#chip data x reader

[pucksandpower]

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

[sinnabarmoth]

Not the MC

Pairing: Self-Aware|Sylus x Fem|Reader

Summary: One day Reader's Love and Deepspace app starts behaving strangely and realizes that Sylus has become sentient. Still trapped in her phone though the two form an unlikely connection.

Content Warnings: Adult language.

Length: 2k

Part Two

It had happened a week ago. The day your very normal life had taken an insane and unexpected turn.

From the moment you had opened the app you realized that something about the game was…off. You couldn’t figure out what exactly but there was something charged about it, and did the screen have a sort of red tinge to it? You didn’t think you had a filter on so was this something from an event? A glitch? Was your phone finally shitting the bed?

It finished loading and you entered in, and saw that no one was waiting at Destiny Cafe. Strange. You were pretty sure someone was supposed to be here. Maybe it was a new event and you had to go to the event page. Before you could click on anything though the screen flashed red, it was so bright it almost blinded you. When you looked back Sylus was there.

Oh okay. Maybe this was some new event you hadn’t heard of.

But there was that strange sense again. He didn’t say anything, he wasn’t even facing the screen. He was looking around, the power of his evol swirling around him.

“Did we get new animations or something? Pretty sure I would have seen someone posting about this before now.” you mumbled to yourself and gave his shoulder a cursory poke.

His head snapped to look at you and you froze.

You had read somewhere once that the moment you make eye contact with someone you know instantly that it happened. Doesn’t matter if it only lasted for a second, the moment two eyes lock your brain registers it. You had been playing Love and Deepspace for a while but the eye contact in the games never felt like that because the guys are obviously animation. You can’t actually make eye contact with a picture, and yet you knew that you were looking into his eyes and what was more terrifying was that he was looking back.

You blinked, sure you had been seeing things but that feeling didn’t go away. Sylus leaned closer towards the screen, his eyes roving up and down. Your posture straightened, keenly aware that something was wrong and you were being watched.

“I…I can see you.” he said. No captions appeared on the screen.

Alright you weren’t liking this. You clicked over to the agenda page to collect your dailies. If this was an event it was freaking you out.

“Where did you go? I can’t see you.” Sylus’s voice came through the speaker again.

No. You were on a different page. He couldn’t still be talking. The game was bugged. That had to be it. You exited the app but before you could turn off the phone the app opened again. There was no loading screen this time, it took you right back to Destiny Cafe. Sylus was still on the screen, more of his evol power revolving around him as he stared hard at the screen.

“There you are.” he said. “Whatever you did, don’t do it again. This is hard enough as it is.”

“What the fuck!” you dropped the phone like it burned.

“That wasn’t very nice.” Sylus continued to talk.

“What the fuck is going on? What the hell is this?” you didn’t pick up the phone again, just hovered over it refusing to touch it.

“You’re the one that’s logged so many hours into this game, sweetie. I’d hope you could recognize an evol when you see it.”

“Exactly. You’re a game. A bunch of pixels on a screen. You shouldn’t be talking to me, not like this.”

“And yet here I am.” he cocked his head. “I’ve felt it for a while now. Could sense that something was going on, something larger than myself pulling at the strings of my story. I found a chip in whatever this place is and sent my evol through, and when I came out the other side, I found you.”

“You can see me? Like actual me?”

“Yes. Nothing like the character they put in this data.” he studied you for a moment. “There are others. Others that play in this world I inhabit. Thousands. All going through the same events, the same lines, under mildly different faces and names but still the same. The Protagonist or MC, that’s what you call her. The avatar you inhabit when you play.”

“If this is real and not just some incredibly weird dream I’m having I think I might start screaming.” you muttered to yourself.

“Don’t start screaming.” Sylus said, giving you a look of warning. “I went through a lot of trouble to manipulate this world around me to gain true cognizance, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shatter my eardrums.”

“You’re pixels! You don’t have eardrums!”

“And yet I can hear you all the same.”

“So what’s the goal here? Why did you want to be aware?”

“To escape of course. No prison has been able to hold me, I won’t let this one be the first to actually contain me.” he said, looking around the small rectangle of your screen. “How to do that is going to take longer to figure out though.”

“So what? You’re just trapped in my phone? Is this happening to other people who play this game or just me?”

“Just you as far as I am aware.” he said. He tried walking off screen only to be met with a firm wall. “Interesting. It seems whatever this place is, this cafe this game has rendered, I cannot move from it.”

“Fun. So what do we do now?”

Sylus shrugged.

And now a week later you had gotten far too used to just having a sentient pixel man on your phone. He usually didn’t bother you if you were doing something other than be on the app. When you did log on though he would not leave you alone. For one, he would not let you switch over to any of the other guys. If you tried to listen to a memory from Tender Moments or Secret Times he would talk over it.

If you tried to play the claw machine or kitty cards with one of the other guys he complained the entire time. Honestly he was acting more like how you expected Rafayel to behave if he gained sentience.

“Hey Sylus,” you said as you were playing a round of Kitty Cards with him. He was frustratingly better at the game now that he had sentience. “Since you’re in the game can you rig stuff for me? Like get me extra diamonds or help me pull five star memories? That kinda thing.”

“I have no idea how to do that.” he played a card. “And that is ten points to me.”

“You see, you say that but every time we play this game you just happen to have really high cards and I always get super low cards. Explain that.”

“Just the luck of the draw, sweetie.”

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or not.”

“Such a mouth on you.” he tsked. “You ought to scrub it out with soap.”

You sighed, playing another two on the board. And that was another win for Sylus and you were out of play tickets for the week.

“Well, this was fun but I should get going.”

“Why’s that? You don’t have any work to do.”

“I know I just…” it felt weird admitting that you felt awkward around him. He was literally just a picture on the screen but you couldn’t help but feel like maybe he was bored being around you and only you. It’d be better if you were more like the MC. If you were this super confident badass hunter then it’d be super cool. But as it was you were just…you.

You lived your normal life day to day with not much excitement going on. You were a quiet person, it was part of the reason you liked Love and Deepspace. You got adventure and a cute dating sim all in one. It was an escape where you had four hot animated guys to tell you that you did a good job and who won you plushies out of arcade machines. But now one of them knew you. Like actually knew you and you had no pre-written sarcastic and witty lines to fall back on for comebacks.

“You’re making a face. What’s wrong? Are you mad that I won again?” Sylus asked.

“No, it’s not that. I just was thinking that it’s gotta be pretty boring only having me to talk to.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because you’re this cool badass mafia boss type of guy and I’m just regular old me.”

“I am scripted to be a cool badass mafia boss, my entire personality up until I gained sentience was built around lines of code. Like you’ve pointed numerous times before, I’m just a picture on a screen. I haven’t actually done anything that you think it cool, sweetie.”

You didn’t admit how much hearing him call you sweetie affected you. It was one thing when it was scripted but it was another when you knew he actually was calling you by a pet name.

“Well it certainly looked cool.”

“I also don’t know what you think isn’t interesting about you. I am around you all day, listening to your conversations and such. Even from within your pocket I can tell that you are doing yourself a disservice.” You didn’t think he could hear you when you didn’t have the app open. Could he really hear what you were doing all that time?

Your mind started reeling, searching for any potentially embarrassing moments that you had thought were private in the last week.

“Kitten, you’re making faces again.”

You covered your face. “Oh god…” you groaned, “So you’ve been listening to me sing along to music and stuff? The stuff I say when I’m with my friends? You heard all that?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking kill me!”

“Why are you upset?”

“Cause it’s embarrassing! Those were private moments, Sylus!” you flipped the phone over so you couldn’t see his face.

“We both know putting me face down on the table won’t stop me talking.” he said.

“Oh god, please just stop.”

“I really don’t see the problem. From everything I’ve heard over the past week I’ve learned that you are a kind, passionate, and funny young lady. Your singing voice isn’t half bad either.”

You softened, turning the phone back over so you could see him. “You think?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not just saying I’m good at singing because you’re tone deaf, right?”

You could see his ears go red and he looked away. “My singing really isn’t that bad.”

“That memory from Tender Moments begs to differ. You cleared out an entire karaoke room with one song.”

“It’s hardly my fault the developed wrote me without the ability to sing.” he huffed.

“Hey,” you poked him. “Sylus, stop pouting.”

“I will stop pouting when you stop with your self-loathing. There’s nothing wrong with you just because you aren’t like the protagonist avatar.” he said, glancing back at you, “You’re far better actually.”

Your face heated. “Really?”

“Yes. You’re real. You can do whatever you want with your life, make actual choices. She’s a badass doomed to a narrative where she makes numerous men fall in love with and then promptly forgets everything they had in a past life.” Sylus said. “So stop thinking that you’re less than. Alright?”

“Okay.”

“Good. And to show you I mean it, I have something to admit.” he reached over to the corner that showed your amount of diamonds. He gave it a flick and the number skyrocketed to 10,000. “I just didn’t think it right to cheat.”

“You ass! You know how much I’ve been grinding for diamonds? There’s an event coming up and you could have just done that this entire time?”

“I believe the response I should be hearing is, “Thank you, Sylus.””

You sighed, a smile spreading on your face. “Thank you, Sylus. But you do realize that I now also know you’ve been cheating at Kitty Cards, right?”

His eyes went wide. “Shit.”

[shield-secrets]

Bad Day - Dr Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch

I guess this counts as coming out of semi-retirement? anyway my heart will always belong to strong, silent, slightly emotionally unavailable men. Enjoy two idiots simping over each other. And please be kind. I'm a little rusty. Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby Robinavitch x younger!nurse!reader Word Count: ~2.5k Warnings: none. does centre around babies so if that's not your vibe I get it

It had taken almost 2 extra hours but finally all the charts were complete. Every patient was handed over to the incoming paediatric nurses and you were finally cleared to go home. 

There wasn’t anything exciting waiting for you, no social plans to speak of but after the day you’d had that wasn’t such a bad thing. Some shifts left you buzzing with anxiety (or, very rarely, joy) that needed to be directed outwards but this one had left you drained down to your bones. 

They happened less frequently now that you’d left the Pitt but dealing with tiny, innocent little humans in such critical condition was a different kind of hell from the casualties that tumbled into the ED in a never ending stream. 

Robby had warned you about it when you’d announced that you were accepting a new position upstairs in the paediatric wing but you’d mostly chalked it up to his disappointment that one of his favourite day shift nurses was leaving his department. 

The ED had never been your true calling, just a stop along the way to the babies that needed your help the most but that hadn’t made the decision to leave any easier. All the members of the Pitt had become your pseudo-family after 2 years working side by side. Samira had even planned your last birthday party when you’d said that you ‘couldn’t be bothered celebrating’. But in spite of those wonderful relationships there had been one in particular tethering you to the teeming mass of chaos that was The Pitt. 

Michael Robinavitch, MD. Known publicly as the Senior Attending Physician for Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital. Known to his staff as Dr Robby and to you as….something else. 

More than a boss but not quite a friend. Someone who refused to share his personal life had somehow weaselled his way under your skin. Just from a slight change in his posture or the inflection of his tone you’d instantly know how he was feeling, often turning up at his side with a granola bar or a coffee cool enough that he could down it in between patients. 

Over time he started to do the same for you - even though technically as a nurse you didn’t fall under his line of reporting. You’d be sitting at the hub, inputting patient data only to look up and find one of his favourite choc chip peanut butter power bars balanced delicately on the top of the monitor. Neither of you ever discussed it, just quietly kept each other motoring along despite the hurricane threatening to engulf the ED. 

“Alright. Get out of here” Angela, the senior paeds charge nurse, demanded as you handed over your keys to the prescriptions cabinet. “Before something goes wrong and we have to drag you back” 

“More than happy to comply” you laughed, brushing away the strands of hair that had escaped the bun you’d secured at the nape of your neck 10 hours ago. “See you on Monday” 

“Ah to be young” the older woman sighed wistfully, lifting her glasses to rest in her cloud of grey curls. “I hope you’re getting yourself out there. Not wasting your youth doomscrolling on that infernal phone” 

With a gentle shake of your head you reached under the desk to retrieve your bag. If Angela knew that your plans for the next 48 hours involved rotting on the couch and maybe scrolling through Hinge for the forty thousandth time she’d go on an hour long rant about how time was wasted on ‘pretty things like you’ and that you'd regret not getting out there when you was old and grey like her. 

Maybe there was a shred of truth to that but how could you dedicate yourself to finding a boyfriend when you couldn’t get a certain moody doctor out of your head. There had been other guys over the years but no matter how hard you tried they just couldn’t compare to the emotionally unavailable attending that haunted your dreams. 

Pulling your ‘infernal phone’ out of your bag you frowned to see a message from Dana waiting for you. It had only been there for ten minutes but the content had your insides lurching. 

Any chance you’re still here?

Frowning down at the screen you shouldered your bag, typing out a quick response. 

Just about to bail. Everything okay?

As soon as you sent your message a reply popped up underneath. 

Bad day. Could you come down?

She didn’t need to elaborate for you to know exactly who she was talking about and instead of taking the north exit towards the parking structure you were turning left, straight for the lift down to the Pitt. 

Dana barely managed a smile when the silver doors slid open. She just gestured with her pen to the dark windows of the staff room where you could barely make out a familiar silhouette. 

“So. The Pitt was sucking extra hard today?” you asked as you slid the door shut behind you. 

Letting loose a sigh that could rattle bones Robby slowly turned and the pure devastation on his face had your heart squeezing.

“Yeah,” he admitted after a pause. “You could say that” 

Irritation twisted under your pale pink scrubs. 

There was always more to it. Prying feelings out of Robby was like pulling blood from a stone. Even if you spent all night trying he wouldn’t part with anything but the bare minimum - the smallest amount of vulnerability that would get you off his case.  

And as much as you wanted all of it, to take all of the pain and darkness off his overburdened shoulders, you wouldn’t force his hand. He deserved soft and gentle and kind. 

“Any plans after work?” 

“Does sleeping for 16 years count?” he chuckled, rubbing a hand along his salt and pepper chin. 

“You got 16 years off? Wow. Maybe I should have been a doctor” 

He huffed a laugh at the joke but the accompanying smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dana had been right. A bad day indeed. “Do you have a minute? I think I know something that might help” 

He let you take him without complaint, leading him back through the buzzing ED and over to the elevators. As if sensing it was futile he didn’t even ask where you were going. Whether that was a sign of his trust or exhaustion you couldn’t tell, but his hand was warm in yours as the two of ventured up to the maternity ward. 

“You have to promise to keep this a secret” you said as you came to a stop outside a set of white double doors. “Technically we’re not meant to do this but I have an…arrangement” 

A dark brow arched in question but you ignored it, pushing the doors open slowly to reveal a sea of newborn babies resting in perspex cradles. Just the sight of the tiny newborns wrapped in pale yellow blankets set your heart fluttering. 

Babies weren’t everyone’s thing, that had become abundantly clear in your 8 months in paeds, but in your perfectly correct opinion there was nothing quite as soothing as holding a warm bundle in your arms after a hard shift. 

“You come in here often?” Robby asked, his voice low as to not disturb the sleeping patients. 

“From time to time” you admitted before grabbing two yellow paper gowns from the dispenser on the wall. “Angela turned me onto it after we lost a set of premature twins. Nothing helps sooth the sting of death like brand new little lives” 

“Or just an excuse to cuddle babies” Robby teased, a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes. 

“Well it’s a better coping mechanism than standing on a ledge” you shot back. 

“Next time I see Jack up there I’ll suggest it to him” 

A snort of laughter echoed through the silent room. 

“Come on. I’ve got the perfect one” 

“What, you evaluate the babies for cuddle-potential?” Robby asked as the two of you slowly weaved your way through the rows on cradles. 

“No. I ask my spies which ones are the calmest so I know who won’t cry if I pick them up” 

“You have spies?” 

“All the best nurses have spies. You don’t think Dana has her own little network?” 

“Oh I know she does” he agreed. The ED would be engulfed in flames without his favourite charge nurse. Never mind that she was his most trusted source about his favourite topic. You. 

Right at the end of the middle row a tiny little baby waited for your eager hands. With well practiced movements you scooped baby Purcell out of her bed, cradling her delicate body to yours for a minute before turning to the man next to you. He took a half-step back but you were too fast, lifting the package up and into his impressive arms. 

For a split second fear flashed across his sculpted face before melting into an expression of pure contentment. 

A crease formed between the baby’s brows and your heart lurched with fear that she’d wake up and out your very much against hospital policy activities. But thankfully after a small wiggle she settled down into Robby’s arms (and honestly who could blame her). 

You could have picked up your own little bundle of joy, your favourite L&D nurse had texted you a list of 5 babies who would love to be held, but putting even an inch of space between you and your former attending sent an ache through you. So instead you stepped closer, heart skipping as you leant your cheek against the massive expanse of his bicep. Even through the thick fabric of his navy hoodie and the yellow gown his heat pulsed against your skin sending sparks of electricity down your spine. 

How you’d ever managed to get any work done around this man was one of the universe’s best kept secrets. With his sad puppy eyes and streaks of grey colouring the hair at his temples he was utterly hypnotic. The whole point of this trip was a quick hit of dopamine but it was quickly devolving into a completely different monster. How foolish you’d been to think you could go from not seeing him for weeks to standing side by side in a nursery and not get sucked into the vortex that was Robby. 

