried to touch David’s chest, but before she could he grabbed her by the wrist. “I think you all need a taste of your own medicine.” He said before completely transforming into his vampire face. The girl gasped and started to scream. David’s grip was too strong, so she couldn’t run away. Dwayne and Paul grabbed the two girls that tried to run away, and Marko grabbed the last girl and pushed her to the ground. He pinned her to the floor with his foot on her back, and he grabbed her by the hair so she’d face up. Marko called you over to him still holding the girl down. By this point all the boys were transformed, making all the girls whimper and cry.

Marko pulled the girls hair hard making her cry out of pain. “I want you to apologize to y/n, and don’t give some sorry ass apology.”

“I-I’m sorry!” She yelled with tears of fear and pain running down her face. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry y/n!”

“You’re sorry for what?!” Marko said pulling her hair again.

“I’m sorry for dumping bleach on you y/n!” She whimpered. “I’m so sorry!”

You didn’t respond to her. You wanted to feel bad for her, but you couldn’t. Actually, you felt the exact opposite. You enjoyed seeing the tears run down her face. It reminded you of all the times she made you cry. In a way, it was satisfying. In a sick twisted way, it gave you pleasure. You wanted them to suffer more. They had been making you suffer for too long, and now it was time for it to end. They were messing with the wrong girl.

“Kill them.” You said out of nowhere. The boys all turned to you. They definitely didn’t expect that to come out of your mouth.

“What?” Paul asked a bit shocked.

“Kill them.” You repeated. That was enough clarification for the boys. They started to dig in. Biting and ripping through the girls skin making them scream and sob. Instead of turning away, you decided to watch. You watched as the boys tore off the girls limbs and fingers. You listened to their screams. It didn’t scare you like it would terrify a regular person. You watched as if you were watching a cartoon on tv. The screaming didnt stop. Their faces off terror didn’t go away. It all made you happy. Those girls were getting what they deserved. Their yelps and screams were like music to your ears. Their begging and pleading made you wanna laugh. They shoudve watched what they said about you, because it came back and bit them in the ass. Literally.

The screaming soon came to a stop, and all you could hear was the wind blowing. They were dead. Their blood was all over the floor and some on the boys. You watched as the boys threw the remains of the girls into the fire. You never thought you’d be watching your worst enemies get slaughtered in front of you, and it was worth the watch. They had it coming, and now they are gone. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t feel guilty at all. For the first time in years, you could go to school without worrying about these horrible girls picking on you. Now they were nothing. You were free from those girls. Their deaths brought a smile to your face. You never had to hear their nasty words again. Now, they’re just faces on missing posters.

[femme-xx-fatale]

Just Hold Me For Now

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of self harm, depression, attempted suicide, poor body image, and swearing.

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: I haven't published any fanfics in literally years, but I've really been inspired to start writing again lately, so constructive criticism is welcome but please be kind!! I'm still quite rusty haha <33 Also, I would love to take writing requests :))

Also, my intention is not to romanticize depression, self harm, etc., I have genuinely tried to write this is a way that doesn't glorify any of that, but having gone through a similar experience, this was very healing to write.

You were standing in front of the full length mirror in your bedroom, tears dripping down your cheeks as you examined your reflection in the glass. You were wearing a pair of black, Nike shorts that stopped at your upper thighs, and an oversized, grey tee shirt that had definitely belonged to your boyfriend at one point. Your hair was thrown up into a messy bun, and your skin felt especially clean and soft, mainly due to the fact that you had just finished a long shower.

One detail about you, however, stood out from the rest. Long, deep scars covered some parts of your body, and god did you hate them. The way they looked running up your arms and thighs like steps on a ladder disgusted you, and brought old feelings of shame and regret up to the surface once again. How could anyone even love you?

The scars were old, you hadn't cut yourself for a few months now. It had been long enough, in fact, that though they had once seemed forever red and angry, they were now turning white with age. That didn't change the fact that they were horrible reminders of dark times, reminders you couldn't possibly get rid of.

As you looked at those dreadful scars, you remembered vividly the day that your boyfriend, Peter Parker, had demanded that you never hurt yourself again. You had been sitting in a bed at the hospital, with Peter crying and begging you to never hurt yourself again as he held you close to him. He had held you so tightly it seemed to you that he was afraid of you slipping away forever, even if the worst had already been avoided. The night before you had landed in the sterile hospital room, he had found you passed out in this very room, in a puddle of your own blood. The blood stains on the carpet came out, but it still hurt to look at the carpet, knowing where you were that night. Before then, he hadn't known you struggled with self-harm, and he was stunned at the news. He was terrified to loose the love of his life. He almost did, honestly. If he had taken even a few minutes longer to find you, then you would've slipped away forever. But he was really your superhero, and he saved you that night.

He had always told you that night would never leave his memory. You guessed that finding you like that, not even knowing you were unhappy, must've been horrible for him, and a pang of guilt hit you in the chest. You definitely weren't thinking about cutting again now, but the sight of the irreversible scars was depressing, and the embarrassment and shame of it all definitely wasn't going away anytime soon. Even though some of your close friends and family knew about your trip to the hospital, and must've assumed you had scars, you still always wore long sleeves and pants in front of them. Even with Tom you felt shy having him be able to see them, but you tried not to worry too much about it with him. Sometimes, you couldn't help getting eaten up with insecurity over it, though.

As you tried to calm all of the insecurities within your mind, your crying slowed, leaving you looking slightly disheveled due to your outburst of tears. You slowly felt the raised lines on your left arm, your fingertips being overly delicate, because you remembered exactly how much they used to hurt.

Suddenly, you heard the sound of your bedroom window being swung open, breaking through your thoughts, Instinctively, you reached for a hoodie that was crumpled up in the chair next to you. Unfortunately, you weren't quick enough, and the person entered the room before you could hide your arms.

"Y/N?" Peter asked awkwardly, somehow sensing that this was possibly a bad time. He'd gotten into the habit of coming in through your bedroom window, as your parents didn't exactly enjoy the idea of your boyfriend spending late nights with you.

Before you could even speak, his eyes drifted towards your uncovered arms, so you crossed them awkwardly across your chest. "Shit, Peter! You scared me!" You yelled, kicking him lightly on the shin with your foot.

"I didn't mean to scare you..." he mumbled awkwardly, eyes still glued to your forearms, but eventually traveling up to your face. You knew he noticed you'd been crying. How could he not, with your tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes? He hesitated for a minute before saying anything, but eventually pointed out the obvious.

"Were you crying?" He asked, and you sighed, knowing he wouldn't let you lie your way out of this one.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Peter, you'll be surprised to hear this, but actually, its none of your business," you replied sassily, catching a glimpse of your red eyes and tear stained cheeks in the mirror as you spoke.

"Drop the attitude, I'm only trying to help, Y/N," He reminded you, not unkindly, but seriously. "Let me be here for you, please baby."

"I'm just upset," you relented after a few seconds of silence, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

"As if I hadn't guessed that," Peter replied, rolling his eyes a little. "Let me see your arms a minute." The second he said that, you crossed your arms around yourself even more tightly.

"Well, they're right here," you muttered.

"Can you cooperate and actually hold them out for me so I don't have to make you?" He asked, even though you knew full well that if your answer was 'no', he would leave it at that. Even though he didn't always act like it, he did respect you completely. Normally, you loved his persistence and sassy attitude, but today, it was much less appreciated. You hesitated a moment before finally holding them out to him. He grabbed your hands up in his bigger, stronger ones carefully, rubbing his thumbs gently over the nearest scars, close to your wrist bone.

"Y/N..." He trailed off, and you thought you caught him tearing up. "You know I love you so much, right baby?" You felt yourself tearing up again.

It didn't take long for you to end up wrapped up in his arms, your legs around his waist as he held you close to his chest.

"How can you stand me?" You whispered after a few moments of quiet that only the crickets and soft breeze outside your window interrupted. You said it so quietly, that you didn't know if Peter had even heard you.

"What do you mean, babygirl?" he asked quietly, genuinely confused. You buried your face further into the crook of his neck before responding.

"I don't know... I just... You know so many pretty girls, but here I am. My scars are so ugly, they make me so ugly," you said, fighting back sobs the loud sobs that begged to be released from your throat. Tears were flowing freely from your cheeks, though.

"What? Y/N! You're like the prettiest girl I know," he said, not quite sure exactly what to say, but knowing he loved you and thought you were absolutely beautiful. "Listen babe, I mean it. You're so pretty and your scars don't make me see you any differently!! Like you're gorgeous and beautiful and just so damn pretty babe, like I don't even know how I pulled you-" You shushed Peter, cutting him off, but now you were smiling through your tears. You were feeling much better than you had before, and thanked him.