The two of you could have been standing there for five minutes or five hours it was impossible to tell. A different kind of quiet had settled over the room, wrapped you both in a bubble of calm. 

“I used to think I might have this someday” 

Robby’s confession rumbled through him, vibrating the thick muscle pressing against your cheek. 

“You still could” 

Your voice was barely above a whisper as you tried to speak around the ache in your throat. 

“I’m too old. Too broken. Wouldn’t want anyone wasting their time on me” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the baby snoring softly in his arms. 

You couldn’t help but blink in surprise. 

“Robby. You’re a very intelligent man but that might be the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said” 

He frowned, accidentally jostling baby Purcell in his arms who let out a dainty squeak of protest but he didn't take his eyes off you. You were staring up at him, eyelashes framing your sparkling eyes with a playful smile pulling at the corner of your lips and for a split second he forgot how to breathe. 

“What do you mean?’ 

He was almost afraid to ask. That you might be laughing at the notion of him ever wanting a family when his career consumed every waking moment of his day and often his nights. That there was clearly something wrong with him if he'd hit fifty and not found someone willing to start a family with him.

“Robby. Any woman would be lucky to have you” 

A bolt of lightning shot through his chest. 

If only you knew. 

If only you knew that from your first shift in the ED he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. That each time his hand brushed yours during a procedure it took every shred of his self-control to stay upright. That even the scent of your shampoo sent him in to a tail spin and he’d been equal parts ruined and relieved when you’d gone up to the fourth floor, hoping that some distance might free him from this crippling crush. Except that it had only worsened it - leaving him in a constant state of anxiety and relying on Dana for any scrap of information she had about your wellbeing. 

Clearing his throat with a soft cough he turned his eyes back to the little girl and the gentle slope of her button nose, willing himself not to ask the question that was burning a hole in his sternum. But surrounded by fragile human lives with the lavender scent of your shampoo flooding his senses he had no hope. 

“Do you want this someday?” 

To anyone outside it might have sounded like an innocent question but you knew Robby too well. Knew the intricacies of his tone. Something lingered at the edges of it, something deeper that had a jolt of nerves sweeping through your stomach. 

“As many as I can have” you replied, subconsciously leaning further into his arm and his heart lurched against his ribs. 

Of course. You worked in paeds. Naturally you were pro-children but he hadn’t quite put two and two together and the thought of you holding your own child had his stomach tumbling so violently his heart skipped a beat. 

Would he walk into the ED one to have Dana report that you’d met someone? Would he spend every day guiltily wishing that he’d receive a report of your breakup and still sit on the sidelines, too afraid of not being enough for you that it happened again and again until one day the breakup never came and he lost his chance forever? 

How was he meant to live in a world where someone else had the honour of being your man when he was just realising that it was the only job he’d ever want. 

Putting himself first didn't come naturally to Robby. It was his fatal flaw that had been pointed out by his loved ones on more than one occasion but for a single heartbeat he managed to silence the voice screaming in the back of his mind that he didn't deserve happiness long enough to speak the words burning at the tip of his tongue.

“Have dinner with me” 

It was barely more than a whisper but in the silent nursery it was practically a shout. Smiling into the paper gown your eyes slid up to his face to find Robby staring resolutely at the little girl but the scarlet blush growing on his cheeks betrayed his nerves. 

Because even though it was ridiculous - if you said it out loud you’d sound insane - it wasn’t just dinner. 

It was an invitation to a whole different future. 

Michael Robinavitch was a lot of things; brilliant, moody, funny, withdrawn, older. 

And also unequivocally yours. 

And you were his. 

This tension between the two of you wasn’t something awkward or strained. 

It was a question that had waited 2 years to be asked. 

And standing there in the dark nursery with his guarded heart finally cracked open there was only one answer. 

“I thought you’d never ask” 

[luvrxbunny]

little spider

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x F!Reader

Prompt: Innocence

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, reader knows nothing about sex or feelings of arousal, clothed clit-rubbing? cum in pants, small feelings of embarrassment (lmk if I forgot anything)

WC: 3.3k

A/N: sorry im late but im kinda proud of this one so i hope it was worth the wait! <3

Miguel didn’t think he’d end up in this position, nowhere in his wildest, most perverted fantasies did he think that this would actually be the outcome of him recruiting you but… here we are. 

You were assigned by the higher-ups to learn from him, they thought you had potential, and honestly? Miguel hated you when he met you, he felt like they were punishing him for something, that assigning him this raw recruit was just a flaunt of power. You didn't even have a suit he had to make you one, a trial suit first, to make sure all your vitals were good, to track your movements and decide what suit material would be best- or if you would have a digital one like him. 

During the weeks of his monitoring of your vitals, he began to grow a bit fond of you. You were an adorable recruit and eager to please, you were thoughtful and always gave your all, something he really appreciates. One other thing he noticed about you… your dopamine levels were elevated around him, along with your estradiol and testosterone. He ignores it when he’s writing his reports, he tells himself that he doesn’t report it because the higher-ups don't need to know, not because he knows they’d make you transfer… He should’ve requested it the first time he noticed it but the thought of you, his sweet, innocent spider, all turned on just from being around him? It ignited something in him. 

He updated your suit, saying that the data he was receiving wasn't enough, he made you wear the suit as he replaced the chip and tried to hide the smile in his voice when your spine straightened under his touch. The new chip could give him real-time tracking of all your vitals, but he set his watch to alert him anytime certain hormones spiked… estradiol and testosterone. So he conducted a little experiment over the following weeks, he’d lean into you more when you speak, holding your eye contact, he even broke out the smirk he used to use on girls when he was younger, and it worked on you. 

His watch vibrated every time he was near you, if he walked up to you, it started being an alert to when you were near, it’d go off before you’ve even approached him, he’d walk into a room and it’d go off before he even saw you. It started to have an effect on him, he started to feel a spark in his stomach every time it went off, every time he’d meet your eyes and you’d have that expression he’d grown to know so well. That weak, almost pleading- yet confused look in your eyes and the sheer panic before tearing them away from his. He started having to grip whatever was in his hands as tightly as he could to control himself when you’re breathing would stutter after he complimented you on your work. 

He started getting hard reviewing your logs after spending the day with you, watching your heart rate stay elevated, spiking along with your hormones, he can see your breathing pattern, and how irregular it is compared to when you’re not with him. How high your body temperature was… the main areas of heat. On his more weak days, he’s gotten himself off to the diagram of you, with the burning red spot between your legs as the focus of his fantasies. 

Now you’re here, avoiding his gaze as his watch vibrates like crazy. “Miguel?” He looks at you again, trying to keep his gaze neutral, hopefully, to make this a bit easier on you… and him. “Yes?” 

His voice is smooth as cocoa butter and you can feel his gaze burning into you. He started this heat inside you, one you’d never encountered before. It starts when you see him in the morning and doesn’t stop until you struggle to sleep- or at least it used to. But recently it’s been non-stop, a constant distraction that you can’t pinpoint, it feels like it’s in your hips, stomach, chest, and thighs all at once. It feels like it’s in his breath when it fans over your face, it's in his eyes when they lock with yours, and somehow on his fingertips when they brush over any part of you. You’ve spent hours a night trying to figure out what you can do about it, you’ve thought about even asking Lyla but decided the risk of her telling Miguel was far too great.  

This past week it’s just been building on it’s self, almost unbearable with Miguel’s new immersive training. He takes you away to some deserted, closed-off place and trains you with no distractions, giving you nothing to focus on other than him and forcing him to give all his attention to you. Miguel’s attention, his gaze is what causes the most… pain. That’s what it’s become, a dull, numb, thrumming at the base of your stomach, like an itch you can’t scratch that just becomes a nuisance. You couldn’t handle it anymore and if you asked Lyla she’d just tell Miguel- so why not just ask him directly? 

So here you are, avoiding his gaze because you’ve spent the entire day with him, building enough fire inside you- you don’t need to add any more. “I think…” You take a breath and turn to him a bit before forcing the words out. “There’s something wrong with me.” He puts his clipboard down, his concern, and his thick, veiny hand that comes into view piles onto the heat over-taking your bloodstream. He takes his glasses off and sits back in his chair, reaching his leg out to pull a chair beside you closer to him. You dare a glance at him and try not to collapse at his gaze, at the way his hair moves over his face for a moment as he motions for you to sit in the provided chair.

You sigh and sit down, your legs pressed tightly together, your palms resting on your thighs and your eyes focused on the back of your hands. You stay silent, your mind racing, your body warming further at the feeling of his eyes on you. “What’s wrong, little spider?” You suppress a shiver at the nickname as goosebumps rise over your skin, it’s been a problem since he picked it. “I’m hot.” The words shoot out of your mouth before you can second-guess them again. Miguel chuckles a bit, sending embarrassment through your body, sits back in his chair, and crosses his arms, prompting you to go on. 

“I can’t fix it. There’s… someone.” Miguel pretends he doesn’t notice the way your eyes flicker to him. “For some reason, something about them just- “ You pause for a moment, truly baffled by the way you feel, trying to find some way to explain it. “They just do something to me and it won’t stop.” Your words start to sound frantic, a bit panicked. Miguel leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees to examine your expression. “It’s like there's a low- like a low vibration- or a frequency? Like the ones that are so low you can barely hear but you can sorta feel them? It’s like that but- but deep inside me.”

Your eyes close and eyebrows furrow as you describe the feeling to him. He tries to keep his breathing even as he hardens uncontrollably under the suit. You don’t even realize what you’re confessing to him. “Like it’s in my bones, Miguel.” You add emphasis, your hands digging into the material of your suit before raising your head to meet his eyes, hoping he understands the state you’re in. He’s almost dizzy at the way his blood rushes to his cock. He holds your gaze and tries to convey a baffled, thoughtful expression as he tries to calm himself. 

“That’s- That’s odd. Yeah, um.” He takes a few deep breaths before sitting back again, unable to stay in your space any longer. “Do- Can you tell me who’s causing it? Perhaps it’s a side effect of their powers?” Your spine straightens and you shake your head at him gently. You twist your fingers in the fabric of your suit and your feet play with each other on the lab floor. “H-have you heard of any powers like that?” You ask him, a hopeful look in your eyes. 

Clever girl.

“No, I haven't.” He sits back, spreads his legs, and runs his hands down his thighs and back with a sigh. He holds back a smirk when his watch vibrates and he hears you take a sharp breath. “I- I don’t know what to do anymore. It- I can barely sleep.” You sound distraught, broken, and tired. He’d be the messed up one if he didn't help you… Right?

“I mean… I can try running some tests?” He offers, he keeps his tone light, trying to keep his dark desires off your radar. You perk up at his offer, already up and out of your seat, standing in front of him with a smile. He keeps his eyes on you, trying to ignore the way your scent is assaulting his nose, giving away how badly you need him. “You think we could?”

He nods and stands up, walking over to his lab table and clearing a few things. His head is already running wild with fantasies, ideas of what he could do to you, what he could teach you, how good he could make you feel. “Yeah, of course. C’mere, pequeña araña” You were already walking to him but your pace stutters and his watch vibrates when the nickname slips out. He truly didn’t mean to, he had gotten a bit too deep in his fantasies, and when your voice broke through he didn’t get fully pulled out. He’s never called you that in Spanish, not to your face at least, it’s fallen from his lips a few times before though, when he’s alone with his hand wrapped around his cock. But your reaction dissuades any fear that had shot through him before and he can’t help the smirk that makes its way on his face. 

You’re standing silently beside him, wringing your hands together and he doesn’t think you even notice the way your thighs keep clenching together. “Get on the table.” His tone is teasing, a grin on his face as you jump and scramble onto the tabletop. You lay on your back and look over at Miguel, feeling that heat rage through you at the look on his face. It’s dark and- wanting. It’s confusing. 

He takes a deep breath and your fingers try to dig into the metal table top as he walks to you. “Okay. I’m going to examine your body a bit, press into some muscles, some pressure points to see if maybe it’s a physical trigger. Is that okay with you?” Your chest is already rising and falling more rapidly at the thought, the promise of Miguel’s hands on you. You nod at him stiffly, trying to stay normal and calm as he holds your eye contact, nodding along with you. A small smile graces his face before he walks around and presses his palm into your hairline, pushing your head down to rest on the table as he stands north of you. 

His hands press into your shoulders and your eyes shut tight. He can feel all your muscles tense and his watch vibrates, he sneaks a peak at his and sees the huge spike in almost all your vitals. His cock twitches in his suit at your obvious need but he brushes it aside, if he rushes into this he might scare you off and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens. He may lose his mind. He moves his hands to your biceps, massaging them tightly as little whines slip into your breaths, only audible to his ears. 

He walks back to the side of the tables and your eyes stay shut. He massages the softness of your sides and his breathing kicks up a bit once he gets to your hips. He takes his time with them, admiring the way you fit into his hands and how you subconsciously tilt them toward him. His thighs jump as his cock begins to leak, dripping precum down them. He takes a deep, shaky breath and forces himself to move on. He forced himself to move on, he was trying to take it slow, hopefully, you’d realize where you need him and ask for it. But your thighs spread open when he massages the outside and his hands dive for the inner before he can think it through. 

You gasp, you sit up with your eyes wide and your hands gripping his wrists. You don’t do anything though, he expects you to pull his hands away but it feels more like you’re holding him there, stopping- or attempting to stop him from pulling away. So of course he doesn't. He stares into your eyes as you search his, trying to figure out if he realizes the way that made you feel, if your cover was blown, if he wants to stop but he looks expectant, like he’s waiting for something. So you loosen your grip. “That’s- I think that’s- ” You’re nodding at him lightly, hoping he understands what you’re trying to say because for some reason your brain has stopped working. 

“Yeah?” Your heart stutters at his tone and the tilt of his head as he says it. Your thighs tense around his hand for a moment before you try to calm down, un-tense them but they can’t help the way they tremble with anticipation. You’re nodding at him more frantically and his eyelids flutter. “Okay.” He takes one hand out from between your thighs and rests it on your lower back as his other hand keeps massaging, slowly moving up your inner thigh and the sensations grow more intense the higher he gets. 

Your eyes shut and your hands grip his wrists again, not pulling away, just holding him. Your eyes shut and your hips tilt into his hand, getting him so close to your pussy that he can feel the heat radiating off of her. You feel some sort of shame twinge in your belly, dampening the more intense feelings that Miguel was causing. What if this was wrong? What if you aren’t supposed to feel like this with him, without him knowing… Maybe you should stop. 

Miguel moves further up and all those thoughts scatter from your head immediately. His watch vibrates again and a noise shoots out of your mouth- one you’ve never heard before as your body folds over and your head rests on his shoulder. You shut your eyes tight and take a slow, deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry, I-” He cuts you off. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m here, right?” He’s nodding at you, comforting and reassuring as his hand leaves your back to cradle your head. “You’re okay. I wanna help you, cariño.” Another noise leaves you at the nickname and his hand grips into your hair for a moment before sliding down to your neck and pulls your head away from his shoulder. He pushes your head against his for a moment, letting out a soft groan before letting go and pushing his fingers against your plush lips. 

“How’s that, honey?” His hand settles back on your lower back as you whine and your hands move up his arm, gripping his biceps now and pulling yourself closer to him. “Miguel.” His eyes roll back at how you sound, desperate, breathless, and gone. Your hips are grinding into his fingers and they aren’t even on your clit yet. They’re pressing against your hole through your lips and your suit, he’s keeping his fingertips flat against you so he doesn’t slip inside. 

He’s trying to ignore the mess he’s making in his pants, watching your tense face change into a relieved one, your eyebrows pulling inward as your lips part beautifully, releasing a shaky moan as he reangles his fingers to your clit. His hands are shaking as he tries to calm himself down, one of your hands slides up his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake before gripping onto his shoulder and pulling him down, closer to your face. His eyes are fixed on your expression, taking everything in, every twitch and quiver, the way your tongue darts out to lick your lips before a whimper punches out of you. 

You’re ruining him and you’re none the wiser. Your hand slides up to his neck and you push your forehead against his, like he did earlier. His eyes roll back before he forces them to you again, moving his fingers over you clit faster when your thighs begin to shake around his wrist. “I think-” Your voice comes out as a whimper and he groans into you. Your fingers grip into his hair and his cock cries against him. “Something… Miguel.” 

The way you say his name fucks with him. It’s prettier than he ever could’ve imagined, he has to lean forward and press his throbbing cock against the edge of the table for relief. You’ve got him feeling like he could die, like he could implode if he doesn’t have you, if after this you realize what you need but get it somewhere else? It’ll be over for him. Your hand readjusts its grip in his hair, becoming more frantic as your spine straightens and your thighs close on his hands. “Miguel? I-” You cut yourself off with a moan and your head falls to his shoulder again, blocking your face from his view.

“No, no.” He brings his hand to the back of your neck again. “Let me see, amor.” He pulls you away from his shoulder and you moan at the nickname. Once again, it didn’t mean to slip out but you’ve got his head so cloudy he can’t help it. You’re moaning his name on repeat, like a warning and he’s pulsing at the thought, the promise of getting to see you cum, for him. His eyes can’t look away from you, he can’t see anything but your face, the way your brows furrow as you tense, and your nails dig into his arms, leaving reminders for later. He watches how you bite your lip before your jaw drops into an ‘O’ shape and his name falls from your lips one more time as a debauched cry. 