"I love you too baby," you smiled, kissing him gently.

[deberiaestarescribiendo]

Desperate situations call for desperate measures. Ch.II Dave York x F!reader. #Writer Wednesday 05/19/21

#Writer Wednesday 05/19/21 for @autumnleaves1991-blog

Summary: After you did your first job for Dave, you’ve been training for this moment. Your first job alone, your first kill.

Warning: Dave York, he’s a warning in his own, descriptions of murder and death, anxiety and panic attacks, blood and injuries. Maybe some kissing...or not

A/N: This is a second part of a series that started with the second picture challenge in a #Writer Wednesday called “Desperate situations call for desperate measures” read it here, it would not make sense if you read this alone. This is slow burn and for the moment I let everything a bit suggestive but it would eventually become hotter. Because Dave is Dave and he likes to torture us.

Desperate situation call for desperate measures. Chapter II

8518 Rayburn Rd, Bethesda, MD 20817

“I’m sorry everything is a mess. I was not used to live alone. My wife left a month ago and I thought I could manage everything by myself at first, but...” the man opens the door to you and lowers his head in shame.

You can see the bare mattress since the fitted sheet is partly touching the carpet and the duvet is a ball at one side, you can see from here that he didn’t bother to change the pillowcases and the one he uses has his head shaped into it with yellowish marks of sweat on them. The rest of the room is sprinkled with dirty laundry and empty glasses and dirty dishes. In front of the bed the closet stays open, no clothes hanging in it as the laundry basket is full and the clothes spills over until they fall around it.

The room stinks and the half closed shutters and the window glass full of dust assure he hasn’t aired it in a long time. He’s a pig, a lazy dirty pig but, does he deserve to die? You breathe deeply trying to ignore the sour taste the smell of the room leaves in your mouth.

“I will do the laundry and change the sheets first” you say with a soft smile

“Thank you, I’ll be in my office if you need me” he walks away in his pajamas and drags his feet over the carpet as if he couldn’t even raise the weight of his legs, destroyed and done with the world, with no clean clothes just a pajama and two non matching socks. And he will die like this. You think is not fair, whatever he has done, he deserves a little bit of dignity. But that’s not your choice. That’s what you have to do, it’s not personal.

You try not to breathe while you pretend to tidy up. When you hear the soft muffle tunes of country music, you know it’s time. You take off your shoes and walk stealthily towards the room at the end of the aisle. From the door you see his bald head, eyes fixed on his computer, and he doesn’t hear you when you come close to him as you have observe from weeks of stalking you know he listens to his music too loudly, so when you insert the needle on his carotid that’s the first time he notices you.

His head turns with an expression of horror and surprise, his blue eyes widely open while his thin capillaries burst clouding his eyeballs in red while he gasps.

“Shhh” you hear yourself making soothing sounds to him and you hold his head with care with your hands covered in black latex gloves. It’s no personal, you repeat in your head when you see how he face contorts when the air is not longer getting inside his lungs, the veins in his neck are thick and visible through his now red skin. You turn your head and try to remember all the shit Dave has told you. You try to remember his deep voice, his hands guiding your movements

“It’s not personal” he said and now you repeat it loudly, the target expires and he tenses for a moment and then you let him go, his face hitting the keyboard.

“It’s not personal” you whimper and hold back the tears remembering the DNA that you absolutely cannot leave.

You didn’t even catch his name, you actually think you ignore it once he told you, but now it doesn’t matter, because with name or without it, his face will burn forever in your mind. Your first job, your first kill.

It’s not personal.

6 months ago. Dave’s car, after the phone booth call

“We have arrived” his palm burns on your cheek and you suddenly remember where you are. His cologne and aftershave on his wool coat, the fresh and clean scent inside his car and the mud you have brought inside it.

“Arrive where?” you raise on your sit and look through the windows, it’s a common street, small apartments buildings stuck to one and other, a few cars parked to both sides and the sidewalks glow with the dew of the imminent sunrise.

“Safe house” he says before exiting the car, you see him turn until he opens your door and bends down looking at you like evaluating if you could get out on yourself “Come” Dave lends you his hand and you take it holding it tightly trying to gather the strength to move your legs but they shake so violently that Dave grabs you by the waist and pulls you out of the car. Your body, used to the warmth inside the vehicle, tremble and your muscles stiffen in the chill air of the dawn.

You lean on Dave and let him drag you to the stairs of the building while your head rests on his shoulder “we haven’t use this once in a while, but for tonight it will do” he comments as he opens the glass door. There’s no sound coming from the few flats on each floor, some of the walls look half painted and you wonder if there’s someone living here, would he own a damn building in the center of the city?

The apartment is big, dark wood parquet and white walls make the room look open and there’s only a marble isle with two stools close to the kitchen and a grey sofa in front of it.

“Let’s get you to the bathroom. You need a warm bath”

He lets you seated on the toilet while he prepares everything. You observe him, he wears all black: a hoodie and sweatpants and it’s a drastic change from the first time you met him. His brown hair is disheveled as if he had taken off a hat or a helmet. Where was he before you called him?

“There’re only man clothes here, but tomorrow I will bring you something more suitable” He has a duffle bag and he takes out some small shampoo and shower gel bottles, toothbrush and paste and a plastic zip bag full of what looks like to be different medication.

“You’re always prepared” you mutter and you feel your voice coarse and how it stings to say anything. You screamed, a lot, you remember now how they killed Tom and how you fled.

“We have to be” Dave bends down and adjusts the temperature while the water runs down from the shower head. He extends his hand to the stream “I think it’s warm enough. I leave you to it” he gives you one of those warm smiles and you notice now that a dimple appears when he does it. You know nothing of him but for some reason you’re sure that he doesn’t let many people see this kind of gentleness and it makes your heart beat faster. You hope that smile is only for you, that you own that little part of him.

You get up and stumble when your head turns

“Hey take it easy. There’s a towel just on the sink. I’ll wait outside” he lingers on the door frame when you don’t move for a few minutes, your gaze fixed on the bathroom mirror, the steam from the shower cannot conceal the horror it reflects. Your hair is a mess, some of it glued in sweat and mud on your cheek, you have bruises and bleeding scratches all over the skin your stupid dress didn’t cover.

“I’ll be just here, say something if you need me” Dave interrupts your thoughts and he closes the door leaving you alone with you reflection. That woman out of a horror movie you don’t recognize. You strip feeling how every movement makes you flinch, every fiber of your body screaming in pain. You remember how you ran, how you waited hours in the cold mud. Your feet hurt as if you were stepping on fire when you touch the warm water, it runs towards the drain black and red, when your feet are clean you see the blisters and cuts you have on them. You walk humming slowly and you sound just like a zombie and you feel like one. But you’re not dead.

When the warm running water hits your back you moan and you stay there until you feel your muscle untangle, head down watching all the dirt leaving your body. And it feels so nice that you could fall sleep right here, it feels so peaceful that you feel as if your soul could leave your body. But you’re not dead.

You know who’s dead? a voice asks in your head. You mumble his name, the name of your friend. Tom. Yes, he’s dead, probably his body stiff and cold in a puddle of his own blood on the pavement of that dreadful place, and here you are in a nice apartment taking a warm shower. Probably the nicest place you’ve been in a while, your house, his house, the house of your dead friend was not this classy and tidy, but he put a roof over your head, shared the food he had with you even if it was just crumbles, even if he was stupid. Nobody deserves to die like a pig and be let wherever to be never seen again.

Does he have a family? You met other friends of his, they must be worried. What did they do with his body? Where’s his mum? Now that you think about it he used to have some long calls on weekends, maybe it was her o maybe a partner. Anyway somebody must be looking for him or they will be once he doesn’t show up in a few days. They deserve to know. You have to tell Dave about it. No, he will dismiss it. It’s too dangerous...you’re the last person somebody saw Tom with, you lived with him these past few weeks so once they look for him, they will look for you... and how will you explain...

You haven’t noticed how the water is burning your skin and how you breathing is getting faster and faster until you cannot get enough air in your lungs for much you try. You attempt to call Dave but your chest feels like it’s made of stones. The steam and you eyes starts to blurry making it impossible to get out and you hit the glass screen to get out and suddenly they are open and from the white mist you feel his body holding you

He hushes on your forehead as he did when he had picked you up. Holding your head on his big palms he makes you look at him.