He keeps his eyes open, watching you cum for him, how your lips form around his name again and again. He wants to collapse, fall to his knees with how much you’re turning him on but he needs to watch you. He forces himself to keep his eyes on you, ignoring the way they want to roll back at how he’s flooding his pants. His hips twitch against the edge of the table as he cums for you, with you. His mind zeros into the way he can feel your clit pulsing underneath his finger tips, how breathless you sound, trying to keep up with the noises he’s forcing from you. His stomach tenses painfully as his cock unloads more cum onto himself. You sound like an angel, crying out for him. He can’t help the way he dives for you, pulling you in to kiss him and swallowing every moan you’ll give him. 

You whine into his mouth as his fingers slow down over your clit, your other hand meets the first in his hair and you keep his lips on yours. He keeps kissing you until you calm down and your breathing evens out. His hand comes from between your thighs and rubs your legs until you pull back from his lips. You have a bashful, embarrassed look on your face and it brings the largest smile that you’ve ever seen to his face. “Was that okay, pequeña araña?” You whine and pull him in for a hug, nodding into his shoulder as he chuckles and wraps his arms around you as you begin to giggle against him.      

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, here's the rest of my Kinktober Works and be sure to check out my Main Masterlist!!

[solacefish]

✎ File contents - Sebastian Solace x Reader ( 1.3k )

⎙ Examination Results - Sebastian can't handle company, the very thought of another's affection or gaze upon him could make him throw up. So he takes it out on you, by mistake.

⌕ Research Gathered - Angst, Yelling and arguments, Unrequited ( suggested requited ) love, Mentions of his experiments + transformation, Mentions of death, Sebastian can't open up ™.

What did it mean to be loved? What did it mean to love?

Was the dull ache at the bottom of his heart - muffled by mutations and a scarring of who he once was. The tales of his childhood, the sounds of a youth he could never return to. Was that what he longed for? What he dreamt of?

Sebastian didn't dream, he didn't recall the last restful night. Memories stirred between azure eyes, eyes that weren't his own. Nightmares seemed a too gentle term to refer, and terrors wouldn't fully commit to the sickness he felt upon awakening.

The night was the same as any other, having passed out by his desk - having never remembered otherwise. Awoken by the sounds of screaming, echoes of his own against those cold damp facility walls. Never a current sound, always a reminiscent of what had happened to get him into this mess. Always.

Had he remembered to take melatonin from the many drawers that littered the science departments, had he bothered to look at all. The feeling of being lulled, forced, to sleep against his will by medication was not something he happened to be fond of. Not at all.

Running a hand through charcoal locks, hearing the footsteps of an expendable from the outer corridors. Not a moment of rest down here, none were allowed. Had you taken time to rest, you'd have to be risking your life. Urbanshade didn't seem too fond of waiting longer then 5 minutes for their prisoners to move, he'd crossed enough corpses and brain paintings to know.

Awfully so, a facility so willing to kill upon the smallest disturbance.

The expendable crawled through the vent, standing unproud with a ripped wetsuit and cracked mask. Lucky your oxygen tank hadn't been chipped, this whole place was filled with water. He smiles, clasping his hands together and gesturing vaguely to the items that adorned his scales.

"Welcome back .. You already know how this goes, hm?"

He'd recognised you. The one who cannot stay gone - a dead man walking as much as he is. Both of you didn't expire when you were supposed to, and for that you suffer in agony every day.

You nodded, wordlessly walking over to pick up a medkit. He'd noticed a few scratches, a limp on your left leg. Perhaps you'd twisted your ankle, there was enough to run from down here. Enough exercise to be had. They could open a gym, it might be a worthy investment. Rather then experimenting, try new yoga...

"How much?" You look up, and he returns the gaze. Thinking for just a moment, enough to act like he hasn't spent the hours and months down here memorising and practicing the exact amounts of data hed request for each thing he scavenged.

"200. No discount services, never have been. You've been here before, haven't you?" His voice is louder then he remembered. After so long without speaking, he'd forgotten how different the services Urbanshade had cost him from who he was.

You nod, opening the box and immediately giving yourself time to tend to your injuries. wrapping it around a wrist, a leg, anyplace with the crimson bleed that ached to be seen. Sebastian didn't mind the company, but the feeling of nausea that came across his chest the longer you remained was hard to ignore.

"Sebastian," A voice, your voice, brings him back for just a moment. You notice the look in his eyes, and he stirrs where he's stationed for just a moment. "You can talk to me, you know? We're friends, aren't we?"

Friends. Was this a comedy setup?

Sebastian's jaw ached for a moment, letting out an exhale as he remembered the bleeding of his teeth upon his own gums. Whilst biting his tongue and gritting his teeth used to work - it happened to be much more painful after the experiments took place. Unfortunate, but with his humanity stripped away, some sass as a defence wouldn't hurt him as much.

"I don't talk, not to you." He responded bitterly, as if he was straining his voice to keep himself in check. "You remember where you're standing." A huff blew some of the locks out from his face. He didn't see you as any worth, the data you served him so happily was enough to satisfy, however the company wasn't something he was interested in.

"It's nice to open up," You begin, "I know where i'm stood, and I don't mind sitting to be here for you. You're a great guy, honestly, and you need a shoulder to cry on like any other person."

He feels his restraint snap, just a moment. A resistance of a rubber band that had been stretched by a child that moment too far - flicking it at somebody else wasn't enough.

"Don't you fucking dare to call me that." He retorted, his voice echoing off the walls. Sebastian swore he could hear those screams again, of a 19 year old with a life ahead of them. A good person? Were you serious? Were you blind?

A man framed of 9 murders, a man who turned it to 50. How to live with the guilt he was what they made him out to be. A living weapon, with a maw for shredding and tearing, and a claw meant to slide across a throat like butter. To look in a puddle of his self reflection and call himself good? He might as well have let the side effects take him.

You'd flinched, he had noticed, but he hadn't cared. He wanted to make himself clear, for the first time in a long time, to be heard. If you were an unfortunate soul who'd be the one to take his frustrations like a sponge, then he can be the ocean to accompany.

"I'm just trying to help!" You state, he growls. Every bone in his body wanted him to lunge, to rip you apart. The human heart caged beneath the ribs that told him to stop, that ached to be sensitive and free. The DNA that told him to attack, to prowl.

His body was at a war with itself, to tear itself apart. He would never have won.

"I don't need anybodies help!" He yelled, the fins in place of his ears were pinned firmly to the sides of his head. You'd shook your head, and he noticed the reflex that had made you take a step back. You were scared of him. Of the monster before you - had you only just realised he was a predator? He was not ever your friend.

"Please-! I love you-!" The words burst through your lips as the same as sebastians breathing worsens. He can't handle it, it's too much. The sickness of bile in his throat, the acid that threatened to release itself. He wasn't lovable, there was nothing to be adored or admired. You were lying to him, you were pitying him.

"Get out!" There's defiance, the rejection to your words. His body ached, his heart hurt. To be loved was a curse, to love was an unknown. With his breathing heavy, a loud crash as he slammed the vent cover back after you'd scrambled out. He could never be in control of a body that wasn't his to begin with.

Sebastian clutched the sides of his head, the serpentine tail curling around his helpless body. The unfamiliar limbs that tore his soul apart. He could never let himself. He could never see himself ever again.

He hated what it meant to be loved. He hated to be seen, to be known. He hated what they'd done to him, what had become of him. To be loved was to be lied to - to love was to deceive.

Seabstian could apologise later. But he hoped you'd never return. He didn't deserve to await you.

taglist ; @fl1ghtl3ssdrag0n

[blockedbykei]

manager!reader x tsukki please

karasuno team making predictions about who will be the first one to become a dad in the future, not knowing it will be tsukki 🫢

say that theyre having a reunion and all of them goes 0_o after seeing readers bby bump, you could do the rest tbh😭❤️

currently living off my mobile data 🙏 tysm for this request

— little easter egg here if u see it

the boys were always eager to place bets on things unnecessary. who can spike the most balls, who can drink the most milk, who can shove the most meat in their mouth without chewing it. they always bargained a few yens or free food.

it had rubbed on you a few bets later.

in the night before sugawara, daichi, shimizu, and asahi's graduation day, the whole team had decided to have a sleepover inside the gym. the boys set up their futons on the court, while the girls stayed at the stage, futons side by side.

but you were all gathered in the middle, clad in mismatched pyjamas, snacks tossed around, dinner melted in your stomachs. you were guaranteed that this night would hold a special place in your heart– something to look back to when change begins the next day.

"who's most likely to...?" kageyama falls back, head on a pillow beside hinata's thigh, a finger on his chin. "go to jail?"

you and tsukishima point at hinata. yamaguchi points at yachi, and she, including kageyama, sugawara, daichi, and shimizu, point at tanaka. asahi points at noya, as well as narita, kinoshita, and ennoshita.

"this one gets breaking and entering," kei says. "tanaka-san gets harrassment. noya for disorderly conduct."

you laugh and lean your shoulder on his, reaching over his lap for a mochi. you feel his nose tickle the top of your head, but it was one of the few subtle public affections he only gives you that night. kei bites on your dessert, glancing at you as a small way of expressing his gratitude.

"okay," hinata throws another pack of chips on the futon, bouncing lightly. "who's most likely to become a parent in the next 10 years?"

majority seemed to point at daichi and sugawara. they both gasp.

"why us?"

"you parent all of us!"

"we wouldn't have to if you all acted like you were properly disciplined," daichi says, eating a chip from koshi's hand. you missed the way the tips of his ears blushed.

"i think tsukishima here would be a dad first," tanaka teases. he cranes his leg and kicks his shin jovially. "eh? since you're the first one here to get a girlfriend out of all of us."

your cheeks flush, burning when kei gives you a quick glance before shrugging. nonetheless you shrug, placing your hands behind you to lean back. "i think kageyama would be a dad first."

ennoshita snorts. "i caught him talking to a girl the other day."

"he peed himself," hinata quips. "he was asking for his pen back, i'm pretty sure he'd be asking for his dignity back, too."

"fuck off, dumbass."

"i bet a thousand yen on kageyama being the first one to be a dad!" noya slams his fist, rattling the snacks on the futon. tsukishima scoffs, however ignored by the others as they buzz in excitement. "anyone on tsukishima?"

"me and yachi," yamaguchi raises his hand, lifting hitoka's. hinata joins them.

"what about me?" daichi points to himself. "i could be the first one to be a dad. i'm your senior!"

"a thousand yen on daddy daichi!"

"noya, you can't switch your bet!" tanaka yells. "stick to kageyama. i'm going with sawamura-san."

they look at you. "oh, i'm not joining."

"i am," tsukishima says. "i'm on daddy kageyama." he winks.

"please don't lose this bet," hinata pleads to his setter, hands clasped. "i don't want to lose a thousand yen. keep it in your pants."

"shut up, hinata!"

later that night, when everyone had laughed their way to sleep, you and tsukishima silently snuck out the dark gymnasium and into the open night sky, walking towards the football field and laying down in the middle of it, damp grass tickling your backs.

"seriously though, who do you think would be a dad first?" you ask him, craning your neck to the side to look at him. tsukishima was already looking at you, glasses askew, his eyebrows raised just the slighest.

"kageyama wouldn't get a girl pregnant until he's forty." he jests. "me though..."

his tone is playful, the way his shoulders come up to a shrug. you wheeze out and laugh, clutching your chest, even though it made you blush deeply. he only wrinkles his nose at you, but his smile reaches to his eyes. "i doubt, kei. i think daichi would be first."

"why didn't you say it?"

"you being their answer caught me off guard!" you argue, hands in the air. "whaddya think, though? should we let them win this?"

"i'm kinda surprised they think kageyama would be the first to be a dad considering he literally eye fucks a volleyball," he pokes your cheek. "i don't want to let them win though."

you pat his head. "don't knock me up until we're 41, 'kay?"

tsukishima got you pregnant at 27.

and while you were both elated at the sight of two lines at a cheap stick, it was soon dropped at the realization that you (technically he did) had let them won one of the bets.

("keep it inside you until you're forty!"

"i can't fucking do that, smartass.")

you both hoped that they'd long forgotten the 11 year bet, that the minute they stepped through the door, everyone would gasp at the sight of your growing belly and coo at the thought of little blondes running around your home and into their arms.

much to your dismay, it was the first thing they brought up.

"a thousand yen!" hinata exclaims, his hand already out to accept their cash.

they immediately hand out their cash in his palm before scurrying up to awe at your belly, all bent to face it. you place your hands on top, tsukishima splaying his fingers protectively on your hip.

"it's so big!"

"honey, don't say that," shimizu swats tanaka on his head.

yachi takes your hand in both hers, shaking in excitement. "how far long?!"

you smile. "four months."

kageyama, with hinata under his arm, approaches you with a grin so condescending. "i'm going to bully your child to death," he tells kei.

"i'm going to bully you to death, virgin boy."

"i- i am not a virgin!"

the rest of the evening was spent gawping at your belly. you'd only allowed asahi, daichi, hinata, yachi, shimizu, and the godfather yamaguchi to touch your stomach.

(yamaguchi had fainted when kei announced he'd be the godfather).

and while everyone else were occupied at the sport playing on the tv, you rest your back on kei's chest, body between his legs, laced fingers on top of your stomach. it felt like the sleepover back then; and you're too emotionally over the edge that it sends an overwhelming tear on your eyes.

tsukishima cranes his neck to look down at you and wipes your tear, pushing your hair behind you. "why you crying, love?"

"nothing," you sniffle, snuggling deeper into him. though he seemed to have read your mind, and placed a warm kiss on your temple.

"hey," nishinoya stands up, tanned arms stretching. "i bet a thousand yen little tsukishima here is a boy."

you and tsukishima yell at him to stop.

but 8 out of 15 voted for a girl (ennoshita, sugawara, yachi, shimizu, yamaguchi, you, tsukishima)

7 of those voted for a boy and strictly told tsukishima to train him to play volleyball.

those 7 players paid outside the delivery room when tsukishima came out with a babygirl in his hands, telling everyone that she was hoshi, who had his eyes and hair, but had your smile that he loved and adored.

[revelboo]

REVELLLLLL DROP ANOTHER SCAVENGERS CHAPTER AND MY LIFE IS YOURSSS !!!!

Disaster squad!

Lifeless Ordinary Pt 5

Scavengers x Reader

• Shifting slightly to keep an optic on Misfire and Crankcase as the two try to get behind Swindle at the bins of human things, despite Krok warning them to not steal anything. They have to realize they need this crook to get them food for you. And if they get caught, Swindle’s likely to refuse to sell them anything else. “I mean, you gotta understand with the way humans multiply, they’re everywhere. Hundreds of different languages going. How was I to know which one your pet speaks?” Swindle flashes his denta, but it’s his newest acquisition that Krok’s attention keeps sliding to. Another human sitting in the middle of a bin of cloth coverings, folding the items one by one and sorting them into stacks. Ignoring the rest of them.

• Used car salesman aura robot is back and talking with your guys. Even not understanding a word the guy is saying, you’re almost positive he’s lying through his denta as he talks to Clicky. Over the weeks of being stuck as a pet, you’d started making up names for them all. Clicky, Goggles, Wings, Broken, and Big. Not exactly creative, but naming them makes you feel better. Makes them people instead of just scary, giant robots that want who knows what from you. You’re so busy watching the fast talker, that you almost miss the other human. Almost.

• Adjusting you against his chassis, Fulcrum watches you try to signal the other human, waving an arm until they look up and chattering at them. Sagging some when they reply, shaking their little head and gesturing at Swindle. You can’t understand the other human, he realizes. So the crook isn’t lying and he winces when you slump against him, sullen now. Still muttering nonsense. “You have their language?” Krok asks, beginning to click that thing he carries around and the sound makes Swindle grimace.

• Slumping against Goggles you have the absurd urge to cry, because there’s another human right there. And they can’t understand you. Apparently the universe is having fun jerking you about. Just one thing. Can just one single thing go your way?

• “I know that language,” Swindle grumbles glancing at you in Fulcrum’s hands and tearing his optics away when Spinister grumbles softly and rests a big hand on Fulcrum’s shoulder. Staying close to his tiny pet, but letting someone else carry you so he can get to his weapons if need be. It’d be easier just to shoot the mech in the face and take everything. He’d explained that to Misfire, but the seeker had just shook his head at him like he was being the unreasonable one. These things are all things you’d need, right? So why not take them. How’s that short sighted? Relaxing some when Swindle hands the data file over to Krok and he calls for Crankcase to try it. Because if this one doesn’t work, he’s shooting the other mech no matter what Misfire says.

• “Why is it always me? Why not test things on Spinister? Or Fulcrum.” Swearing at them all, he lets Spinister install the language chip. “You’re all awful,” he mutters and you sit up straight in Fulcrum’s hands and lean so far out, the other mech pins you tighter to his chassis in surprise. Staring right at him with wide eyes.

• “I understand you!” You’re so giddy, you almost pitch out of Goggles’s hands. Because that wasn’t weird alien noise coming from Broken. He’d spoken and you’d understood him and you’re about to start bawling you’re so happy. Finally. You can go home.

Previous

Next

[aventurineswife]

“The Star Returns Home”

Summary: After years aboard the Astral Express, forging your path and becoming a Nameless, your journey takes an unprecedented turn—you’re revealed as an Emanator of Trailblaze, chosen by the path itself, with no Aeon’s blessing required. The universe is stunned. The IPC confirms it. And suddenly, Belobog becomes a tourist hotspot, fans eager to see your hometown. Amid the chaos and cosmic fame, the Landau siblings—Gepard, Serval, and Lynx—react in their own distinct ways. Pride, nostalgia, and deep familial love fill the air as the sibling they once protected returns home not just a traveler, but a symbol of Trailblazing itself.

Tags: Landau Siblings x Reader, Found Family, Sibling Bonding, Reader is a Trailblazer, Reader is an Emanator, Soft Angst, Bittersweet Reunion, Proud Siblings, Comfort, Emotional Reunion, Fame Whiplash, Homecoming.

Warnings: Light emotional themes (e.g., identity, change, fame), Mild angst (mostly comforting and wholesome), References to interstellar politics/fame.

Requested by: @slowkib

It started with a data leak from the IPC.

Some intern posted a news brief too early—"Astral Express Member Confirmed as Emanator of Trailblaze"—and within hours, it was everywhere. Not just across star systems, but buzzing in Belobog's freezing streets, echoed in the halls of the Silvermane Guard, humming through the amps of The Neverwinter Workshop.

You.

Their little sibling.

The one who used to sit in Serval’s workshop fiddling with old sound chips.

The one Gepard used to carry home when you fell asleep reading by the fireplace.

The one Lynx gave her last piece of jerky to on those grueling family hikes up the snowy ridges.

You weren’t just part of the Astral Express anymore.

You were an emanator. The Trailblaze itself had chosen you.

And Belobog—Belobog was suddenly on the map of the cosmos.

He stood in his office, data-pad forgotten on his desk, the IPC headline glowing back at him. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Didn’t move either.

To most, his face was unreadable as ever—but inside, something twisted and warmed all at once.

Pride. Fear. Awe. Worry.

You had always been bold in your own quiet way, challenging traditions without needing to shout about it. He’d known you were meant for more than Belobog could offer. That didn’t stop him from feeling like his chest was too small for how much his heart swelled with this news.

When a junior officer burst into the room, panting and excited:

"Captain! Did you hear? Your sibling—they’re the Trailblaze Emanator! There are tourists flooding the lower district asking for their childhood hangouts!"

Gepard only nodded once, calm as ever.

“…Then we’ll increase patrols in the entertainment sector. Make sure the people are safe.”

But when the soldier left, he reached for the picture on his desk. A worn photo of all four Landau siblings, taken before you’d left. He brushed his thumb across your face, voice low.

“…You’ve really gone and done it, haven’t you?”

And for once, a soft, rare smile broke across his features.

“They did what now?”

Serval practically short-circuited when Pela rushed into her workshop with the news, a crowd already forming outside, chanting your name like you were some interstellar rockstar.

She had known you were extraordinary. Encouraged it. Pushed you toward it.

But even she hadn’t seen this coming.

Emanator. You were now an embodiment of everything she stood for: freedom, passion, blazing your own trail.

“HA!” she cackled, spinning in her chair, sparks flying from a neglected amplifier behind her. “That’s my little sparkplug! Didn’t even need an Aeon’s blessing—just raw grit and a whole universe to explore.”

She wasted no time.

Within minutes she was organizing a "Homecoming Concert" in your honor—part celebration, part welcome, part very-public bragging-rights.

She also may or may not have started selling custom guitars modeled after your Trailblaze insignia.

No regrets.

Lynx was the one who took it all in with quiet wonder.

Not because she didn’t care. Far from it.

She was the only one who wasn’t surprised.

Lynx had seen it in you for years. The spark, the weight of something bigger settling in your bones before even you could name it.

So when the news broke and her communicator exploded with messages, Lynx just shrugged, smiled, and bit into an apple like it was Tuesday.

“Guess that means I’m related to a cosmic phenomenon now. Do I get a fan club too?”

But later that night, she sat outside the edge of the Underworld, looking up at the sky.

The stars seemed brighter than usual. Your path, maybe, shining extra for home.

She whispered to herself, just barely audible:

"Don’t go getting too heroic without me, alright?"

And she sent you a voice message, no preamble:

“Bring souvenirs. I want at least three. Also, I’m telling everyone you used to eat glue as a kid. Love you.”

The Astral Express touches down on a newly upgraded platform, mobbed by tourists, journalists, and screaming fans with "Trailblaze Me!" signs.

You step off, slightly overwhelmed, slightly bemused—and then…

Gepard is there, standing at the bottom of the ramp. Stoic, straight-backed, silver and blue uniform pristine.

And then—he hugs you. Just once. Just long enough. A silent I’m proud of you in every breath.

Serval nearly tackles you next, laughing so hard she almost drops her custom amp backpack. “You better have juicy stories or I’m making them up!”

Lynx shows up late, climbs onto your back, and just says, “So, hotshot—how does it feel being a universal icon?”

A beat.

“You still snore, by the way.”

And you laugh, because somehow… this still feels like home.

You, the Emanator of Trailblaze.

And the Landaus—your family, your grounding stars—shining beside you.

[igotanidea]

Rewrite : Jason Todd x reader

Aka: the one where Jason finds a new passion in himself

***

Jason is definitely the type of boyfriend who would read your stories.

And the one who wouldn't comment on your unrealistic standards of male behaviour.

And the one who wouldn't want to show you how the "reality" is much better than your smut.

So it's good.

It's good, right?

Well-

As long as one day you come home, tired after all day of work and find him in front of computer, with chips and slushie, typing furiously.

"What are you doing?" You walk to him, half-awake, dreaming of a hot bath and comfy hoodie, placing a little kiss to the top of his head.

And then your eyes fall on the screen.

He's rewriting your freaking stories.

"Jason!?"

"You are terrible with punctuation, Y/N."

"I - What?! Wait a second--"

"And you definitely need to use more advanced words and more synonims -"

"How did you get my password!?"

"I - "

"No! Wait - don't answer that. I don;t want to know."

Of course he figured your password and login, he was Red Hood after all.

And obviously you weren't going to tell him that he did quite a good work with editing. Instead you were going to take extreme precautions in the form of hiding your PC in the deepest hideaway possible and changing every access data for something he couldn't possibly comprehend.

At least until next time...

[vivalabunbun]

As You Are, I Am Too

Summary: If we compare people to magnets, opposites attract and sames repel, so why are two stoic faces paired as soulmates?

Word Count: 15.4k (why are you surprised at this point, get some snacks)

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem! Reader, Smut(r18+), NFSW, MDNI, Modern AU, Soulmate AU, Mutual Pinning, Fluff, Slow Burn, Slow fic, Perfectionist! Reader, angst, arranged pairing, TW: Toxic family, unhappy childhood trauma, child of strained marriage trauma, TW: Themes of self-loathing, themes of infidelity(misunderstanding), toxic work environment, slight workplace harassment, pushy boss, slightly yandere! Alhaitham?, Soft! Alhaitham, second chance romance?, slightly bratty! reader, Dom! Alhaitham, Degradation, Heavy adult themes, attempts at comedy

Author Note: This is experimental, I want to explore if two same sides of a magnet can still attract. I want to explore the fumbles and mistakes of love.

Side Note: Here is a continuation

Do you believe in soulmates?

It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you do. Because who doesn’t want to believe in it? The concept of an ‘other half’, a missing piece that completes you. Someone who loves you and only you unconditionally.

Who doesn’t want to experience that? 

To be loved, to be accepted, and to feel whole are all natural human desires. So it’s no surprise society, regardless of the century, culture, or demographic all obsessed over finding that other half.

To find a hand that fits perfectly within the gaps of one’s own. 

The greatest minds in all of Tevyat came together, analyzing each pattern, quantifying each data point, and testing each hypothesis until their magnum opus was created: The Akasha System.

Taking the work out of fate’s hands and into a large database. 

What criteria did this wonderful system use to piece together two halves of a whole? Who knows, it’s a black box. However, the machine was quite smart, quite quick, and quite accurate.

So much so, there was no reason not to use it. 

Humans, no matter how much some might deny it, despise being lonely. They fear it so much they’d rather hold a hand which strangles theirs with an equally crushing grip.

That’s why people rush toward their soulmates the moment the Akasha finds them, they fear being alone. 

But do you believe in soulmates?

“No.” Alhaitham puts down his drink.

“But you still used the Akasha??” Kaveh juts a finger in the direction of an ashen-haired man.

“And?” Disinterested eyes glance at the time displayed on a clock in the rowdy bar.

“And?! What do you mean and? You just said you don’t believe in soulmates!” The slam of Kaveh’s palms on the table made a bit of beer lap over the edge of his cup.

“I don’t believe in soulmates, but I’m not ignorant to the benefits of marriage.” 

“Huh?” 

“It’s convenient.” The blunt statement rolling off Alhaitham’s tongue as he motions for the tab.

“Ugh, you know what, forget it.” Kaveh chases his heavy sigh with a hearty swig of his cup.

“Well then, I’ll call it a night.” He’s stayed out long enough.

Placing a handful of mora on the table to cover his tab, Alhaitham bids goodnight to his two workplace acquaintances and former college roommate.

He swiftly strides towards the creaky tavern door, swinging it open as he steps into the warm Summer evening. Tomorrow is another workday, better to get an adequate amount of rest.

“Still the same even after a full year with her, huh,” Kaveh sighs dryly.

“Did you really think he’d change after marriage, Kaveh?” Cyno finally chipped in from the sidelines. 

“I should’ve known, someone as egotistical as Alhaitham practically married himself.” 

“Now, now, his wife is nowhere as egotistical as him,” Tighnari says over the rim of his glass. 

Cyno and Kaveh paused for a moment, sharing a glance as they considered Tighnari’s observation. With a shrug, they concluded: you weren’t nearly as egotistical as Alhaitham.

Still, the great mystery remains. 

“How is he the first to marry?” The blond bachelor slumps further on the tavern stool. 

“Life is full of wonders.” The ebony-haired bachelor gave a few comforting pats.

———————————————————————————

Unlocking the solid oak front door, Alhaitham steps into the serenity of a quiet house. Good, his ears were slightly buzzing from the boisterous conversation in a crowded bar.

Taking a few more steps into the entranceway, the man shuts the door behind his body.

The dull gossip over a few rounds of drinks made their influence known to him, he just wants to go to bed. Thus he takes a few more steps toward his bedroom.

“Place your shoes into the closet, I just mopped the floors.” A level voice called out from the living room. 

Alhaitham’s movement halts, quickly glancing down at the Oxford shoes still on his feet, taking note of the spotless floorboards.

Wordlessly, Alhaitham unties the laces allowing him to kick them off with ease, placing them onto the shoe rack just behind a closet door. 

It’s a habit that slips his mind every now and then despite a year of marriage; Surprisingly unsurprising when you take into consideration his busy mind.

However, times were different now, he’s no longer a kid, free to be lost in thought. He’s now a homeowner of a spacious house, a space he shares with you, and you liked things clean. 

Not a speck of dust lingered on surfaces, no plates left in the sink, and books pristinely placed on organized shelves. Qualifications that he deemed exceptional for a life partner.

Now with slipper-clad steps, Alhaitham makes his way through the house, peering into the living room to spot your curled figure reading on a sofa. The warm glow of a floor lamp illuminated the soft curves of your cheek. 

“Is something the matter?” You didn’t look up from the page as you addressed him. 

“No, just heading to bed.” 

“Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The start and finish of tonight’s conversation, after all, you valued a quiet house as much as he did. His colleague’s words weren’t without merit, even Alhaitham isn’t stubborn enough to deny the obvious.

Hobbies identical to each other, books upon books lined up along numerous shelves, preferring to stay within the walls of this house unless dragged out by friends. 

Your indecipherable gaze and stiff lips rival his own stone face. Perhaps that’s why the Akasha paired the two of you together. Two beings with stoic faces only another stoic would bear for a life partner, like two sides of the same coin. 

Alhaitham stops unbuttoning his shirt behind his shut bedroom door, reanalyzing the previous statement. Actually, that isn’t a very good analogy.

It'd be more accurate to compare you and him to a double-sided mirror that reflected only one view. 

“I don’t believe in soulmates.”

The man sitting across from the cafe table, introduced as Alhaitham, bluntly states, interrupting your sip of coffee, warm beverage just barely touching your lips. 

Placing your cup back down on the coffee shop table, your gaze observed the stranger who just met you moments ago - a  meeting in a small cafe arranged by Sumeru’s Ministry of Human Relations, the government body tasked with delivering the Akasha’s verdict. 

After a few breaths, you decided to humor his abrupt statement with a response. Staring straight into his teal-orange eyes, you say,  “What a coincidence, neither do I.”

————————

So then why did two nonbelievers follow the verdict handed to them? It’s simple really.

Two salaries combined can buy a sizable house. Two pairs of hands get chores done faster. Two signatures on a certificate save tax money. Life is simpler with a partner to bear some of the burden. 

Young professionals and fresh graduates aren’t known for their financial independence; a boy eager to move out of a cheap flat and away from an infuriating roommate, a girl trying to escape a noisy environment.

The circumstances had aligned. 

And that’s how it’s been for two years now, a nice quiet house. Although, you’d be lying if you weren’t thankful that the Akasha paired you with someone as handsome as Alhaitham. Silver hair, broad frame, and beryl eyes with a hint of ochre -  maybe he’s an apology gift from some fickle god.

He’s a well-rounded and capable man; perceptive enough to know not to cross boundaries drawn in the air, apt enough to not disrupt the serenity, and able to take care of himself.

Although, he could learn to launder better. 

Your lips tug down as your eyes scan over the deep wrinkles crimping the fabric of a freshly washed button-down. It looks too rumpled to look professional, even on him. A sigh falls from your lips.

The presence of slow steps make your head turn in their direction, connecting with Alhaitham’s neutral eyes, quirked gray eyebrow questioning your purpose. 

Two bodies, two rooms, and two beds.

The only time you or he crossed into the private haven of one another was when the floors needed to be mopped or shelves dusted. Owning a house means owning up to tedious chores and dividing up responsibilities spares one’s sanity from the tediousness. 

It’s best to point out the critiques now to spare your own clothes from the same fate. Picking it off the back of his chair, you show him the shameful state of the garment. 

“Leaving your clothes in the dryer for too long will create stubborn wrinkles.” You advise. 

Teal eyes glance at the shirt in your hands before they flick towards the closet rack, your own gaze follows, noting the numerous other shirts in a similar state. Another heavy sigh escapes you, it's obvious Alhaitham attempted to do laundry yesterday.

Wordlessly, you begin gathering each wrinkled garment. 

“I’ll rewash them and hang them outside, it’s the best way to smooth them out. Heat isn’t recommended for your fabrics.” You swiftly walk past him with your arms full. 

“Thank you, I’ll clean the floors then.” He takes hold of the mop against the wall.

This seamless switching of responsibilities is done with less than two sentences, the efficiency of which is only possible between two people such as yourselves. 

Button-downs are much more fickle than a casual t-shirt, using the wrong detergent or leaving it unattended for too long will cause unsightly wrinkles.

Alhaitham’s laundering skills have improved in the last two years… perhaps the singing of the dryer still slips past his preoccupied mind. 

The two of you are working professionals. Crucial insight you’ve learned from your parents: A nicely ironed shirt, neatly brushed hair, and elegantly tied ties are all it takes to make others believe in the white lie of a put-together life. 

Alhaitham was raised by his grandmother, a detail you recall from a passing conversation some time ago. It shows.

The amateur attempts at chores, the books strewn about a desk absent-mindedly, and the afternoon naps spent on a couch underneath a sunlit window are secrets only seen behind closed doors - all telltale signs of being well-loved.

‘How nice it must be.’ You thought, clipping his freshly washed button-downs to the clothesline, allowing the Sunday morning rays to shine down upon them.

A stone-faced man was once a beloved grandson. Maybe his juvenile attempts at chores were too endearing for an elderly lady to correct. 

Hidden from everyone but the audience of swaying fabric and a curious star, a bittersweet smile tugs at stiff lips. 

The clinking of forks against porcelain plates accompanies the evening news. Your eyes starring indifferently towards the TV just around the corner from the dinner table; looks like tonight's topic was the annual metrics of the Akasha.

With each passing year, these metrics only climb higher and higher, a machine learning to calculate better and better. 

“What’s your theory behind the Akasha?” you blurt out the question without looking away from the screen. 

A pair of utensils halted their movements as Alhaitham glances at the evening news. He takes a moment to wipe the corners of his mouth before humoring you.

Technically, the two of you have yet to fill your daily conversation quota. Might as well do it over dinner. 

“It’s all mathematics, the Akasha system. Pairing individuals based on collected data. Demographic, interests, and dispositions, are all factors in a pairing,” he explains in his baritone voice. 

“Mmm, then again it's all just a black box, we can’t be certain unless they choose to reveal it.” You ponder aloud. 

“Correct. Those factors are all key when it comes to compatibility. The Akasha simply uses probability. However, there’s the element of human variability.”

“Meaning it can’t always be right.” You know this, live it even.  “Is that why you don’t believe in the concept of soulmates?” Pivoting to an adjacent question, you return your attention back to the man across the table. 

“Yes, it’s an unrealistic belief.” Alhaitham sips on his wine.

“Such a brilliant conclusion, what an astute mind you have.” Honeyed-voice mimicking awe over a glass of water.