“Breathe for me. Can you do that?” and you nod “Try to match my breathing” He place your head to his chest and he inhales deeply and let his air out slowly. You whimper feeling as if your lungs could expand and release the air, but hearing his breathing and feeling how his strong chest is pressed against you pushing you out and back in again. And you can breathe again. “Let’s get you clean and then you can rest” He places your numb body under the shower head while he pours some shower gel on his hand.

It smells just like him, fresh and some deep tones you cannot identify but it relaxes you instantly. You pay no mind that you’re naked as the day you wear born and Dave doesn’t give any sign that it bothers him. He softly grabs one of your arms and brushes his hand leaving pearly white bubbles over your skin and he turns you and cleans your back and then he slowly repeats the process to the other arm “Stay here” he says getting you back to the wall while switches to the shampoo bottle “Lower your head for me” he commands and gently brushes two of his fingers over you nape leaving your skin in gooseflesh.

He scratches your scalp softly massaging from the forehead to your neck, his knuckles softly pressing on your hurting vertebrae and you moan loudly. The pressure you felt over your shoulders swiftly being relieved. “Let’s rinse it and you can go to sleep” his voice is soft and deep, the sweetest music you’ve heard mixed with the murmur of the water. He passes the shower head over your head until you imagine there’s no more soap and then he wraps you in a soft white towel and gets you out of the shower. You walk on your tiptoes, your feet too hurt to fully press them on the ground.

“Almost there” he whispers

The bed is the nicest you have tested in your whole life, the pillows adapt to your head and you moan feeling a mixture of pain, pleasure and tiredness as you have never experience.

“I will let you sleep now and I will come back in the morning” he flips his wrist, his silver watch shakes and he looks at it with disgust for a second “well, in a few hours, you need at least a good 8 hours, and we will see what to do next”

Your mind is foggy and you watch him through semi closed eyes “Thank you” you whisper “but what happens with Tom?” you ask, mid sentence your voice breaks and you exhale all your air before you could give in to the panic again.

Dave raises one eyebrow, seated next to you on the bed; he evaluates you for a second.

“I know he’s dead, I...what about his body? his family?”

“Sadly nobody knows what happened to him... or to you” he sighs, his face show a perfect image of sadness “And nobody will” the change it’s fast, you can see his eyes turn darker, it’s a warning. Nobody will know and you better keep it that way

“But...the police” he hushes you again and a kindly brushes his knuckles over your cheek

“We’ll talk later. Do you think you will sleep or you need me to get you something to help you fall asleep?” he points to the bathroom where he left the plastic zip bag

“No, thank you” you answer and you feel already how you’re slurring the words

“Good girl”

You will think later it was part of your dreams. That your brain was so desperate to find any comfort, to try to stop the never ending loop of Tom’s death in your head that it imagined something you have wanted since you met Dave.

He bends down and comes closer until your faces are almost touching. You feel the tip of his nose and his fresh breath over your cheek but in a second he goes a few millimeters down and his lips touch yours so briefly that when your mind can process it, it’s already gone.

You fight your eyes and your body, you want to whine and ask for more, ask for his body against yours again, but you fall sleep and when you wake up, sweating, scared and screaming, he’s not there.

8518 Rayburn Rd, Bethesda, MD 20817. Half an hour after the target’s death.

You have clean everything up. Somebody will ask for him, his neighbors, maybe his family or friends, probably his boss. They will think that he must have mixed two of his medicaments, the one his doctor specifically had advice to keep apart because it could be dangerous to mix together but since it was his wife who organized everything and now she’s gone; they will find that he had effectively mixed the two inside the cupboards. The house is a mess, his mind was too so nobody will be surprised he committed a silly fatal error. His dirty laundry will stay there until they empty the house and throw away his things, those permanent things will disappear from earth as he had. And nobody will know the truth.

You carefully take out your gloves and the needle with the small glass bottle inside a zipper plastic bag and you get out of the house. A dark big truck waits for you and you get on the passenger’s seat.

“So, how did it go?” he asks

“Fine. it’s done” you take out your wig and the net that keeps your hair carefully tucked inside to prevent you from leaving DNA

Dave looks at you for a moment and reaches for your head massaging the scalp and you press your lips together so a moan doesn’t escape from it though his fingers untangling an relieving the pressure from the wig is the most intimate and delicious thing you’ve felt. Well, since the day he had showered you because you were exhausted.

He’s nicely dressed in a grey suit and a red tie, from the rearview mirror you see his wool coat and black leather briefcase. Where is going? where was he ? It’s been six month since he started your training and still you have no clue of who he really is.

You snap back to reality once you feel his hand on your chin

“Are you sure?” he asks. His brown eyes penetrate you and you wish that that bridge he builds between you two would be a two way street. That one day you will know every little corner of him as he knows about yourself and your mind. But for the moment you’re lost in his presence, blindfolded and wishing he could show you more but scare of what you might find.

“He’s dead, I watched him die and checked him minutes after like you taught me” you respond lowering your head. You don’t want to show him how you were on the break of tears, how you had second thoughts and how you pitied the poor man.

“I’m not asking about him, I’m asking about you” he lifts your face up

“I’m okay” you mutter and cough to gain a little bit more of strength in your voice “I’m fine”

“Then congratulations” he smiles and you look at him confused “It’s your first job alone and you did well” he explains “Open the glove box” he starts the car while you wait confused by the whole thing “Open it, c���mon, there’s a gift for you” he smirks

You do and there’s a white laminated badge. You recognize Dave’s face and you see for the first time his full name: David York, CIA.

You turn your head to him, a cold stream of sweat runs through your nape.

“I know you’ve worried about the police, how they will find you; and you’ve been loyal, obedient and efficient. As I told you, you will learn to trust me as the team and I will trust you back” he looks at the road while he speaks and you cannot take out your eyes from the badge

“Am I...am I working for the CIA?” you ask

“God, no!” he laughs, a deep husky chuckle “What I mean, it’s that we’re safe. I can contain things when we need to. So you can relax”

Relax? If anything you’re way more scared of him now you know this. He must me lying; he can falsify one of those...right? Or is he being honest?

“And that’s my gift?” you say closing the small door. You cannot lay your eyes anymore on that thing

“No, there’s more”

He parks at your neighborhood, the same he took you to six month ago. It’s not fully decorated yet but you’re proud of what you’re doing with it and it reminds you of the houses that you used to see in those style magazines: open concept, simple colors and practical furniture. On the tea table at the center of the leaving room there’s a blue box with a ribbon. Dave points to it “That’s for you”

You open it and gasp: There’s a small cactus, your book but it hasn’t its usual yellowish pages and the covers are not wrinkled, and that old picture, the only happy memory of your childhood is now framed in a nice silver frame. The things you left months ago in Tom’s house.

“You kept my things...all this time?”

“I couldn’t take them when Resnik went to make sure there was nothing to tie him to us, but he gave me a list of your belongings and I thought it will be nice if you keep something from your old life”

“How did you find that picture, the only person that has another copy is...” you open your eyes widely “You haven’t...”

“He’s alive; I just took what I wanted to know about you and that picture”

“Thank you” you hold the frame to your chest holding back tears

“You’re welcome”

He nods and turns away to leave

“Dave?”

“Hm?”

“What did he do?”

“What did I tell you?”

“It’s not personal”

and he nods but he gazes at you and how your hands hold the frame tightly and you’re starting to breathe deeply

“Would it help if you knew that he was a horrible human being?”

“Well...” you bite your lip

“It won’t, I assure you” he walks slowly towards you until he’s so close and you wish it wouldn’t be so easy, that you wouldn’t be tamed as a small pet just with his presence close to you and his scent clouding your judgment.

“That’s what you do for the CIA?”

“Don’t be eager. You and I will eventually know each other really well” he grins and takes the frame from your hands “You were a very beautiful baby” he smiles at the picture

“Thanks”

“What are you dress up as?” He gives you one of those warm smiles and you feel the hunger to just jump to his lips and kiss him. My smile, that warmth, that small spark of kindness is mine.

“A fairy...a princess, something like that”

“Very pretty” he carefully puts the frame at the center of the table

“That girl would be very surprised to know that now she kills people”

“She will, and have to be, very proud to be a survivor” there’s something in his eyes, an anger but not towards you, something that hurts him and you wish to know, that he’d be as naked and transparent as you are for him.

“I don’t feel very proud today” you keep your eyes fixed on that baby almost lost on the pink tulle, smiling with almost no teeth to the woman holding her on her lap. Tears gather on the corner of your eyes

“You will learn to let it go, I promise” his hand hold you and you feel that you’ve landed back on earth after many memories have awaken the storm inside your heart.

How can he calm you, scare you, make you feel safe and weak at the same time?

“So I didn’t graduate today?” you shake your head and he smiles

“Not yet. You’re closer to be what I wanted and needed, but not yet there, sweetheart”

“What else is there to be taught?” you’ve training not stop for the past six months.

“So much” his thumb traces your jaw line

“Until I’m what you want and need” you repeat his words

“Exactly, do you still want to?”

You give a last look at the past, at your past self, that happy innocent baby that would never thought she will be so lost in the future, so desperate and alone until she found this man that had give her this twisted life, full of shadows and dark thoughts, lies and death and that you’re dying to be even more tangled with him that you already are.

“I’m yours, Dave”

(Since you were interested in a continuation for the first chapter, here you go. Thank you for you nice feedback on the first one and I hope you like it and sorry for taking so long to get a second part : @ericasabe @1andthesame)

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 23: Dukeceit

I’m very aware it’s October. But I will get all these prompts done!

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 23 - At a certain age you switch bodies with your soulmate for 24 hours. (I may have changed this one slightly, too.)  

Content warnings: kidnapping mention, food/coffee mentions, homophobia mentions (though none is really seen), just so much caffeine.

The first thing Janus noticed when he woke up was that this was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Which, to be fair, was an accurate reaction, seeing as he was in the wrong room.

His initial thought was that he’d been kidnapped, but no, that couldn’t be right. It was just another bedroom, not a basement or a van or whatever kidnappers used. It was a regular, teenage looking bedroom, with clothes littering the floor and the desk, large posters haphazardly stuck at every angle on the wall, and a phone charging on the nightstand next to him. So, definitely not a kidnapping. 

When his mind finally cleared from his post-waking haze, he sighed in resignation. Apparently the universe had decided that today was the day he would switch bodies with his soulmate, on the day he had specifically set aside to study for a huge biology test that would make or break his grade in the class. Hopefully the school took pity on him and let him redo it. If they believed him, that is… he wasn’t exactly the most honest student.

Groaning, he threw the blankets off him and stumbled to the full body mirror on the door, inspecting the reflection. His soulmate was cute, he’d give him that, but it did nothing to disperse the internal confusion at seeing someone else looking back at him in the mirror. It also felt super weird to be attracted to… well, himself, at the moment, technically? He pushed a strand of white hair, dyed lighter than the rest of the black locks, out of his face and leaned forward, trying to decipher if the eye color was brown or murky green, when the door flew open and hit him in the face.

He yelped upon hitting the floor, rubbing his forehead, and glaring up at the intruder.

“Who the hell are you?” He hissed before he could stop himself, meeting the eyes of a very confused guy standing in the doorway. Blinking, he looked back into the mirror, and then back to the newcomer, wondering for a second if he was hallucinating. It took him far too long to remember the concept of twins, mentally facepalming as the other spoke.

“What do you mean, who the hell am I? Really, not one of your best pranks, Remus.”

“I’m not pranking you. I’m not Remus.”

The other merely blinked, staring at him blankly, until a look of realization crossed his face. “Oooohh! You’re his-”

“Yeah,” Janus snarked, getting back to his feet, “I am. Who are you?”

“Uhm, I’m Roman. Your- I mean, his brother. Remus’ brother. What’s your name?”

He brushed nonexistent dirt off his pajama top, an old and ripped oversized t-shirt, and responded, “Janus.”

“Janice? Huh,” Roman wrinkled his brow, casting a look behind him before stepping in and closing the door behind him, “I could have sworn Remus was gay.”

“I’m not a girl, you deflated airbag. I’m named after a Roman god, and I am very much male.”

Roman was at a loss for words, watching Janus approach Remus’ closet and look through it scrutinizingly. “He has good taste.”

“That’s what you call good taste?” The brother asked, peering over his shoulder at the chaos of ripped cloth and mesh and leather. He was frankly shocked there was any left in the closet, seeing as there was what appeared to be enough for a whole other wardrobe on the floor.

“I wouldn’t personally wear it. I’m more classy than that. But,” He picked out a weathered jean vest, adorned with pins and spikes, “Hot.”

Roman tried to hide his eye roll. “You’ll get along with him well. I came up to get you- er, Remus, but now you, I guess. For breakfast.”

Right on time, a woman’s voice carried up through the house, calling for them. Janus shrugged and followed Roman out the door, abandoning his discovery on a chair and pulling up the first hoodie from the floor. He didn’t generally like to wear oversized things, so he was surprised that the almost blanket-like garment was so comfortable. 

“Ah, took you long enough. It’s getting cold.” Janus took in the downstairs area, a small kitchen and dining room in one, leading off into a living room. It was all comfortable, the sunshine raging through the picture window on the wall closest to the table, highlighting the steam rising off the food. 

Janus stood at the bottom of the stairs as Roman took his seat opposite his parents, gesturing to the seat next to him.

“Remus, sweetie, everything okay?”

For a solid second, he forgot that he was supposed to be Remus and just stared blankly at the woman who had spoken. 

“That’s not Remus. It’s his soulmate.” Roman said absently around a bite of food.

Their mother’s expression turned to delight, standing up immediately and engulfing Janus in a hug that he didn’t return, “Oh, welcome, darling! It’s so nice to meet you! Join us for breakfast, and you can go about contacting Remus later. Sound good?”

“I guess.” He didn’t seem to have a choice either way as he was ushered to sit next to Roman, his plate pushed a little closer to him by the mom. The dad was just taking him in, chewing slowly, and everything in Janus was yelling at him to look away. But Janus was never one to shy away from a stare off, so he kept eye contact, hoping that Remus had the same glare that his own face did. He must have, since the man finally looked back down to his plate.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” Jeez, did this woman always have to use pet names? 

“Janus.” He responded simply, pulling in his first bite of food. It was good, he’d admit, but his own house never had these kinds of… family get-togethers, and to say he was uncomfortable was an understatement. 

“Janice? Huh, must be weird being in a boy’s body, yeah?” Her face clearly conveyed that it was supposed to be a joke, or maybe some fucked up icebreaker, but he was more annoyed by his name. 

“I’m actually-” He was cut off by a sharp kick to the shin, coughing slightly to stifle a curse, and turned to Roman expectantly. The glare out of the corner of his eyes was something Janus wasn’t anticipating, same with the almost imperceivable shake of his head. The message was clear. Forcing a small smile on his face, he turned back to the parents, who were still wholly focused on him. “Yeah, it’s weird for sure.” 

Usually, lies slipped off his tongue with no hesitation. He had to learn to survive, growing up as he had. But this one felt wrong, and so utterly bizarre, that it seemed to burn the roof of his mouth. If that’s what it took though, and he was very sure that Roman’s cutting him off had been to prevent outing Remus, he could take that.

The rest of the meal was filled with small talk between him and the parents, in which he learned that he wasn’t all too far from his own house, where Remus would be waking up. Even so, he didn’t recognize the neighborhood he was in. It was definitely nicer than from where he lived, though, and he doubted that Remus would know where he was either. Poor guy. 

As soon as it seemed socially accepted to leave the table, he did so, loading his dishes into the washer and dashing upstairs. It was only nine in the morning and he was exhausted, dropping onto the bed and noticing the little glow in the dark dinosaurs on the ceiling for the first time. Rather, the remains of glow in the dark dinosaurs. Remus must have taken scissors to them, separating the heads and attaching them to different bodies. He was specifically entranced by a T-Rex with a Pterodactyl head when Remus’ mother’s words flooded back into his mind, and he remembered that he should probably try to get into contact with Remus. One look at the phone on the nightstand, though, and he was getting up with a groan and padding down the hallway. 

It wasn’t hard to distinguish Roman’s room from the other doors; it was the only one with his headshot taped to the front with a star under it, his name written in bold letters across it like a Hollywood star. Janus rolled his eyes and knocked on it, walking in at Roman’s call.

“Can I use your phone?”

“Why?” Roman gave him a hard side eye from where he was splayed across his bed, a script in his hands that he was most likely trying to memorize. 

“I want to call Remus. And unless you know the password to his phone, I can’t get on it.”

“Ah. In full honesty, I don’t even want to know what the cretin has for a password.” With no further convincing, he handed Janus his unlocked phone and went back to scanning the papers, quietly muttering lines to himself while giving Janus the occasion glance. 

He typed in his own number and held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“It’s odd hearing my own voice through the phone,�� were Janus’ first words to his soulmate. The voice on the other line, his voice, gasped. 

“Oh shit! Ooooh shit! I would have called, but I couldn’t remember my own number!”