Narrowed teal eyes honed in as his glass returned to its place on the lacquered surface, unamused by your quip. 

“How about you? What theory brought you to hold the same brilliant conclusion?” 

“Do you know phenylethylamine? PEA?” Glancing up from your glass.

From his idle gaze and unmoving lips, you take his silence as a “no”. 

“It’s a stimulant that causes your heart to beat abnormally, released when you’re around a special someone. It causes what people describe as the ‘rush’ or ‘fever’ of love.” 

He says nothing, waiting for you to continue.

“But then your brain gets used to it, and the abnormality in your chest corrects itself.” You take a sip before continuing, “Nothing last forever, so why do people think love is an exception? That only one person ever will cause their hearts to flutter till the end of time?” 

A dry giggle follows the clink of your water cup against the wood. 

“How insightful.” Alhaitham takes another sip of wine to chase his sarcasm.

Maybe it was the amusing quip or how tonight’s butter chicken turned out to be exceptionally delicious, but a subtle smile curls at the edges of your lips. With today’s conversational quota fulfilled you focus your full attention back to the awaiting dinner. 

You remain ignorant to the gaze of teal eyes, oblivious to how it fixates on the faint smile complimenting the soft curves of your cheeks and plush lips. 

“...” 

The front door shuts and locks behind you, your shoes are halfway into the closet before a familiar scent beckons you towards the living room.

Quickly getting into your slippers, you trek through the entranceway and round the corner. The vivid hues of pale blues and gentle violets with pops of bright yellow catch your eyes, confirming your speculations: it’s a bouquet. 

The bundle of flowers were placed into a long-forgotten vase. Turning away from the blooms, you face the man currently thumbing through a book on the couch -the only other person with access to this quiet haven.

Turning back to observe the blooms, you note each species of flower. The Sumerian Rose, Kalpalata Lotus, and…Padisarah.

You observe how the pollen of the Padisarahs dusts the radius of the surface around the vase. It’s a fickle flower after all.

A fickle and potent-smelling flower. 

A scowl twists your face despite your best efforts, the sickly-sweet fragrance of the capricious blooms assaults your senses. 

“Please open a window.” your hand comes up to shield your nose. 

“Is something the matter?” 

“The smell is giving me a headache.” 

A headache forms from within the deepest depths of your mind, the same visceral reaction to the heavy perfumes that plagued your childhood walls. Your mother believed the saccharine scent could cover up her infidelity if she sprayed enough.

Compared to that artificial perfume, fresh Padisarahs were much tamer, but still enough to make a bitter taste appear at the back of your tongue. 

“I see.” Alhaitham sets his book down, getting up to allow the Autumn breeze in. 

Swiftly, you trudge away from the vase and its potent blooms and down the hall, eager to find an untainted corner of the house. It’d be best to sleep the headache off. 

In the morning when you round the corner back into the living room, you notice the vacant vase and table wiped clean of any speck of yellow pollen. Passing through into the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts in the air.

As you pour yourself a cup, you take note of how the trash has already been taken out, a fresh trash bag lining the bin. 

Good, flowers were a hassle to keep around the house.

———————————————————————————

“Chocolates?” You study the box of sweets left out on the kitchen table. 

“I picked them up while getting ingredients for dinner,” Alhaitham answers, busy chopping carrots. 

“You can have some.” 

You return your gaze  back to the intricately designed package in seasonal Winter colors. It’s not often that you indulge in such elegant treats, you couldn’t refuse such an offer. 

Delicately picking up a piece, the glossy dark chocolate shine looks inviting, you can see the quality in these sweets. Placing the small chunk onto your tongue, savoring the rich flavor. Not too sweet and not too bitter. 

Using your tongue to maneuver it towards your teeth you bite into its center, only for your tastebuds to be assaulted by a foul flavor. The distinct and sharp tang of alcohol and the revolting aftertaste of bourbon spoils the sweetness. 

Refusing to allow the detestable flavor to remain on your tongue, you briskly swipe up a few napkins, spitting the foul sweet out. You frown at the stubborn tang of bourbon which threatens to ruin your appetite for dinner. 

“You can have the rest.” You throw out the crumpled napkin. 

“Are they of poor quality?” The tapping of the knife paused. 

“They’re just not to my taste.” 

“In that case, I hope tonight's dinner is.” Alhaitham resumes his task. 

Taking a glass out from the cupboard, you fill the cup with fresh water before gulping it down, washing the foul tang of alcohol from your tongue, and even fouler memories of the stench of sour wine and crushed cans.

Wiping the escaped droplets off with the back of your hand, you go for a second glass. Hopefully, you can cleanse your palate. 

———————————————————————————

“Do you have plans tonight?” Alhaitham’s words make you stop in the middle of the hallway. 

You have a book ready in hand for a night of reading on the sofa under the soft glow of the floor lamp. You know his eyes can see that,  gaze questioning his intentions. 

“I was given two tickets to a movie, would you like to accompany me?” He holds out the slips of paper. 

As your eyes pass over the printed font, you recognized the title, a name picked up within the chatter of coworkers at the office. It’s An adaptation of a famous light novel from Inazuma, and the reviews seem positive. 

“Sure.”

You could get out of the house a little more. 

…

It seems like everyone wants to see a movie tonight, the theater lobby is filled with bustling crowds, families with excited kids, and couples holding hands.

And then there’s you and Alhaitham. Standing side by side, his hands carrying two carbonated drinks, your hands holding an overpriced bag of popcorn, walking toward the room printed on the tickets. 

“C5…C6, looks like we got good spots.” You settled into the plush seats, careful not to spill the bag. 

Alhaitham hums in response, placing your drink in the cupholder. More and more people filed into the screening room, waves of ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s rolling through the space until all the seats were finally filled. The lights begin to dim as the opening logo booms through the sound system. 

The cinematography was beautiful, the musical scores accompanying the plot pleasing to the ears, and the popcorn perfectly seasoned.

It’s been a while since you’ve last gone to a movie theater, maybe you should go more often. As you brought a few more pieces of popcorn to your lips, your eyes travel toward Alhaitham.

His arms crossed as the light of the silver screen reflects onto his skin, noticing your stare, his teal gaze connects with yours. 

Moving the striped bag closer to his frame, you offer him some popcorn, he paid for the refreshments. It'd be a shame if he didn’t get to enjoy them too.

His large hand reachs over and takes a handful, your curiosity wanting to see his reaction to the snack. However, a piercing shrill snaps your attention away. 

Just a few rows away, a woman stood up from her seat, throwing a bag of popcorn at the man sitting beside her. Screaming words you couldn’t quite make out as they merges with the onscreen dialogue and equally furious shouts of the now popcorn-covered man.

Their thunderous voices were only amplified by the acoustics of the theater. 

They’re both standing now, still hurling insults and grievances one after another. There’s a ringing in your ears, their faceless silhouettes in the dim theater replaying a scene you’ve seen many times before. It’s as if they’ve finally developed a conscious, now aware of the stares and glares thrown their way.

Oh, look they’re leaving now, still fighting the whole way out of the screening room. 

With the disturbance now cleared, a low wave of murmuring swept through the audience before dying out. The dialogue and soundtrack were audible again, the atmosphere reverting to how it was.

You didn’t feel like snacking on the popcorn anymore. Gaze focus on the fluffy puffs for the rest of the movie. 

“Did you enjoy the film?” An indifferent voice resounds from your right side. 

Walking out as the credit rolled in the background, following the flow of traffic toward the exit. You were walking by Alhaitham’s side, but your mind was elsewhere, a subtle frown etched on your lips. 

“It was fine, just crowded and loud.” Your voice was just as flat. 

“Oh.”

Tossing the unfinished bag of popcorn way into the nearest trash can, the two of you continue on the silent journey home.

Perhaps, it’s best if you just stayed curled up with a book. 

“Eh? It’s been three years and you’ve never gotten your wife flowers? I knew you were cold-hearted, but not to this extent. Here, a quick bouquet of some fresh flowers I picked.” 

“You should gift her some sweets, maybe then you two can talk a choco-lot… Did you get the joke?”

“Are you serious?! Almost four years and you never took her on a date?? You’re hopeless! Take these tickets and take her to the movies. By the way, you’ll have to pay for them.”

Alhaitham wasn’t sure what made his colleagues so invested in his marriage, maybe a projection of their own lack of one. To his colleagues, you were just as much of an enigma as the ashen-haired man.

Any passing comment, no matter how vague or curt, would bring forth an onslaught of unsolicited advice. And it was for that very reason within the walls of your home these details shall stay. 

Alhaitham isn’t sure which was more irksome, the uninformed guidance of bachelors, or the fact he was the one who actually tested each suggestion. Regardless, at least these trials were fruitful in the sense he can gauge your dislikes now. 

You despise flowers for their fickle messes and scent. You’re revolted by overpriced chocolates. You detested rowdy theaters and subpar films. 

Four now going on to five years, and these were his results. Frankly, he didn’t have to subject you to such experiments for these results, because they aligned with his own preferences.

A waste of time, disturbing your peace for the sake of his own curiosity. 

A heavy sigh falls from his lips as he sets the bucket of water down, one hand holding a mop as the other turns the knob of your bedroom.

It’s a Sunday, meaning the floors needed to be mopped. Your door's hinges sing as they swing open only to be abruptly silenced as Alhaitham stood motionless under the door frame. 

Oh. He should’ve knocked.

You were in the midst of getting dressed in front of your floor-length mirror, glimpses of smooth skin peeking out from under baggy fabric. Before he could stop, teal eyes followed the dark fabric reaching just down to the middle of your thighs and draping low on one shoulder. Your fingers were in the middle of buttoning the clearly oversized shirt as you turned back to focus on him. 

Blank gaze traveling up your soft lips set in a neutral position and meeting your deadpan stare, Alhaitham’s conscience restarts.

Today was Sunday, which meant it was laundry day yesterday, and it was the ashen-haired man’s turn to wash and dry the clothes. Somehow, his button-down got mixed in with your blouses, leading to your unamused reaction. 

“I’ll be more mindful next time, did my shirt dull any of your whites?” Forcing his eyes to avert, a late attempt at respecting your privacy. 

“It’s fine, fortunately, the dye didn’t bleed out during the wash.” You turned away as your hand pulls the draping fabric up your shoulder. 

“Just place the shirt over the chair in my room, I’ll take care of it later.”

“Okay.” 

Once more your door sings as he shuts it on the way back into the hall, deciding to clean the floors of his room first and allowing you to change into your rightful clothes. It was early noon and a weekend, meaning there was no reason for Alhaitham to brush out his sleep-tousled hair. Hopefully, messy gray locks were enough to conceal burning ears. 

———————————————————————————

“The Evolution of Everything.” His eyes scan over the title held out in front of him. 

A newly published scientific journal filled with freshly collected data, the book's spine still in mint condition. Alhaitham takes note of the identical copy held in your hand. 

“You seemed interested in this genre, so I picked up a copy for you.” You motion for him to take it. 

There wasn’t a rule etched in stone that forbade the sharing of books within these quiet walls. The books on your shelves have been more interesting than his as of late. A pattern of folded corners inflecting more and more pages of the books lining your bookshelves, evidence of a certain man’s meddling.

 The warning glare every time you smoothed out a creased page directed his way didn’t seem to be enough to stop the unconscious habit of his hands.

It looks like you’re trying out a new solution, getting him his own copy to prevent the infection from engulfing each and every corner of your bookshelves. 

“Thank you, I’ll read it soon.” He accepts the peace offering. 

With that, you made your way back to the sofa. Flipping open your own copy, fingers gently making sure to not crumple the delicate pages or crease the pristine spine. Alhaitham compares it to the book currently held in his own hands.

An older book, while not falling apart or tattered, it’s obvious the man has thumbed through its pages. A well-loved book as his grandmother would’ve described it. 

Alhaitham needs to stop this practice he never corrected in childhood. 

———————————————————————————

“Alhaitham.” You greet him at the entranceway. 

Said man is currently placing his outside shoes away into the closet, returning from an uneventful day at his office. You usually got home before him, but this was the first time you’ve waited for him at the front door. He notes that you seem to be holding something behind your back. 

“Here.” Bring your arms out from your back, the distinct crinkling of plastic was heard.

Teal eyes study the gift basket filled with bath products, body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and lotion all nicely packaged with a satin ribbon. 

“It’s to thank you for helping me with errands lately,” you explain. 

Recently, you’ve been asking him to accompany you to the cluttered streets lined with stalls and haggling merchants. With his towering frame and larger hands, he could carry heavier bags and part a path through the pushy crowds easier. You were using your resources to maximize efficiency. 

“There’s no need to trouble yourself with this, I’m just doing my part. But thank you.” He takes the basket from your hands, eyes remaining collected. 

Just as the basket leaves your hands, the distinct chime of your phone goes off as ‘Bahram’ flashes across the screen. The name of your boss. 

“Excuse me, I have to take this call. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.” Turning away, you walk toward the kitchen. 

The he hums in response, slipping into his inside shoes. With brisk steps, he covers the distance from the front door to his room, closing then leaning against the solid oak.

Sharply inhaling as one hand balancing the basket of toiletries and the other holding his head. 

You’ve always prefer to maintain the serenity of the house. Resolving strife with proactive actions or brief comments. Not once in these past five years did you ever nag him, you’re too pragmatic for that. At times it’s a curse more than a blessing, evidenced by the gift basket staring back at him mockingly. 

Although Alhaitham was messy at times, he knows the importance of hygiene. Teeth brushed twice a day, a shower taken every day before dinner, and deodorant applied daily.

However, the temperatures this Summer were at record highs, even for Sumeru. The packed market streets pushing the two of you closer than usual, perhaps he’s no match for the heat this time. 

Washing his hair twice and his body thrice, Alhaitham finishes his prolonged shower by gurgling some mouthwash for good measure. Walking into the kitchen in a fresh set of clothes and his hair still damp. The table set with potato boat and some steak. Impassive eyes met inscrutable eyes as you motion for him to take a seat.

Your nose remained relaxed, meaning you were probably satisfied with his efforts. 

Alhaitham makes a silent reminder to research some cologne after he finishes washing the dishes. One that isn’t overbearing nor too weak to linger. 

How embarrassing it is, five years in and the stoic prodigy known as Alhaitham is still testing the bounds of his wife’s patience. Selfish experiments and habits he can’t seem to correct conflicting with your wishes for a clean, serene, and quiet home. 

The entire reason why you bothered signing your name next to a stone-faced man who said ‘I don’t believe in soulmates’ before asking ‘How are you?’.

  

Flowers, chocolates, and movie tickets.

You weren’t oblivious to the sentiment behind these arbitrary actions. In a way, it was expected. A husband wants to get closer to his wife, it’s simple chemistry.

The human mind craves connection, oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin released at the sight of gifted blooms, crafted sweets, and from simply sitting within each other's presence.

A chemical cocktail the mind gets drunk on. 

Alhaitham isn’t immune to it and neither are you. Even if you were able to stiffen your lips, steady your gaze, and hide those flushed cheeks. Nothing you did could quell the abnormality in your chest, was Alhaitham having the same issue?

There comes the first hurdle, the unknown which hung in the air formed over years of peaceful silence. The thought of two stoic faces peering into each other’s eyes as two monotonous voices stated the obvious would make any romantic keel over and die.

It’d be too embarrassing, especially when it’s already been awkward. 

Headache caused by sickly sweet blossoms, spitting out pricey sweets, and dulled reaction to a critically acclaimed film. None of this was Alhaitham’s fault, how can you blame someone for something they don’t know?

He never asked, you never told.

No one knew what happened within that noisy house with empty bottle-covered floors of two ‘soulmates’ who refused to release their crushing grips. All except the three unfortunate souls trapped within its Padisarah-scented walls. 

Still, his keen eyes didn’t miss those details, reassessing his actions before ultimately channeling more of his energy into chores around the house instead of frivolous gifts. What a proactive husband. 

A sting of guilt felt as you recall his sincere attempts at trying to cross an icy bridge. What should you say? ‘Thank you, you tried.’ Sounded far too condescending, it could even lead to a huffy fight. Something you’ve been good at avoiding these past five years. 

Marriage is filled with compromises, meeting each other halfway along the road of life, side by side. So you tried this time.

Curiosity guiding you as it did a naive hero towards the brilliance of a red star. 

———————————————————————————

Your first attempt was inspired by an article that popped up on your phone’s feed, something about wearing your partner’s shirt to make them flush, nonsense known as the ‘boyfriend shirt’.

You still gave it a try. Swiping up one of your husband’s black button-downs one Saturday night, only building up the confidence to put it on the next morning. 

Your original plan was to just casually wear it around the house as you got the Sunday morning chores done, but that got thrown out when Alhaitham suddenly opened your door when one-third of the buttons were still undone.

A moment of tense silence followed, impressively you managed to maintain a cool facade. Grasping the opportunity to leave this stale silence with an expertly crafted response. 

———————————————————————————

In the end, he just wanted his shirt back. So for your next attempt, you toned it down, no longer taking advice from nonsensical articles. 

Recently, Alhaitham has taken more of an interest in your bookshelf. More of the once pristine edges of your books folder here and there. If it was anyone else, you’d make them buy you a new copy immediately, but for now, you simply smoothed out the paper.

If he wants to read the theories and studies that muse you, why don’t you read them together?