“That’s Remus for you.”

“Stop eavesdropping,” Janus snarled, taking a step away.

“If it’s loud enough to hear, is it really eavesdropping?”

Janus lowered the volume of the phone in response, flipping Roman off. “Hi, Remus, I presume.”

“I see you’ve met Roman. Pain in the ass, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“Okay, first things first. You’re hella hot.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Second, where am I?”

Janus chuckled, which sounded odd coming from vocal chords he wasn’t used to. “About twenty minutes away from your house. Did you want to meet somewhere to switch back?”

“Fuck yes. I want my teeth back.”

“Your-” Janus ran his tongue along his teeth, noticing for the first time that they felt different than what he was used to. The general shape, the curve, it was all new, and odd, and suddenly it was all he could think about. “Why the hell did you have to say that?”

Remus snickered, “Whoopsies.”

“How about Edison’s Bakery, on Westland? It’s pretty much in the middle.”

Roman gave him a thumbs up, mouthing ‘good choice’, at the same time as Remus almost squealed in glee. Apparently, he liked the place. 

“I’ll take that as a yes. In half an hour?”

“Yessss.”

“Before you hang up, what’s your phone password?” He physically recoiled at the response, earning a snort from Roman. “I’m not typing that.”

“That’s the only way you’re getting into my phone.”

“Hold on, how did you get into mine?” Remus only chuckled, and the line went dead. Janus sighed and tossed Roman his phone back, hitting him squarely in the chest. “Not much of a conversationalist, is he?”

“Remus abides to the laws of social constructs about as well as he abides to the laws of nature. That is to say, not at all.” 

“What should I wear? When I go to meet him?”

Roman looked taken aback. It made him scowl in embarrassment, rolling his eyes at the other’s face. 

“I don’t know what Remus likes to wear, dumbass. Don’t get a big head.”

“Uh, the ripped grey jeans with the patch on the thigh and Green Day shirt are his favorite. He usually wears something meshy underneath, but-”

“I’m not wearing mesh.”

“Figured.”

Like all of Remus’ clothing, Janus learned very quickly, the Green Day shirt was also full of holes. Whether his closet had been raided by moths, or it was just his aesthetic, he didn’t know. He could see why mesh would go well under it, but there was no way he would stoop to that level, so he threw on the jean vest he’d first seen and went back to Roman’s room to get approved. 

Deciding against seeing the parents again (Janus didn’t understand his instinctual hatred for them, but it was strong), he scaled the drainpipe outside Remus’ window and used his soulmate’s phone for directions to the cafe (despite the disgust he felt at typing in the password), since he still didn’t know the exact directions from this strange neighbourhood.  After deciphering the bus map, he hopped on the next one to arrive, grateful that he’d found enough spare change in Remus’ horribly unorganized wallet for bus fare. 

Surprisingly, he wasn’t nervous by the time he got to the cafe. He’d have thought his nerves would have eaten at him already, telling him to just turn around and live as Remus for the rest of his life, but they were surprisingly calm. There was just something about meeting a soulmate that didn’t mess with him. They were soulmates; they were kind of supposed to be perfect for each other. That’s the whole point. 

It didn’t take long for him to spot himself in the almost empty bakery, propped up against the large window in a way he would never stand, tracing the patterns on the ceiling with his eyes. Janus sidled up to him- himself? The concept was enough to make his head spin- and, ignoring the slightly Inception-esque nausea of looking at his own body, smirked.

“You’re getting fingerprints all over the glass.”

Remus spun to him, grinning widely, and without further adieu, grabbed his hand. Janus’ vision tunneled before going completely black. A sound like an intense air rush overwhelmed him despite the fact that there was no wind, his ears popped almost painfully, and his mouth went completely dry, but when he opened his eyes again, he was staring back at Remus. Actually Remus. In his own body and everything.

“Oh, my teeth, how I missed you,” The taller crooned, making a show of running his tongue across the outside of his teeth.

“You’re odd.” Never before had Janus been so happy to hear his voice.

“That I am,” Remus said with too wide a grin, tilting his head to the counter. “I waited for you.”

“Glad you had the decency.”

“C’mon, Jay,” He tightened his grip on Janus’ hand, who was surprisingly okay with the nickname (despite having punched people for using it before), “I love their energy drinks.”

“Their what?” Janus had been going here since he was a little kid, and he knew for a fact they didn’t have energy drinks. The overtired barista heard him though, shooting him a look of pure disdain.

“That’s what he calls it. We like to call it the Abomination unto God. I don’t know how his heart doesn’t give out from it. One pump of every flavor, five shots of espresso, top it off with black coffee.”

“Is that legal?” Janus asked incredulously.

“Technically, I just ask for how many espresso shots they can fit in a cup. She was the one to limit it to five.”

“He asked a trainee on their first day working. They filled the whole cup with espresso.”

“I was vibrating.” Remus said dreamily, as if the memory was particularly fond. Despite Janus’ protests, Remus ordered his monstrosity of a drink, pouring at least three sugar packets into the cup to his rising horror, and sat down happily. It was almost enough to make him not want his coffee anymore, watching his soulmate take a long glug of the sludge in his cup.

“So, Janus,” He said when he finally put the half empty cup back onto the table, “How did you find my family?”

Somehow, Janus could sense the underlying question, taking a sip before responding. “They’re fine. Your parents rub me the wrong way, so to speak, and Roman’s a bit of a prick, but they’re fine.” He watched as Remus tossed his cup back again, fiddling with the sleeve on his cup, “I didn’t out you, by the way.”

That was enough to dampen the mood, Remus suddenly looking sullen as he stared at his hands. He blinked rapidly, taking a shaky breath before responding with a quiet thank you.

“They think I’m a girl. So that sucks.”

“They’re homophobic as shit.”

“I figured that out. Is Roman-”

“Gay as they come.”

Janus swirled his drink in his cup, watching the coffee stain the edges. “What will happen if they find out?”

“I don’t want to think about that. Getting disowned, at best.”

They both went silent, almost in solidarity. What could you say to that?

“Do you live alone?” Remus asked out of the blue, drinking more and having the audacity to chew the sugar from the bottom of the cup. 

“My mom’s out of town for work right now.”

“Dad?”

“Never knew him.”

“Shit.”

“That about sums it up.” The two of them chuckled. 

“So…” Remus started, finishing his concoction and throwing the cup into the garbage can by the sugar station, startling the barista. “We’re soulmates.”

“What led you to that conclusion?” He deadpanned, watching Remus as he took a slow sip of his coffee. 

“Hardy har har.”

“Yes, we’re soulmates,” Janus agreed, “Must we make it complicated?”

“Eh,” The other said with a shrug, “Ride with the tide, see where it goes?”

“Works for me.” As Janus finished off the last of his coffee, he could see Remus’ hands had started to shake violently on the table, and could feel his leg bouncing up a storm underneath it.

“C’mon, get up,” Janus laughed, pulling Remus to his (somewhat unsteady) feet, “Let’s go to the park and get your energy out. Hopefully I can get you home before you crash.”

“Aww, you do care.” Remus cooed, laying his head on Janus’ shoulder as they left the shop.

“I believe that’s the point, dumbass. Now, I’ll race you to the park. Three, two, one, go!”

Remus took off at a full caffeine-induced sprint to the park just down the street as Janus continued his leisurely pace, laughing the further Remus got without realizing he wasn’t following. What had he gotten himself into?

Nothing he didn’t want, that was for sure.

[ukiyo-jaem]

test packet a (n.jm)

words: 2.1k

warnings: smut, tutor!jaemin, student!reader, edging, orgasm denial, punishment

requested: yes

songs listened to while writing: alphabet boy by melanie martinez

part 2

~~~~~

"i spent so long," he raked his hand through his now messed up dark hair, pacing infront of your desk that sat in the middle of your bedroom. "so long teaching and re-teaching you this stupid literature lesson, y/n!" he groaned; glasses hanging on the tip of his nose and his hoodie and jeans still neat and clean from when he walked from his fine arts school to come to your weekly tutoring session.

"i said i was sorry!" you raised your voice, eyes locking with his then going right back down to where you were playing with your fingers in your lap. you uniform still on and uncomfortable as ever. "but why didn't you study more after i left?!" he asked, hands slamming down on the desk infront of you so he was eye level with you now.

you sat back in your chair, only daring to look up at him for a quick second. "my time - wasted." he scoffed quietly while standing fully, and grabbing his bag. you shot out of you seat quickly, running around the desk and standing infront of him. "please don't go. i-i really need you still." you said, desperation coming out in your voice.

you grabbed his hand that held the strap of his bag and looked at him. "please." you whispered. you could see him contemplate his next movements as he stood there unmoved. "my parents will kill me if i get another bad mark." you shook your head.

jaemin saw the tears gather in your eyes. he couldn't help admiring how you looked with them gathering at the edges, ready to spill at any bat of your eye.

he sighed, dropping his bag; the thud making hope spring into your eyes. "...you're lucky you're my only job tonight..." he muttered.

you readily ran back to your seat and sat back down. he trudged over to his seat that was sat right across from yours. "okay. let's figure out why you failed." he said as he pushed his glasses up and grabbed the red inked paper from your hands.

he leaned against his hand and read your test.

on the first question he stared up at you with a cold chill that made you squirm in your seat. "you're joking right?" he asked and you looked down in shame.

"what is a person, place, thing, or idea, y/n?" he asked as he let the paper fall from his hand. "...noun..." was the only thing you could say. "so why the hell did you put 'verb'?" he asked and it all made sense now. he turned the paper around towards you, and your eyes caught the bottom left hand side, 'test a'.

there were 2 versions of the test

"i-" you couldn't come up with anything. jaemin was pissed you failed but he would've been livid if he found out you cheated on the test.

"well here...i'll tell you exactly why you put 'verb'." he said reaching in his bag that was settled by his right foot. once you saw the 2 packets in each hand you already knew you were done for. he knew. you were dead. you couldn't lie out of this one.

you slumped in your seat and just pouted. he dropped both versions of the test infront of you.

"as you see here, y/n. you got everything right for the 'test b' packet." he chuckled, and it hurt. "when in actual reality, you had 'test a' all along." he shook his head, taking his glasses off.

he set them down and massaged the sides of his head. "so not only did you fail...you cheated." he muttered. "i didn't mean to!" you countered sitting up and staring at him. his eyebrow cocked at your boldness.

"i choked! i knew everything but got distracted by something! and poof!" your hands flew up, "everything was gone." he didn't find this amusing at all.

"so that's the only reason, you got 'distracted'?" he asked, arms crossing over his body. you looked around for a moment and nodded.

"then come here." he said and motioned for you to come over with a single wave of a finger. you stood up and walked over to his seat.

he grabbed your waist and sat you down on his lap. you yelped at the suddenness, his hands grabbing your thighs to steady your body.

your legs rested on the outsides of his own as he spread your legs further open. his hand came around and grabbed the blank 'test a' and a pencil.

"do it." he demanded and you just started writing down as many answers as you could.

you had uneasily made it to question 3 when you felt his hand brush against your clothed pussy. you straightened your back quickly, dropping the pencil out of shock. "did i say to stop?" he asked, a slap landing on the inside of your thigh. you whimpered, trying to close your thighs but his hands held them open firmly and forcefully.

"continue." he said and you picked up the pencil again. "want to work on distractions? then do the test while i have my fun." you basically heard the smirk dripping from his lips.

you nodded obediently and started working. his hand creeped closer to your covered core, rubbing lightly on your clit. you bit your lip and tried to concentrate as much as you could.

your body shook with arousal and his hand grabbed your waist firmly. "i don't think you should be enjoying this as much as you should be, princess." he whispered, hand travelling up and grabbing at your still covered chest.

with one quick pull of your panties and a rip sound, his fingers were prodding at your wet entrance. you breathed a sigh of content as you struggled on question 9.

"maybe if you complete the test i'll let you come." he taunted, slipping a finger into you. you gripped the table, trying to close your legs to no avail.

"awe look at you squirming." he chuckled. you tried looking at him but the hand that was feeling your chest was now on the back of your neck, guiding your entire head to look straight at your paper.

his pace didn't let up as he taunted you and tried distracting you.

it was as if a huge ball was forming in the pit of your stomach. where jaemin was there trying to make it explode. "please." you moaned, trying to think of the correct answer. "oh my god please." you begged and you could feel his body shake with a laugh. "please slow- unngmm." you were cut off by his other hand coming down to quickly rub your clit. you looked up to see your reflection staring back at you. jaemin's amused and concentrated face peaked out from behind your figure.

"you can't come yet." he said, motioning down to your paper, both of your gazes locked. you felt yourself come close to the edge, but just as quickly as everything started--it ended.

his once buried fingers were now in his mouth, cleaning your essence off his digits. "i'm giving you a chance to get it done." he said, fingers still on his lips. his one hand that was rubbing fastly on your clit was now just gripping your thigh possessively.

your gaze broke from his and you hurried down to your test. your high was slowly dissapearing as you made it through 4 questions.

his wet fingers traveled back down to your core, teasingly twirling themselves around your hole.

your mind began to get clouded again as two fingers were now plunged into you and your clit being rubbed again. your high came back ten times harder as you whined, finally dropping your pencil and grabbed his arms that disappeared below the edge of the table and landed where your skirt stayed flipped up.

your one hand tried gripping his wrist to his hand that was rubbing you closer and closer to climaxing everywhere.

"oh please don't stop." you said, throwing your head back, leaning against jaemin who was waiting for you. his mouth laid wet kisses all over your exposed neck.

you hands came up to pull at his hair lightly.

your head turned to the side where both of your lips clashed and teeth scraped for control. his movements seemed like they got faster and faster.

your lips detached but you still laid there, your head on his shoulder and your eyes shut while you were experiencing pure pleasure.

"please don't stop." you whined quietly.

he wanted to stay there forever and just watch your puffy and drooly lips beg and plead for him to not stop. your soft voice now in a high-pitched whisper. your back subconsciously arching away from his chest as you try to have him hit deeper inside you. your hand resting on his jaw and your touch so delicate.

but that wasn't going to happen right now. his hands retracted from your core. his grip forced your wrists away from him and then to make you sit up straight.

"only 3 more questions to go, sweetie." he sung, popping his sweetly coated fingers into his mouth where he licked them graciously. he never wanted your sweetness to end...but you were almost done.

your high was so close this, and it was ripped away from you like it was nothing. you quickly tried to get the questions done as your core literally throbbed for a release.

"fini-ah." you began but his fingers plunged directly into you with no warning. "what, baby?" he asked and you gripped the table hard.

"i...i finished." you panted, trying to regain your composure quickly.

"good job, princess." your gazes locked in the mirror and you saw him smiling.

he stood up quickly, you being pushed from his fingers and smooshed against the table and his body. he forcefully turned you around and lifted you onto the table.

you couldn't register what was happening before he was on his knees and his tongue was licking you up and down.

his fingers were wonderful but his tongue was pure magic. "oh-" you moaned, your body weight being supported by your elbows.

"oh my- please." you whispered, so close to the edge. his arms hooked around both of your legs, pulling you onto his mouth forcefully.

he was in paradise. you tasted so sweet and so magical. he could die with you sitting on his face and it being the best way to go in his opinion...but that was going to be for a different time.

he felt a grip on his hair and knew he was doing something right.

he quickly backed away and rested his head on your inner thigh. your exasperated whine made him look up to see your annoyed and pouty face.

tears gathered in your eyes and this is exactly where he needed to get you. "oh look at you." he pouted, his hand coming up to slowly stroke and play with your clit.

"so desperate and whiny. just to come." he sighed, his fake sympathy making your blood boil. yet you were too focused on getting your release, you let it go quickly.

"please just- i need you." you whined and his tongue was on you again.

his arms held your legs open as he ate you out with passion and dedication. you were so close.

the tears fell down your face and were slowly being replaced with stars.

you gripped his hair and he knew this was it. he got ready, tasting your sweetness and trying to make it last; sucking your clit in between his lips. he smirked, and pulled away, standing up.

you laid there on your desk, tear streaks down your cheeks and your nose and cheeks having a soft blush to them. "what...are you doing?" you asked, sitting up.