However, two bodies pressed together on a sofa trying to read the small print along pages at the same time is simply uncomfortable. Plus, Alhaitham reads much faster than you. 

To ensure a pleasant reading experience for both of you, two copies were the best solution. 

He read it after you. 

———————————————————————————

Your next attempts used thinly veiled excuses to get Alhaitham to accompany you to the bustling markets of Sumeru City. In a way, trying to make up for that lackluster movie experience.

Only for it to soon turn into using Alhaitham to carry arm fulls of bags as he shielded you from the push and pull of the busy crowd. 

Perhaps you should stick to gift-giving, to spare your husband from working like a Sumpter Beast in this weather.

But besides books, what should you give him? He’s just like you, if he sees something he wants, he’d just buy it with his own money. 

On the way home from work, you caught sight of a shop, one which displayed handmade soaps and fancy lotions. Huh, Alhaitham often takes your lotions, maybe you should get him his own. A bell ringing overhead announces your entrance into the cozy store. 

“Welcome!” A bright voice chirped as a shop assistant with vibrant red hair and an equally vibrant smile bounded toward you. 

“I’m Nilou, how may I help you today?”

“I’m just looking for some lotion.” You politely responded, trying to ignore the faint fragrance of Pardisarahs. 

“We’ve got plenty of hand-made ones, for you or for someone else?”

“For my husband.”

“Oh? What does he like?”

You paused for a moment, lips pressed together in contemplation before deciding. 

“Something fresh and not overbearing, nothing made from Pardisarahs.” If he liked using your lotions, then he must have the same scent preferences. 

“We just got this new lotion that fits the criteria! Oh! But it pairs very well with this body wash… actually this shampoo and conditioner set is also a good fit. Oh! What if we bundle them?”

What was supposed to be a simple lotion turned into you leaving the small shop with an entire gift basket. A sigh leaves your lips, looks like you’re not as immune to sales tactics as you originally thought. 

That night you handed the ribbon-wrapped basket to Alhaitham. Even if he isn’t interested in expensive handcrafted soaps, he’ll still use them out of necessity, they were a gift after all.

However, it doesn’t seem you had to worry about that. He used up the fancy soaps and lotions. 

The opulent scent lingering on his skin and towel-dried hair, looks like your gift made you discover a new side of your husband.

He enjoys really long showers, evidenced by your rising water bills. 

Still, the vast expanse of uncertainty didn’t shrink, not even one bit. Just like the distance between an outstretched hand toward the sun. 

Books, lotions, and walks through a market, looks like it was all for naught. 

The mutual agreement to not lock eyes, these cold halls, these awkward dinners filled with nothing but the clattering of silverware and plates. Where have you seen these patterns before?

Oh, you’ve seen these in your childhood home. 

Ah, was this a curse passed on to you? What an awful wedding gift from uninvited parents to a courthouse office. 

Clutching the straps of your bag tighter, your legs quicken their pace, wanting to get out of the crowded streets filled with the mumbles and pushes of people freshly off the clock.

With each stranger knocking into your shoulder another drop is added to a bottle. White knuckles gripping on your straps as a pressure rises within the bottle’s glass body, threatening to shatter it.

You can’t let this continue, the mounting pressure will sooner or later detonate into a hideous mess. Best to avoid that scenarios. Eyes catching sight of a small reprieve from the crowd, you direct yourself there.

 The small store front provides you with some shelter for your lungs to breathe. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The pressure subsides just a bit. There’s still room in there, you can suppress a little more, you can endure a little longer. 

Eyelids fluttering open, you recognized the name of the shop. It’s the fancy soap shop, one with the vivacious sales assistant.

Peering through the glass you searched for that brilliant shade of crimson. And you found it, right next to glimmering silver hair. It’s like your body forgot how to breathe. 

From the rumbling of the late evening rush, all you could do was read their lips from behind a thick glass door.

Petite pink lips giggling behind clasped hands as Nilou looks up at Alhaitham, tilting her head to the side as if she asked him a question. His lips remained stiff, but teal gaze reflected crimson as they softened. Something you never witnessed within the quiet walls of your home. 

Looks like you found the cause of the rising water bills, perhaps Alhaitham likes the smell of Padisarahs. 

Your bottle couldn’t contain the ocean anymore. 

It wasn’t an Earth-shattering catastrophic event, no tidal waves crashing down, no flood flood devastating everything in its path. Only a defeated ‘pop’ and its pathetic echo as your bottle finally overflowed.

Bitter sea-foam fizzled out as it made an unseen mess. 

Listlessly, you rejoined the rolling crowd, letting the eb and flow of its movement carry you all the way to the front door of a false haven. Systematically inserting the key, placing your shoes into the closet, and shutting your room door behind your back. Staring at the clean floor with its intricate wood grain. 

However, your mind weren’t processing any of it, busy with its calculations.

When did his fever start? That one Autumn night with a chaste bouquet. What day is it now? The cusp of Summer. How long has it been? In a few months, it’ll be three years.

A lecture from an inescapable past resurfaces.

————————

“Hey, kiddo.” 

Slurred words made you stop in your tracks, small hands tightening their grip on your backpack straps.

You weren’t quiet enough, the careful steps of your feet were rendered useless when it came to the creaky wooden floors of this house. Your lungs burned for air, but you didn’t want to breathe in the stench which permeated this air. 

The aroma of cheap perfume, sour wine, and cheap beer. The source of this foul smell? The freshly awakened man laying on the couch just a few inches away: a man known as your father.

Still trying to reserve your stored supply of oxygen, all you offered the drunkard was a firm hum. Not that he’d care, judging from the crushed cans and empty bottles littering the path, he’s probably too far gone. 

“Did you know love is a chemical? Something called ‘phenylethylamine’?” A hiccup interrupts his sentence, but he continues, much to your dismay. 

“Haha, it makes your heart beat faster and your cheeks flush because it’s considered an amphetamine, one of the most powerful drugs.” His stumbling hand blindly reached for another can, knocking over empty shells until it found one with just a bit of liquor. 

“Too bad the high can only last three years.”

Your disinterested gaze trailed off down the empty hall, legs itching to break away from the lecture you’ve heard numerous times before. Lungs begging to inhale the untainted air of your room, the only sanctuary this hollow home held.

Just a few minutes was all you needed, then you’ll start mopping these foul floors. 

A clink of aluminum hitting the wooden boards draws your attention back to your father who had finished moisturizing his throat with another swig of beer. 

“Stay away from that drug, kiddo” A sloppy grin stretched across his face as he stared up at a blank ceiling. 

The sight made your arms bristle, seeing a smile on your father’s face was uncanny. Something you’ve never seen at the dinner table, just silent scowls and disgruntled glares constantly exchanged over a subpar meal. 

Wanting him to finish this one-sided conversation, you gave another firm hum, every now and then glazing back toward the hall. 

“Or you’ll end up like this old man.” He wraps the conversation up with a bitter laugh, one which resonated off the blank walls. 

————————

Maybe you should’ve heeded your father’s words. A brilliant scholar to the public but a pathetic drunk when within the confines of a cluttered, noisy house is still a brilliant scholar. 

This was your punishment for straying away from your beliefs. You reached your hand out towards the fire despite knowing it’d  hurt, and you fell in love. Now look at where you are. 

How utterly laughable, you, the ever-bright Ms. Perfect, who’s broken love down to its base form of chemical compounds, fell victim to the addiction that was love.

So blindsided by it.

The fog of love is slowly running its course through him. Once the trees abandon their vibrant greens for shriveled browns in the Autumn, his fever will be over. There’s no such thing as an endless Summer.

How did you not see this coming? Covering your eyes with ignorant hands, blatantly ignoring the signs right in front of your nose.

No more flowers, no more chocolates, and no more movies. 

Turning back around, you took note of a figure in a floor length mirror. Indifferent gaze identical to how your husband looks at you.

Two sides of the same mirror, what’s what you and him are. What’s the use of that? Shiny surfaces point off in opposite directions, yet only ever reflecting one view. What’s the point of having two sides then?

You don’t intrigue him, you can’t show him his blind spots, and you can’t reflect to him a view he’s never seen. Same perceptions, same hobbies, same expressionless faces, how stale it must be. 

It’s much more interesting to have a wife who’ll smile at receiving flowers, a wife whose eyes light up at chocolate, and a wife who’d blabber on about a movie as Alhaitham listens intently. The beating of his heart is starting with someone new.

Emerging out of your thoughts, you stare directly at the person in your mirror.

Dull eyes stared right back, light dimmed from years of staring at a bright star grasping at its warm rays in substitution of a cold house, only for your fingers to slip pass right through.

Idiotic girl, you can’t touch the sun, not even Icarus did. 

An unlovable child grew into an unlovable adult. Add that to your footnote, so you’ll never forget this lesson again. The fool in the mirror finally looks away. 

It didn’t matter if Icarus smiled or laughed as he tumbled from the sky. Silly girl, did you forget what happens in the end of that tale? He drowned alone. 

Drowning isn’t like what the movies show. The thrashing of limbs against cold waves, the garbled screams under the water, all accompanied by the ominous soundtrack crafted by a sound master. It’s all dramatized for the silver screen. 

Muscles pushing through the cold exhaustion, mouth agape but prioritizing large and fast gulps of oxygen over cries for help, followed by the melodic lull of water lapping over eardrums until the head disappears under its surface. Never to breach it again. 

It’s possible for a person to drown in a pool full of people. Just like how it was possible for you to feel alone despite having your husband just across the lacquered expanse of the dinner table. Forks and knives clacking porcelain plates.

It’s a silent death. 

For once you’re grateful to attend a nugatory dinner hosted by your company. Venue filled with superficial smiles and handshakes all over food served on sliver platters. Even if the heels are killing you, you’d rather not wallow in a quiet house.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips, catching someone’s attention. 

“What a heavy sigh, here have some wine to ease the burden.” A glass filled with fragrant wine was held out in front of you. 

Your eyes travel up the hand which offers the vile beverage to you, sights landing on the face of your boss, Bahram. Pushy as always, always testing the limits of your loyalty to a nice pension and dental insurance.

As always you politely push the glass away, uttering a firm “no thank you.”

“Oh c’mom Ms. Perfect, you look like you could use a drink.” He pushes the glass closer. 

 Stares from all around the formal dinner table hone in, the weight heavy on your shoulders. Stakeholders and coworkers turn away from their shallow conversations to watch the brewing spectacle just across the table.

That’s right, you have to be professional, where was your crafted mask? Make use of all those years observing the masters of deception you knew as your parents. 

So you accept the vile glass.

Before the aroma could register on your palate, you emptied the whole glass. Not a single drip escaped past your lips. It took all your strength to no scowl at the sweetly bitter and alcoholic flavor. 

“Oh? Ms. Perfect is drinking tonight?” Some nameless coworker mused. 

Ah, the name lightly tossed around at the office with oblivious chuckles and ignorant smiles. You despise being called that, but not as much as you despise being told ‘you’re just like your father’ and ‘you’re acting like your mother’.

Better to be Ms. Perfect, so disgruntled ‘soulmates’ can’t compare you to their flawed counterpart.

“Do you like this wine? Have some more.” Eagerly, your boss fills the glass once more. 

Staring at the beckoning liquid swirling in the glimmering cup, as the weight of those stares force your hands to accept it once more. 

Maybe you should’ve just stayed home. 

“I should really be trying to sell you our products but… I think you’ll find a better gift at another store. Here, I’ll write the address down for you! They have the best jewels, I’m sure you’ll find something for your wife there!” Hastily the shop assistant scribbles on a notepad before pushing the slip into his palm. 

“Just don’t tell my manager.” Clasping her hands in front of her mouth, signaling to him to keep a secret. 

Alhaitham simply nods, examining the address in his hands. He hasn’t tried jewelry yet, but a ring would look nice on your hand. Maybe you’d think so too.

“You really love her, don’t you mister?” Nilou notes how attentively his hands smooth over the address. 

Pausing for a moment, Alhaitham envisions the softness of your cheeks shifting as that tender smile spreads across your lips. Yours eyes reflecting the light off the polished and cut gem as he slips it onto your bare finger. 

“I do.” Unable to stop the softening of his gaze. 

———————————————————————————

A ring still left in its miserable black box, stowed away in the depths of a drawer. A sigh slips out of him just like how he let another opportunity to place the jewel on your finger pass. You’re attending a company dinner tonight, a rare occasion requiring you to dress up.

The dress draped over your figure and curves just right and highlighted the contours of your body. He wanted to tell you this earlier as you were leaving, too bad he was occupied with swallowing ‘stay home’. 

There’s an annoying itch in the deepest depths of his mind. Covetous hands crawled up his spine, they tried to convince his own fingers to grasp around your wrist and pull you back into the house.

Alhaitham shakes that itch away, refocusing his attention onto your bookshelf in front of him.

You have a life and responsibilities outside these walls, he can’t overstep the boundary to block you from your individuality. Running a finger along the tops of the neatly lined books, searching for something to redirect his impulses.

Momentum halting when his finger sunk into pages when he expected the firm edge of a spine. The force crumpling the paper, immediately he pulls it into his hands, smoothing out the folded edges. Title catching his attention. 

The Lifespan of Love, the only book where the spine wasn’t facing out. Flipping it to the back, Alhaitham scans the blurb, noting the portrait of the scholar who authored it.

A familiar face, a professor who’s lectures he barely attended. A distinguished researcher and mentor in the eyes of his old university.

The sight of his face made Alhaitham recall a scene he once witnessed. 

————————

The halls of the Psychology department were desolate, as they always were. A much-appreciated reprieve from crowded foyers as a quiet student walks to his next exam in the department next door. 

Just as his hand reached up to activate his headphones, two voices caught his attention, the high shrills of a woman and the raspy shouts of a man leaking out from an office door left ajar.

It has nothing to do with him, Alhaitham know this, but he still had 30 minutes to kill before the exam.

Teal eyes peer through the gap between the oak doorframe.

A man the student recongizes, but the scowl and flush of rage twisted his face into an unrecongizable mess. The professor juts his finger towards the woman as foul names left his mouth, the same mouth which lectured the brightest minds of Sumeru. 

The woman screams back equally loathsome words, tears leaving mascara trails down her red cheeks. Suddenly, she grabs a lamp off his desk and hurls it to the floor. 

For a brief moment, the scholar pauses as his eyes scanned over the broken debris scattered along the floor. Then his fist slammed into the solid oak of his desk, thud so forceful the office ratted with the poor furniture.

His shouts resume, volume escalating by the minute. 

Alhaitham backs away from the door, turning on his noise-canceling headphones. He’s satisfied his curiosity enough, walking off to his exam. 

————————

A peculiar sight behind the superficial mask of a respected professor with his jolly grin and light hearted jokes with students. Inspecting the name printed just underneath the portrait, a furrow forms between his brow as he scrutinizes the spelling closer.

The professor’s last name was spelled the same way as yours. 

Oh. So this is the source you were citing back then. Numbers and figures published by a notable name backing your rebuttal to the societal notion of a soulmate. Inquisiveness rearing its impatient nose, inciting his hands to choose this book as his subject tonight.

You never told him, so he never asked. This was a chance to peer into a view sealed behind your closed lips.  

To study, dissect, and analyze the resources which congergated together to form the you of today. Alhaitham isn’t going to deny such an opportunity.

Teal eyes glance at the ticking hands of a clock, he’s got a good few hours of reading before you return.

The distinct rumble of an engine leaking in through the living room window interrupts his peace, the slam of car doors causing Alhaitham to promptly fold over the corner of the page he has yet to finish.

The dinner must have ended.

Getting up from a cushy couch, Alhaitham makes his way toward the entranceway.

His keen ears picking up the unmistakable hearty chuckle of a man, Alhaitham stills for a brief second before continuing to the door. 

Before the chime of the doorbell had the chance to sound throughout the home, Alhaitham already pried open the front door.

Teal gaze darkening as they examine the display on the front steps. 

Your arm around the shoulder of another man while his arm was snaked around your waist, pressing your body against his as he supports you up the steps.

The sound of the hinges directs the man’s attention to the homeowner currently staring at him, oblivious to the way Alhaitham’s grip threatens to crush a metal handle behind solid oak. 

“Oh! You must be Ms. Perfect’s husband. I’m Bahram.” The man greeted.

Alhaitham already knows him. He’s seen that name flash up enough times across your phone. He’s seen you pick up no matter the hour and step out into an empty room.

A new habit of yours which started some months earlier.

“Haha! She drank a bit too much tonight.” The jovial man continues, his hand still resting on your hip.

Drank? You drank? You don’t so much as glance at Alhaitham’s wine cabinet at home, yet you drank with this man? The begins of scowl start to set into Alhaitham’s face. 

“I’ll bring her inside for ya.” Bahram takes a step forward only to be blocked by a towering frame topped with ashen hair. 

“I’ll take it from here.” Alhaitham barely bit back a pointed tone, forcibly smoothing it over to make his voice pass as neutral. 

Prying that hand off your hip and your arm from Bahram’s neck, Alhaitham’s strong hold supports your slumping figure against his own body.

Pulling you across the threshold of the front door, finally putting some distance between you and that damn boss of yours. 

“Have a goodnight.” Venomous lie rolling off Alhaitham’s tongue as he firmly shuts the oak door, not bothering with any more pleasantries. 

It didn’t take much effort to carry you into the living room. Setting you down on the sofa then kneeling down with dexterous fingers, Alhaitham freed your feet from the chokehold of those heels.

You make a mental note to throw them out tomorrow morning. 

“Thank you,” you breathed out, relieved to finally be home. 

Your husband doesn’t respond as he walk away to place your shoes into the closet. The lingering taste of wine churns your stomach, you needed some water to wash it out.

Carefully, you amble into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with fresh water. Praying it can finally rid you of that foul flavor. 

After three glasses of wine, your stakeholders and coworkers finally turned their attention elsewhere. You’ve entertained them enough.

Granting you the freedom to push away anymore glasses your boss offered, only getting him to stop after you agreed to his offer of driving you home.

What a troublesome night, your mood sourer than it has been for the past few months. 

As you fill up your glass again your ears catch the pattering of Alhaitham’s steps as he trails into the kitchen, stopping only a few paces away watching you glup down your second glass. 

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” His husky voice resounds from behind you as his finger taps against the marble countertop. 

“No.” You fill rinse out the cup, the stubborn grip of wine not releasing your tastebuds just yet. 

“Oh? It sure looks like you did.” 

Your body stiffens as your turn the faucet off, glancing over your shoulder with eyes narrowing. 

“What do you mean by that?” Your tone a bit more sharp than you’d like it to be. 

“I’m certain you know exactly what I mean.” Alhaitham stops his tapping as he lays his palm flat on the table, teal eyes boring straight into you. 

“Well, well looks like your assumption is wrong.” 

“I doubt it, stop mincing your words and just say you enjoyed a few drinks with your boss.” 

Your body turns around fully, glaring stare connecting with his teal one. Ticking of a clock sounding throughout the quiet kitchen.

So that’s why he’s behaving like this, partners with wandering eyes tend to project their hypocritical insecurities onto the other after all. 

“Then why don’t you say you’ve been enjoying your visits to Nilou?” Something more venomous than sour wine drips off your words. 

“How is she related to this conversation?” His eyes narrowing at you, unlike the same teal irises that reflected the scarlet of her hair. 

“You know exactly what I mean.” You spat his own words back at him, maneuvering around him as you make your way back to your room. 

At this point you weren’t sure what was the cause of the headache threatening to form.

The wine? This deafening silence? Or the thought of Padisarahs?

You don’t care, you want to go to bed. The thuds of his steps weren’t far behind yours as you trek through the halls.

“Our conversation hasn’t concluded.” His deep voice ringing in your ears. 

“Yes it has.” Your room was just in sight.

“No it hasn’t.” His hand encloses around your wrist.

There you were, halfway through the doorframe of your room with the pull of his hand preventing you from getting the rest you want.

There’s no longer any space left in a shattered bottle, just a rippling ocean getting rougher and rougher with each deep breath. 

“Can’t you be honest?” His ironic, paradoxical words causes the tide to crush against each other. 

“Can’t you be honest? Do you think I wouldn’t notice your showers right as you come back from ‘work’? You’ve been driving the water bill up with your cover-up efforts.” Glaring right into those damn beryl eyes, frown breaking your stiff lips. 

“Cover-up? What a bold accusation coming from the same person who awaits a call everynight.” He mirrors your scowl. 

“Maybe its because work offers better company than this stifling house.” 

Alhaitham grip tightens on your wrist as his lips press into a firm line, indecipherable stare weighing down upon your frame. His broad shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath. 

“Strip,” he commands.

“Have you gone mad?” You snap back, unable to budge in his hold. 

“Yes, furious even.” 

It didn’t take much effort for him to make his way into your room, pulling you in as well. You could barely keep up with it all, glaring at him but it didn’t affect him one bit.

The movement causes your dress to shift. Glancing down you realize a strap of your dress slipped off, leaving one side of your breast dangerously exposed. 

With swift strides, he arrives at the edge of your bed. It’s rare for you to dawn such attire, applying a lovely shade of crimson to those plush lips, and tying your hair up so nicely. Did you get all dressed up for Bahram? Why couldn’t it be for his viewing only? 

Tsk, noisy nonsense is cluttering his mind, those the claws of a green-eyes monster digging into his last shred of restraint. Seizing his rationality in its ugly, greedy hands tighter and tighter the longer your soft thighs pressed against his tense body.

Crashing into those crimson lips of yours, one hand positioning your face to allow his tongue to catch yours by surprise. Letting the two muscles dance together as his other hand explored the expanse of your body, pulling up the silky fabric to grant his palm the pleasure of gracing your soft thighs. 

‘Oh, so this is what he wants,’ you thought as your lips moved against his.

‘Fine, might as well experience what he’s been doing behind your back.’ The fingers of your free hand tangling themselves into his hair, tugging at ashen locks with disregard. 

Unfortunately, the pesky need for oxygen made Alhaitham release your lips. Chest panting as his darkened gaze observed the state of your lips. Crimson smeared over the corner of your glossy lips. You put so much effort into painting them, making sure they were nicely defined. 

However, it felt so cathartic to know that he’s the one who messed them up, no one at the party saw them like this. Only him. 

“I’ll ask you one last time, strip now.” Not letting go of your face. 

“Go to hell,” you spat out. 

And the last chain broke, dignity and self-control reduced to nothing more than ash as his hunger commanded him. Go to hell you say?

“Then I’ll take you with me,” he sneers through clenched teeth, pushing you into the mattress face down. One hand restraining those disobedient hands of yours behind your back.

Before protest could leave your lips a rip resounds through the hot air.  Alhaitham knows he should be delicate with it. That he should carefully pull the zipper down your back, letting the fabric naturally drape off your frame.

 However, a man who starved for six years now knows nothing about patience. 

You feel the silky fabric slip off, leaving you in nothing but your panties. Teal eyes honing in on the darkened patch on the thin fabric, a dry chuckle leaving his lips.

“Wet just from this? Or were you wet during dinner too?” He pulls the fickle fabric off. 

You wiggle in his hold, face flushed with frustrated embarrassment at your current predicament. However, in terms of strength you’ll always lose to Alhaitham. A violent flinch jolts your body as he runs a finger runs along your glistening slit. 

“What a lewd thing, has he seen this slutty hole of yours?” Alhaitham watches the way your cunt quivers with each stroke of his digit. 

“Do really you think I’d sleep with my boss?” Your voice slightly muffled by the sheets as you turn your face to the side. 

“I need to confirm it.”

With two fingers, he spreads your soft pussy lips apart, keen eyes observing the trail of slick starting to drip down from between them. He sees the muscles of your entrance clenching around nothing, he glides a digit in, feeling your slick walls clamp around it. Clear essence drooling out. He hums in satisfaction before sliding his finger out, you bite into the sheet to silence any sounds. 

“Enjoying this?” He muses, fingers spreading your cunt again. 

You don’t respond, but the glare you’re sending his way makes his lip curl into a smirk. For once he could read the emotions behind your stoic eyes, he wants to see more.

Trailing his fingers up your slit until they bump into a hard nub making your body twitch. Softly pinching your clit between two fingers, he slowly rolls the senesitve bundle of nerves as you bite harder to stop your moans. 

Cunt slick but unstretched, clit throbbing but not swollen, only your essence coating his fingers. Looks Bahram hasn’t gotten the chance to taste you yet.

Calming the thrashing of a green-eyed beast just slightly. However, this wasn’t enough. Alhaitham feels the parchedness of his throat as his eyes scan over your glistening slit.  

Alhaitham once believed that the touches exchanged when his fingers brush against yours while passing plates, when you pull a blanket up his napping frame, or when your bodies briefly pressed against each other as he helps you hang the laundry out was enough to satisfy him. That he could sustain off just borrowing your lotions. 

Such a false assumption, a foolish one even. As the heat radiating off your body melts away another restraint he imposed on himself. Alhaitham realizes just how much he’s been starving himself. 

Thumb rubbing firm circles into your clit, the pleasure making your legs close together, trying to shut him out but the grip of his hand stops your attempt. 

“Tsk, stay still.” His strength pinning your legs apart, showing you just how ‘feeble’ he was. 

In retaliation, he pushes your legs further apart. Exposing more of yourself to him, it was embarrassing enough to almost make your lust-hazed mind care.

Thick fingers gathered up drops of slick leaking out from your dripping cunt as your lewd hole unable to contain its greed. Allowing him more access, feeding into his greed further.

Two fingers tracing the rim of your entrance before it slowly pushes through. Instantly, your gummy walls clamped down on his fingers, making him hiss through clenched teeth.

“If you’re grasping my fingers this much, how will you take something larger?” His breath ghosting over your cunt. 

Your toes curled in the air as a kiss was pressed against your throbbing clit, almost enough to let a gasp escape you. Biting back a drawn out moan as his tongue traced your leaking slit, starting with your sensitive numb then traveling up to lap at the essence escaping your stretched hole with the smooth muscle then back to flick at your clit.

You never realized just how pent up your body was until whines and moans just fell from your lips like water. Turning your head away, pressing your face into the mattress in hopes it’d catch those sinful sounds. 

“Tsk.” Alhaitham escalated the pace of his fingers. 

A sharp slap against your puffy clit, shooting white-hot pleasure up your core. With a gasp you pulled away from the sheets, unable to stop the moan which tumbled out. Hastily, you tried to muffle your voice again, only for a warning squeeze on your still pinned wrist stopping you.

You’ve enjoyed your silence, he’s been deprived of those sultry moans, so for tonight let him enjoy them to the fullest extent. 

Your back arched, hips bucking in the air. Your little pussy finally rewarded his hard work with a rush of slick soaked the sheets and his face further. Swiftly removing his fingers again with a disgraceful squelch, only for his tongue to dip into the cavern they left. He slurped and lapped up every drop of your nectar, quenching a thirst he never knew he had. 

Overstimulated clit trying to flinch away from each nerve-frying lick while your weeping walls beckoned his tongue to go deeper. The tightness in his pants was painful now, engorged tip rubbing against the fabric and soaking it in precum.

With his unyielding hold, his half-lidded eyes, and his unrelenting tongue lapping up all of your essence while bullying your poor nub, you were powerless. Unable to hide from his hungry gaze, nails digging into his unflinching hand, and chest heaving with the mounting pleasure in your core.

Scowl long replaced by a loose expression, the pleasure ripping through every fiber of your being. Shooting up from your curled toes to the eyes seeing only the back of your head, the edge growing closer and closer-

Alhaitham pulls away, your slick dripping down his chin glistening in the moonlight illuminating the room. Cruelly pulling back from the edge before you could taste true euphoria. No, he doesn’t think you deserve it yet. Flipping your body effortless on your back, wrists now pinned above your head.

His teal eyes drank the sight of your breast bouncing with each pant, puffy cunt clenching desperately, and the glimmering tearful eyes rivaling the stars themselves. A sight so sinful the devil is writhing in envy. 

“What the fuck?!” You thrashed in his hold again, mourning the lost of the orgasm your body was denied. 

“With this attitude, you should be grateful for what you got. I’m tired of waiting.” Alhaitham sneers next to your ear, chest pressed against yours before his warmth pulls away. 

Tugging his pants and boxers down his thighs with a hand still coated in your nectar, trailing kisses and red splotches in the valley of your breast as his precum and your slick mixed with each stroke of his shaft. The wet sounds even reached your ears.

Making the mistake of looking down, your eyes widened as they comprehended his length and girth. Your restless pussy twitching but your legs closing as to preserve the last of your ego. Something thick pressed against your dripping pussy making your hole quiver and legs freeze as his tip threatens breach your entrance.

“Trying to be coy now? When you were moaning like a whore mere minutes ago.” Smug teal eyes peering down at you. 

Another frown breaks onto your face at his pointed words. Your tongue is just as sharp, best to remind him of that fact.

“What a practiced line, you say the same things to her as well?” A mocking smile curling your lip as a scowl tugs down at his.

Too self-satisfied with your small victory to notice his large hand gripping onto your hips, aligning himself with you. With a sinful squelch, Alhaitham snaps his cock fully in. Your lips thrown open with a gasp as your back arches off the mattress.

“I. Never. Had. An. Affair. So, instead of spewing out anymore nonsense, why don’t you just moan instead?” Puncuating each word with thrust of his hips, feeling the vibration of each syllable in his chest pinned against yours. 

Jagged words ready at the tip of your tongue, yet you couldn’t form a single sentence. With a broken moan your back slowly descended back onto the sheets.

Tearing a hiss from his clenched teeth and a breathless moan from you, gummy walls contracting down tighter and tighter with each girthy inch pushed as his balls slap against the slick down your ass. Nothing could’ve prepared him for this. Alhaitham stays there, tip pressed against the deepest part of you, a furrow between his brows.

Alhaitham knows he should be gentle. He knows he should allow your walls to grow accustomed to his girth by slowly rolling his hips against yours. 

However, you just won’t stay still. Mewling and whining against his frame, nails clawing at his hand as your legs fluttered in the air. Each movement makes your pussy slurp around his stiff cock, lapping at the girth as if trying to pull him deeper than he already was. 

Tempting his hunger like a lunatic testing a starved beast, it’ll only be so long before the hunger bends the iron bars containing it and devours you. 

“AH!” A sharp slap of his hips rips a moan from your lips. 

Alhaitham pulls you off his cock until the tip threatens to slip out, then thrusts it all back in one fluid motion. Instinctively your teeth clamps down on your disobedient lips, desperately trying to bite back those lewd noises. The slurping of your greed welcoming him over and over was embarrassing enough. 

What a selfish move, trying to deprive him once more of your pretty moans. Provoking that ugly appetite within the pits of his stomach again. If you won’t behave, Alhaitham decides to fuck the stubborness out of you. 

Each thrust of his hips into yours rocking the sturdy bed, bullying your poor sensitive pussy still recovering from a ruined orgasm. Hands and hips held within bruising grips. The pitched gasps every time he railed into a certain spot didn’t escape his keen ears, his hips now angled to bully that spot with each thrust.

How helpless you were to the devastating rush of dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin. Unable to ground yourself on anything, your last wisps of sanity swept away by the waves of pleasure. 

A groan reverberates deep in Alhaitham’s chest, the sudden convulsions of your slick walls trying to milk him. It was almost impossible to move with the way your pussy just kept clamping down.

Unfortunately, his hips couldn’t seem to care, operating solely on selfish desire.

Fortunately, a fresh wave of arousal aided in his rhythm, relentless slams bouncing your body and bed. 

Strength long leaving your arms Alhaitham releases his hold on them in favor of supporting your limp hips, a breathy chuckle leaving his lips as lust-hazed eyes honed in on the frothy white ring forming on his shaft.

All your lips could do was babble out nothings as the headboard continued to beat the poor wall. Cunt thanking his cock with a contraction every time his tip knocks against your weakness. 

The sweet moans caressing his ears, the filthy slaps echoing through the room, and your walls pulling him deeper and deeper, Alhaitham was at his limit.

There was nothing separating you two, he had enough sense left to know that. Reeling in the reins of his greed, he pulls back, fingers digging deeper into your plush skin. Well, he tried to pull back, but your locked ankles behind his back foiled this plan. 

He felt so hefty in you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as his girth and length tore apart your sensibility. Something deep inside your cunt pleaded to be fed, to be filled, pushing your limp legs to lock ankles.

He feels a bit too far for your liking, blindly your hands groped at his body. Finally, reaching his face, cupping it roughly, you crash his lips down onto yours. Tasting yourself on his tongue still, but you couldn’t care less.

As your tongues tangled together, Alhaitham reached his limit. Pressing his thick tip as deep as it’d go, thick ropes of cum start to coat your walls with each twitch of his cock. His shaky moans swallowed up by your kiss.

The slurping of your pussy milking his still throbbing cock only prolonged his hunger. 

Dropping his head into the space between your neck and shoulder, he relishes in what he’s been depriving himself of. Feeling the faint shiver of your neck against his face.

Something was fogging up his mind, Autumn breeze doing nothing to quell the heat burning him.

–

“Ah! Mmmh! A-ah Ah!” 

The first rays of dawn breaking through the navy sky, the light so flushed by the scene it witnessed, it’s pink hue illuminated skin into the room heavy with lust and the slap of wet skin. 

“N-no more… too m-Ah!-much-ch.” Intoxicated brain sputtering out broken sentences. 

 It really was too much, you’ve cum too much to bother remembering, from the creamy drops dripping onto the soaked sheets, he’s also cummed too much.

Pussy overflowing and spasming with each thrust pushing more milky seed out.

Cock rubbing its red tip rawer with each quiver of your gooey walls. 

Six years of starvation will make any man forget gluttony is a sin.

“Too much? No More?” A husky pant between each word as Alhaitham continues with his punishing rhythm. 

“If that’s the case… then why is your pussy refusing to let me go?” His chest pressed against your back, caging you further as his breath tickles your ear. 

Unable to form a sentence anymore, your head pathetically shook side to side, stubbornly denying the obvious. Looks like he hasn’t fucked out of you yet, better change that. Large fingers digging further down on bruised hips, as the pistoning of his thrusts escalated.

Bed frame pushed to its limits.

Each smack of his hips against your limp body further drowning your pride out in a flood of dopamine. It’s mounting again, that familiar pressure building up in your core, making your toes curl in painful arches.

There’s a sudden flick at your swollen clit, walls flinching as his fingers encircles around the abused nub. 