"...going home?" he chuckled grabbing your finished test and shoving it into his bag.

"b-but-" your eyes grew at the realization once he grabbed his glasses, popping them back onto his face. he licked his lips and wiped the excess away with his sleeve.

"see you next week, y/n." he said leaning over and kissing your cheek sweetly.

"maybe you'll behave this week...yeah?" he whispered into your ear, softly running his tongue under your ear; shivers shooting down your spine.

you watched as he seriously walked out of your room, fixing and adjusting himself so he looked presentable if he were to see your parents on his way out.

your fingers going back down to your clit, trying to match what he was doing; nothing working no matter how hard you tried. you were left just sitting in your desk, pouting at your climax that never tipped off.

jaemin smirked the whole way home, knowing he was gonna be doing this for awhile.

[bookersebastien]

since I love your headcanons/meta (if you're up to it) can I have your thoughts on the guard + fashion

andy

Andy probably has a pretty complicated relationship with fashion, like i think she does with most things in the modern world given the fact that it’s only a tiny spec of her lifetime

She’s spent her life watching thousands upon thousands of fashion trends come and go and was alive during the creation of many fabrics themselves

She’s been a warrior her entire life, we may not know the manner of her first death (or at least not from the movies) but we know she’s spent most of her life as an immortal fighting, both before and after she met quynh

Fashion for her was always at the very least comfortable and flexible, something she could travel and fight in without a moment’s notice

But to some extent how she looks, her image is a very important aspect of her, especially in the earlier part of her life

She was a famed fighter for so long, earning her name “fighter of man”, there were probably stories told of her and quynh, warrior women who no one can defeat, her clothing at that time at least semi reflected that, she wanted to be seen as “unbreakable” as she says in the movie

She had probably minimal armor, after all she doesn’t need it technically and would only prefer it to have less healing time if she took on less damage, but her clothing showed exactly who she was, every bit the warrior

As practical as she is, who she appears to be is still probably very much still tied to her identity, she may not be known anymore and doesn’t even want to be for the sake of their safety but her clothes are not just strictly practical, rather than be the warrior of myth she has now become a warrior of the modern age, a warrior of the shadows

Her clothes still reflect her younger self, the famed warrior, just scaled back and modernized. She wears calf-high boots, arm braces and fitted clothing in all black  she cuts quite and imposing figure and that’s what i think she wants. She doesn’t necessarily use it to intimidate others, as her younger self may have done, this time her clothing is now to make her still feel powerful, a reflection of who she is now: skilled and deadly, ready at a moments notice to protect those she loves

While jeans and a tank top is a perfectly normal outfit, with the boots and braces you’d do a double take, wondering who she was, but it’s meant to blend in just enough but if you look closely enough at how tight the boots are laced and her posture, tank top carefully tucked in you’d start to wonder

I think she does actually like fashion, she’s seen so much of it and she probably sees things that remind her of something she saw hundreds of years ago, like seeing trends pop up again and it fills her with nostalgia. It reminds her of when she was in love with humanity, loved seeing what people created and invented and when she truly believed in their cause

But things definitely changed after quynh was thrown in the ocean, just had a less of desire and the clothes probably reminded her of quynh, what’d she’d wear and what she’d get for andy to wear and as modern times came around she stuck to stuff that was more practical, still a little fashionable, but stuff that could be worn doing anything from sleeping to fighting

I think her clothing in the movie, mostly black, reflects who she is as this time: a powerful and strong warrior who’s also afraid, she’s afraid that she spent her life fighting for something that doesn’t matter but also (pre-nile) afraid of what she’s going to do now that she said the world could burn - what does a 6,000+ immortal warrior do then?

booker

Booker is not unfashionable, and while his relatively apathetic and cynical nature might make you think fashion isn’t something he would care about, i think he does

He isn’t like joe who would go the extra step to make an outfit more aesthetically pleasing, but also he isn’t as super practical as nicky (he keeps his gun in his pants for fuck’s sake)

Booker is tired and wants to feel normal, to feel his humanity that he feels is slipping away from him even though it’s already been 200 years - he’s still adjusting and that’s because he never wanted this and still doesn’t completely accept this is his life now (hence at least a partial reason for his betrayal)

But i don’t booker is one to make too much of a fuss about what he’s wearing, he wants simple clothing that won’t make him look out of place, especially since he was the one who met with copley for that previous mission maybe he is the one who scouts missions as their seemingly resident computer person

So he goes for what a lot of people do: classic pieces of clothing in selection of relatively neutral colors that all work together. In their life it’s important to have clothes at the ready, both in their bags and at their safehouses and i’d bet at least most of his stuff would work together with no issues

Aside from the tac outfit of course, he mainly wears an assortment of jeans, boots, button downs and leather jackets in mostly blacks and grays with a couple faded blues and greens - any of these can be thrown on without an issue, it looks like a complete outfit and nothing about how he’s dressed is any way going to attrract attention

Plus this man doesn’t care enough about himself to make him look good rather than just being fine with what he has, he wants to die and doesn’t allow himself to feel the love he has from his family, dressing up to him isn’t going to add anything or make anything better

So in the sequel i’d love to see him deal with his pain and his betrayal head on and who knows maybe joe will buy him some zipper pants too and maybe booker will actually like them

nicky

Nicky is the other more practical one other than andy, but he lacks her attempt at keeping at appearances/empowerment

The majority of movies he’s wearing plain t-shirts and regular jeans with dad jackets, the only slightly impractical fashion choice being his hoodie from the tac outfit, which it does cover him up completely and allows him to cover his face more if needed but also it’s hot (i also like that post comparing the hoodie to the crusader’s chainmail helmet)

But nicky in essence is practical, he’s the protector of the group, always watching and always on the edges, he doesn’t care much i think for what he wears as long as it allows him to do his job

Yes of course he participated in fashions over the years, and will wear things joe picks out for him and occasionally what he picks out for himself, but that stuff is not for when there is a mission, not when people need help

But i think he usually gravitates towards simple like andy, something to run and fight in but he lacks andy’s past of fame, reverence, and notoriety (at least in the way she had it - he did fight in the crusades after all) so his clothing isn’t to do anything for him but to act as clothing, it holds no mental power over him, he has no image to project - he’s done so much that he wants to help people and protect his family and that’s it

I don’t think growing up in genoa before the crusades lent itself to that many fashion opportunities and while we aren’t sure of his exact status, i don’t think any of the guard were particularly wealthy (except possibly yusuf as the son of merchants) and being a priest at the time i’m sure didn’t make him wealthy in his adulthood either

And while he’s lived 900+ years, the way you grew up doesn’t just leave you, he was at least catholic, and i still think he holds his faith close, just in a different way now

Plus look at his tac outfit, the most comfortable looking (it is a hoodie after all) and he has half a dozen guns strapped to himself along with sword, he wants the ability to carry his things comfortably without impeding him in any way, he wants to be totally and completely prepared and is very much the typical dad in this sense, everything must be on hand so he can protect those he loves

Also you know this man owns cargo pants much to joe’s dismay

joe

we all know joe is the fashionable male among the guard, i mean the backwards baseball cap and the zipper pants? yeah

in his tac outfit, the hat really adds nothing to it besides aesthetic, it’s not shielding his eyes from the sun because he’s wearing sunglasses and it doesn’t aid him in any way during a fight unless he had decided to pull a booker and do “whatever works” and just like hit someone with it - it’s a purely aesthetic choice

but joe was the child of merchants and lived in an area with a rich history of colorful and beautiful fashion, the region was known for the lightweight fabrics and light silks that during the crusades, many were brought back to europe and astounded the europeans

i think that has stayed with joe, that complete appreciation and awe at the craft of making clothing and using clothing to show yourself and personality 

joe is also a man of the arts, there was so much poetry and arts in the maghreb region, and while that existed in italy as well, nicky was a priest and probably wasn’t exposed to it much outside a religious context

joe is also an artist himself, he has such a grand appreciation for aesthetics and while clothing purely for aesthetics isn’t practical for the life they live unless they are on a break, he manages to infuse his clothing with his personality nonetheless

the backwards hat was fun, unnecessary but it also didn’t get in the way of his fighting. he probably just enjoyed the look (and i know we all did too) and the leather jacket with the hoodie and zippered pants at the end scene was just such an effortless cool look that was still practical but had a lot more personality and an attempted look™ than say nicky and his dad jacket

nile

most of what nile is wearing in the movie isn’t her choice of clothing, not that i don’t think she’d absolutely pick out that green bomber jacket but in the movie she wasn’t the one who picked it, it was packed for her

but the outfit she wears in the end is just like her, trendy and young and refreshing given that the rest of the guard sticks to their own styles they’ve been in the whole movie

but nile is the one who is most likely to branch out, she’s only in her late 20s and by her last scene in the movie it’s only been maybe a week or so since she became immortal, she hasn’t evolved a ‘be ready to fight’ kind of fashion and doesn’t have the hundreds of years of experience telling her to buy things that she can fight in as well as sleep in - now she was in the marines so to some extent but not with her own personal clothing choices

despite her chaotic introduction to being immortal, it won’t set in for a while that their lives are running from one danger to the next, taking breaks when they can, especially with andy’s renewed commitment to the job she and the others set out to accomplish, her clothing style will probably change as she settles into this new life

but we can see in her last scene, she is wearing comfortable clothing, a fitted shirt with a stylish yet somewhat more loose fitting jacket and looser pants (they look like joggers and i can’t completely remember if they are or not)

so while her clothes are comfortable, they are more fashionable than any of the others, and while this probably has lots to do with her age i think it’s very important to her current state of mind

she’s had the most insane weeks of her life, found out she’s not going to die for a very long time, found out there are others like her, and had to say goodbye to her family without seeing them again because she’s decided to stick with her new life

and this is a massive change for her, after being in the military for quite a few years, assuming she joined when she around 18-20 which i think she did enlist then especially given the fact that her dad passed when she was younger

life in the military is very controlled, so her having this sudden new gift but also this vast wide open future is probably terrifying to her, so much has changed so quickly, she hasn’t had the time to properly sort through how she’s feeling and truly realizing what this life means

her clothes are a reflection of one thing in her life she can currently control because she can’t control what’s going to happen in the world and where copley will find them a job or where they will be at any one time but she has control over herself so she dresses herself how she wants, how she’d dress if she was home

it’s some semblance of normality, some piece of herself that hasn’t changed and that she wants to express

quynh

while we don’t see quynh much besides in flashbacks and then in the final scene i think fashion is going to be something important to her

she spent 500 years drowning, unable to do anything, unable to save herself

nile said she was feeling insane and angry, quynh spent 500 years without an ounce of control over what was happening to her and regaining her life is something she is not going to take for granted

she’s going to live her life to the fullest, which includes wearing whatever she likes and wearing the colors she loves and the clothing that makes her feel beautiful and badass and powerful - a little like andy and a little like nile

it’s a huge part of her life she’s regained, clothing is something the whole world sees and part of how we perceive people and in a world that she doesn’t know at all she’ll want to craft herself an image because clothing is still one thing she can understand - the styles are all different but i have no doubts it’s something she took to quite quickly, having something she can control completely

[gillytweed]

Y’all wanna hear about the baby superhero team my brain decided needed to exist?

Yeah you do!

So, I’ve been on a superhero kick lately, specifically DC characters cause I’m kinda tired of Marvel, and my brain decided “what’s the harm in making a superhero OC?” Turns out the answer to that is making an entire team, side characters, a whole world, and lore. 

So far, I have the team solidly figured out. Said team lives in a world where superheroes have been around for while (think Young Justice cartoon timeframe in the grand scheme of superhero timelines). People with superpowers aren’t uncommon, so of course a superhero profession surfaced. 

On the team, we have Witchboy, a “magic” user, Nightbolt, an unpowered archer/tech hero, Karma, Damage Enhancement ability, aka can take damage and send it back at their opponent even stronger, Ibis, presumably a teleporter, Frost, Iceman but spikier, and Saber, an unpowered sword user. 

Nightbolt, Frost and Saber are Legacy Heroes. Aka, they got into heroing through family or personal connections. Meanwhile, Witchboy, Karma and Ibis all have their own reasons for joining a superhero team. 

Putting stuff below the cut so I don’t get people shakin’ their canes at me. 

General Character profiles

Witchboy  Civilian name: Howl Melas (Not their birthname. They chose to have go by a different name for reasons) Ethnicity: Very White, with ancestry all over Europe. Basically a European smoothie Pronouns: They/Them Mentor: Mystic (Sometimes Nightwatcher)

Powers: If I have to choose an already existing hero, I’d say their powers are the most like Raven’s from Teen Titans at a glance. Their powers are based on something I call Kinetic Algorithms, which is basically intense mental visualization paired with specific movements/muscle memory to channel energy into different effects. A list of their basic abilities at their introduction would be short distance teleportation, force fields, levitation, and a basic force blast. 

Description: Civilian attire usually consists of a hoodie and workout pants, or dark jeans, T-shirt, light jacket and a beanie to hide their silver hair (it was originally brown, but turned silver as their abilities surfaced). Their Hero suit is black/dark indigo with silver trim, and resembles a sleeveless hoodie (with the hood having a bit more structure so it doesn’t flap everywhere and get in the way) and fitted pants. Both padded for basic protection. They also have fingerless glove/gauntlet sort of things that contain a small communicator and basic GPS system.

Personality: Comes off as dark and brooding, but in reality is having an internal anxiety attack. They want to do their best to help, but often gets tripped up by overthinking, thus they default to not doing anything so they don’t make things worse. 

Nightbolt Civilian Name: Edana “Eddie” Cochran Ethnicity: Scottish Pronouns: She/Her Mentor: Broadhead

Powers: Got none but kicks ass anyway. Her primary weapon is the bow and arrow, but she’s also proficient in hand to hand and a few other melee weapons. She’s also the tech wiz of the group, and the only one who’s passed the simulator to be allowed to pilot the dropship. A decent acrobat as well.

Description: Civilian attire is usually jeans, and one of those leather jackets that are also a hoodie sort of deal. Her hair is red, and cut short into an undercut. Her Hero suit is black with red accents. It’s similar to Witchboy’s in that it’s also sleeveless, but it’s more of an armoured vest. No hood, as she prefers a domino mask. 

Personality: Easily the leader of the team, as she’s the most mature, despite not being the oldest. Being a Legacy Hero, she’s very aware of how her performance reflects on her mentor, so she does her best at all times, even when it’s clearly leading to burn out. 

Karma Civilian Name: Ethnicity: Not sure yet, but def white passing Pronouns: She/Her Mentor: Peacebringer (sorta)

Powers: Damage Empowerment. She takes damage then amplifies it and sends it back several times stronger. 

Description: Loves muscle T’s and booty shorts, cause when you worked for the muscles she’s got, you deserve to show them off. Has long blond hair that’s usually pulled up into a ponytail. Hero suit is basically full body armour, as she needs to get hit to hit back. Colours are blue and a yellowish gold. 

Personality: A Himbo, but with Street Smarts. At first comes off as cocky, flirtatious, and extremely self confident almost to the point of arrogance, she’s actually quiet sweet and thoughtful when it comes to her friends. She will also drop kick you into the sun if you’re a dick. Shares a braincell with Saber. 

Ibis Civilian Name: Kymani “Ky” Lukman Ethnicity: African Egyptian Pronouns: He/Him Mentor: Phase

Powers: Supposedly a teleporter :p

Description: The most handsome black man y’all have ever seen. Too bad for y’all he’s an aroace king and loves it. Civilian attire is nice Henley's and jeans. His Hero suit is black with gold accents that resemble ancient Egyptian jewelry, like the Usekh collar and the gold cuff like bracelets. 

Personality: This dudes just vibing. Probably the only one of the group who can process his emotions in a healthy manner. He’s calm, relaxed, and usually unbothered with what’s happening around him. This can turn into apathy in some cases, however. 

Frost Civilian Name: Andri Bylur Ethnicity: Nordic descent, primarily Sweden and Norway Pronouns: He/They Mentor: Cryon

Powers: Is basically Iceman but spikier. Can create, manipulate and cover himself in ice. Has the ability to consciously regulate his temperature as well.

Description: Looks like an extremely average dude with brown hair. Usually wears tshirts and plaid with jeans. His Hero suit is rarely seen, as it’s basically a thermal suit to aid in temperature regulation when he covers himself in ice. When covered in ice, they appear to be wearing spikey armour of some kind. In time the design becomes smoother and more streamlined as they get a better handle on their abilites. 

Personality: Probably the most empathetic of the group, they took on the responsibility of getting more in depth medical training, so they’re the team medic that never runs out of icepacks. Best friends with Ibis, they’re usually decently calm, but their overwhelming ability to care can bite them in the ass sometimes. 

Saber Civilian name: Chenzi “Shenzi” Young Ethnicity: Chinese  Pronouns: She/They Mentor: Dynasty

Powers: Got none but is very good with anything sharp. Primary weapon is a sword, but also proficient in hand to hand, and essentially any bladed weapon. Like Nightbolt, is also a decent acrobat. 

Description: Gets cold easily, so often wears oversized hoodies and sweatpants (is often told to put on “real” pants when going out in public). Hero suit resembles a lighter, more fitted, and streamlined interpretation of heavy Tang Dynasty era armour. Colours are primarily red and white. 

Personality: A gremlin but in a lovable way. She’s convinced she and Karma are the only ones with a sense of humour. Would be a prankster if it didn’t take so much work, so instead goofs off with Karma. Is actually very intelligent and good at what they do, they just manage their stress through shenanigans and can’t focus to save their life (ADHD for the win folks). Shares a braincell with Karma.