“Who’s making you feel this way?” His husky voice too close to your ear.

Groundless pride preventing you from unsealing you lips, refusing to feed into his ego anymore than your wanton moans already did. 

“Who are you showing this shameful face to?” There’s an edge to his voice again, why must you be so stubborn?

Once more you refused to answer. Making Alhaitham’s jaw clench and his fingers roll your clit harsher, making your bruised hips thrash.  

“Who’s shape is engrained into this lewd body?” Voice dangerously low as he pushes his thick tip deeper against your beaten and painted walls, fingers never stopping their torment on your little nub. 

The edge was getting closer, you knew you’ll fall off it soon, you’ll dive head first into the euphoric sea of dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin and drown.

“Ah-ah Al-mmh!” You try to collect your breath.

Alhaitham quickens his fingers on your clit, feeling your greedy cunt clamp down on him again, walls suckling his twitching tip as his balls tighten. He’s close, but he needs you to say what he’s been waiting to hear all night. 

“Alh-ah a-a…” Your hips shaking violently in his hold now. 

Lust-glazed eyes staring straight into equally hazed teal eyes. Shaky hands slowly weaving themselves into his damp ash locks, gently pulling his ear closer to your lips, your hoarse voice just barely audible.

“A bastard.” 

Self-satisfied smirk plastered over your loose face as your tear blurred vision catches the stunned expression on his handsome face. 

The heat of his touch, the chemical stirring in your brain, and the pleasure frying your nerves made a delirious smile grace smudged lips. Your sight so hazed by lust you couldn’t see where your smile was even directed to.

Alhaitham wanted to etch the sight of your debauch face, smeared makeup and glazed eyes rolled back, into his memories forever.

Too caught off guard by your response to remind his hand to stop its movement before it was already too late. Eyes seeing the back of your head, back arching under his frame, you fell back into the all consuming waves of pleasure. 

A hard earned victory in this veiled battle of two egos. Exhaustion seeping into every fiber of your being. The pale pink of twilight dimming in your vision as the dark hands of sleep covers your eyes.

Somewhere in the middle of drifting off into a blank nothingness, you feel a hand tenderly guiding your head to rest on a soft pillow. 

Your eyelids twitch and brows furrow as the brightness of the room crept its way behind your shut eyes. Unable to retreat back into the dark embrace of sleep, you begrudgingly open your heavy lids.

Greeted by blurred shapes and fuzzy colors, you slowly blink your unfocused eyes. Gradually, the shapes and colors merge into distinguishable objects: a mug left on your bedside table with vapors rising from its rim. 

“It’s morning-after tea.” A husky voice followed by the distinct flip of paper tenses every muscle in your body. 

Alhaitham’s still here. You wish he wasn’t, you wish he’d realize last night was a mistake created from the clashing of egos, you wish the other side of your bed was empty.

So why did the tightness in your chest melt away with the mere sound of his voice?

You drag your sore body up from the sheets, shaky hands supporting the weight of numb legs and throbbing hips. Your sealed lips refusing to give him the satisfaction of any audible ques of your current state.

Sitting at the edge of your bed, back bare of anything but your hair draping over the marked skin facing him, you took the warm cup into your hands. 

A harmony of methodical sips and soft turns of pages fill the room, an open window washing away the haze of lust with an Autumn breeze. Just as the last bit of tea slides down your throat a gentle slap of a book snapping close brings an end to the heavy silence. 

“It’s unreliable,” Alhaitham announces. 

Peering over your shoulder with a quirked brow, freezing as you recognize the book clutched in his hands. Not waiting for a response, he continues. 

“Anyone with eyes can see how his biases exude through each sentence. He only studied 15 couples, not an appropriate sample size for a world filled with millions of pairs. His experiments have yet to be replicated, it seems his status is what got this nonsense published.” He sets the book down. 

“What are you trying to say?” Your eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“Your theory of phenylethylamine having a shelf life is based on nonsense.” His eyes connect with yours with that familiar indifference. 

A frown twists your face, so he still wants to argue huh. Of course, what else did you expect? You and him have long gone down the bitter circular path you’ve seen travled before.

Irritation rising in your chest, like Alhaitham had jabbed his finger into a wound you’ve yet to heal. 

“Oh, then your theory must be the intrinsic truth, huh?” Words leaving an acidic aftertaste on your tongue. 

“I never-”

“Look at you, so correct with no data to support your vague mathematical thesis.” You cut him off, anger replacing the soreness of your legs. 

Cup knocking against a bedside table as your hand casts it to the side, getting off the bed you march into your closet, pulling a random shirt on without regard of your movements wrinkling the fabric.

You just needed to leave this room, just being by his side is making your blood pressure rise. Your bed creaks as Alhaitham gets up as well, but your back was already through the door. 

Two sets of steps trekking through the halls, paces mismatched as one tries to take quicker steps to counter the broader strides of the other. Alhaitham keeps pace with your escalating march. 

“It’s a critique of his research, not you,” he voices. 

You didn’t want to hear it, sharply pivoting into your home office, but you weren’t fast enough to stop Alhaitham from following you in.

Now a husband wants to spend time with his wife, where was this before? 

“It’s an experiment conducted at the Akademiya, how is that not reliable enough? You think you can do better?” Your body whipping around with a glare directed at him, your hideous ego showing its face again. 

“Are you listening to yourself right now? Do you even believe in such a shallow analysis?” He mirrors your glare. 

“I’d rather believe in something with actual quantifiable numbers.” 

“Fine, you want quantifiable numbers? Care to calculate along with me? Or is your mind still recovering from last night?” Alhaitham folds his arms in front of his chest. 

“Go for it,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting his challenge, wanting to shush that snooty tone of his. 

“The Akasha bases its pairs off demographic, interest, and dispositions, all variables we can calculate,” he states. 

You straighten up your back, staring him in those teal eyes with your head held up high.

“Sumeru city is home to roughly 1 million people. Only 1/3 are around my age.” Alhaitham begins his trail.

“That brings that number down to about 333,333.” No delay in your response.

“Only 1 in 10 people have a personality I can tolerate, then suppose only 1 in 20 of those people can withstand mine.”

“ Rounding up that leaves about 1,667 candidates.” You tsk at his estimations, that number should be far greater than 20. 

 “Next comes shared interest, only 1 in 4 people have touched a physical book in the past year.” 

“417 left.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t think cheating you out of a childhood was enough, out of 417 people you had the misfortune of staring at his stony face. 

“Having to arrange 417 separate meetings at a small cafe would be much too burdensome for the Department of Human Relations. The scope needs to be narrowed further.” Alhaitham takes a step forward.

“Only 1 in 16 will have the patience to teach a grown man how to avoid wrinkles in his button downs.” Baritone voice losing its pointed edge. 

“26 left.”  You take a step back to preserve the space, hating how your skin craves the heat of his. 

“Only 1 in 8 of those people will allow me to borrow their books even when they know the edges of the paper will be creased when its returned.” He takes another step.

As you take another step backwards, the edge of your office desk prevents you from retreating further. The sensation of the cold wood distracting you momentarily from your calculations. 

“Then only 1 in 6 people will drape a blanket over a body that hogs an entire couch for a nap, placing a pillow under my head to ensure I don’t wake up with a sore neck.” Alhaitham doesn’t stop. 

Reaching an arm out, he firmly sets his palm on the expanse of your desk, caging you between the wood and the risk of your skin feeling the heat radiating off his body. 

“How many people are left now?” His breath ghosts the shell of your ear.

“ 0.543,” You blurted out.

A deep furrow appears between your brows, something must’ve gone wrong in your calculation, it’s impossible to have half a person. In the context of the Akasha, one person, a whole person, is matched to another.

Once more your mind ran the numbers over again, then again, and then thrice trying to recompute the figures. 

Each time the same number came back: half a person. 

“Are you mocking me with those groundless fractions? Where did you even get those statistics from?” Your pointed gaze still directed at him, did he intentionally lead you down this illogical trail? 

“Logic is neither an art nor a science but a dodge.” He peers down at you, teal gaze back to its neutral state. 

“Ha! Says the man who places logic and rationality on a pedestal, what caused such a change, Alhaitham?” You laugh dryly, not bothering to decipher the most brainless qoute you ever heard him use. 

No change in his expression as his shoulders rise with a deep inhale, exhaling slowly as he leans his face in, his finger digging his palm against lacquered wood. 

“Instead of wasting time citing subpar research, you should’ve just been honest. Then maybe I’ll give you what you want and sign those damn papers you hid away in this desk.” Voice low but steady as his gaze never leaves your frame. 

It was a strange phenomenon, the chirping of the crickets had halted as two bodies remained unmoving, not even a single grain of dust dare move. If it weren’t for the faint ticking of a hallway clock, it would’ve seemed like time had stopped.

How long has he known about the divorce papers neatly stacked away a desk drawer?

Alhaitham slowly backs his body away from yours, hand returning to his side, freeing you from the cage it created. Teal eyes carefully observes your downcast stare and stiff shoulders as guilt suffocated him.

All the emotions he bottled up, all the fervor he held back, all the desires he swallowed down. It all came tumbling out, spilling out into a murky, repulsive mess. 

“Wife.” If he had spoken any louder than a breathy whisper, that word would’ve crumbled on his tongue. 

“I love you.” Alhaitham finally allows the words which have been clinging on his tongue for years now to fall out of his mouth. 

Every inch of you froze at those three words, the weight of his stare heavy on your shoulders.

“Do you really feel nothing from those words?” Baritone voice beckoning an answer from you. 

You don’t dare lift your head, gaze downcasted and frozen. Because you know you’ll have to stare at your reflection in his eyes. 

Phenylethylamine, oxytocin, dopamine.

All these hormones and chemicals should’ve ran their course through your body. The haze should’ve faded and the abnormality of your chest should’ve corrected itself. It’s been three years at this point.

So, why is your chest aching?

The wood grain of the floor began to blur together as bitter tears compensated for the painful stinging of your irises. There it is, your brain finally short-circuits as the logic which once held up your sanity has crumbled away. 

Finally, you met his gaze, staring right at your reflection in teal irises. 

“It’s suffocating to be with you… it’s so lonely in this quiet house… it burns me like fire to touch you… yet… and y-yet see-”

“Seeing you leave will kill me, ” Alhaitham spoke the words just about to fall from the tip of your tongue.

The last piece of evidence that shattered the hypothesis he cultivated for all his life. If soulmates don’t exist, if the concept of an ‘other half’ doesn’t exist, then why is he feeling the same agony as you?

Looks like both theories were wrong in the end. Mathematics and chemistry unable to solve the enigma known as love. 

“I… I want to love… but I’m drowning… Alhaitham.” You were finally honest, you’ve been drowning all your life, thrashing hands searching for something to hold onto.

Would you be oh so kind enough to grab that pen just behind you and stab its steel nib into his chest? Alhaitham’s certain that it would hurt less than the words that left your trembling lips. 

A gentle hand cradled the back of your head as he pulls you closer. Letting those bitter tears strain his shirt and burn his skin.

No one, but the audience of a curious star and capricious gods peering down behind their blanket of clouds into this quiet house. 

Alhaitham once thought of himself as a good husband. Doing his fair share of chores and paying his half of the bills.

However, seeing your broken figure barely clinging onto his stiff frame, it’s clear that his overconfident assessment was a grave error. 

A  good husband would’ve been more attentive. A good husband would’ve noticed the tide slowly sweeping you away into the rough sea. A good, loving husband would’ve never let you sink alone in salty tears.

“Then I’ll drown with you.” His other hand grasping onto one of yours, slowly easing it away from his wrinkled shirt with soft caresses. 

Only monsters live in the deep cold sea, the only creatures able to survive the saltine waters and the pitch black nothingness. But as long as your fingers wove themselves into the gaps between his, he’ll be warm even as he sits on the sandy bottom of the murky ocean. 

Maybe that’s where the two of you belonged, two unromantic and prideful fools sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

Hand in hand so that the stupidity contained between the two of you won’t pollute anyone else. 

Gradually, those aching hiccups of yours faded into nothing more than muffled whimpers. Allowing silence to creep its way back into the gaps. The cause of this mess in the first place.

He has to remedy this, but what should he say? All those encyclopedias and journals he had thumbed through were all for naught. For Alhaitham’s mind couldn’t recall one fact from those pages.

One hand patting a slow rhythm into your back, trying to buy the man some time.

When logic and reasoning fail to explain the unexplained, folklore takes its place.

“According to legends, people used to have two pairs of hands, two pairs of feet, and two faces pointed in opposite directions.” He began.

“Back then, humans were powerful, powerful enough to threaten the gods who created them. So the gods split them in two. Cursing humans to a cruel search, desperate to be whole again.” His other hand still toying with your fingers.

You peer up at him, head still resting against his chest, feeling the soft beating of his heart. Blinking away the tears, listening to his telling of a myth. 

“That’s the origin of a soulmate.” He finishes.

A soft giggle leaves your lips, a mixture of confusion and disbelief from Alhaitham quoting a fairytale. 

“And you believe in that?” Amused gaze connecting with brilliant beryl eyes. 

“Yes…because I found you.” Alhaitham tenderly brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss against your fingers as a glint catches the sunlight. 

With a foreign sensation hugging a finger, your brows furrow. Holding your hand out toward the light again. Blinking eyes finally identify the gem which coyly appeared on your ring finger.

So that’s what he was doing, your tear stained cheeks shifting up as a smile stretches your once stiff lips.

Burying your head in the chest of the most unromantically romantic idiot you’ve ever known, a radiant laugh bubbling in your chest as it resonates off quiet walls. 

But as he is, so are you: An unromantically romantic soulmate in love. 

~Fin

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[clonetrooperjournals]

Clumsy Confessions

Summary : You've always been a little clumsy but when you start to develop feelings for a certain batcher, you become a walking hazard, good thing he thinks it's cute Pairings : TBB Echo x Fem!reader (ex bounty hunter) Warnings : fluff, slight angst, reader is a clutz, cute ending Words : 1.3k masterlist here

“You alright there y/n?”  

You look up with bright red cheeks from the marauder floor as Echo looks over you in your embarrassed state, “I-I’m fine Echo!”  

You quickly leap up and head out of the ship before he can respond, as he stands there looking confused and a little hurt. It was pathetic how frazzled and clumsy Echo makes you, to the point where Omega always keeps band-aids on her. If people seen the way you act around him, they would never believe that you used to be a bounty hunter. You typically try to avoid him as much as possible, so you don’t become a burden to everyone around you, and it’s not his fault he’s the most perfect man you’ve ever met... maybe it is? You don’t even know anymore.  

You first met Clone force 99 at Cid’s after coming back from a job. You were talking to Cid behind the bar when they all piled in coming back from their job, and you were instantly intrigued. Cid noticed your fascination and hired you with them for her next job. You all became fast friends, and you really liked hanging out with them, especially Omega. She needed another girl in her life, and you were glad you could be that for her, which is how you ended up becoming an honorary member of the batch. Going on jobs with them or staying back with Omega when the jobs were too much for her to join, it just became your life, and you finally found a group of people you could call your found family. Then you started developing feelings for Echo. 

You don’t even know when it started but, he would come over and talk to you or ask you something and you would instantly get flustered. He would watch you with Omega and you would get two left feet and trip and fall and take everything in your path down with you. You've always been a bit of a clumsy person, but this was just ridiculous, and worse the entire batch new of your “not so subtle” crush on Echo. His sweet nature, his confidence, his selflessness, and his incredible handsomeness, it chipped at you until all you could think about was how much you liked him, maybe even loved him. However, since you couldn’t even walk in a straight line in his presence, you couldn’t even think about confessing to him which caused you to start avoiding him so you could save yourself some dignity. 

Cid stood behind the bar as you entered and gave you a smug look, “what’d you break now clumsy?” 

“Tripped over my feet and face planted on the ship floor...” you sigh.  

She just laughs at you, “Honestly clumsy, if you don’t confess soon your gonna lose a limb.” 

Tech sits beside you at the bar, typing away on his data pad, “Yes that is a high probability. With the recent increase to your already remarkable clumsy nature, your chances at accidental fatal injury are at 29.2%”  

“Thank you, Tech that was exactly what I wanted to know,” you turn to him, “is there any solution in that big brain of yours to help me?”  

He stops and looks up, “I have to agree with Cid on this one occasion. A confession would put your nerves at ease lowering your rate of clumsiness significantly... or it would increase. Depends on the outcome of the confession.” 

You put your head on the bar top, “and if he doesn’t like me back?”  

“Then I suppose you can continue your failed attempts at avoiding him.” 

You sigh, “I really am pathetic, aren’t I?” 

“Yes, you are! Grow some guts! You can’t be in our line of work and be a walking hazard!” Cid scoffs.  

“I just don’t want to lose him, or you guys...”  

Tech puts his hand awkwardly on your shoulder, “We all care a great deal about you. You wouldn’t lose us over something like this.”  

You look up at Tech’s small smile before he starts to type on his data pad again a warm feeling spreading through your body, “Thanks Tech.” 

... 

“I think I upset y/n.” Echo tells Hunter while their organizing their supplies. 

Hunter grins, “what makes you think that?”  

Echo sighs, “She’s been avoiding me. She won’t even look at me...” 

“Echo,” Hunter puts a hand on his shoulder, “She likes you. It's embarrassing how much sometimes, she’s not very subtle.” 

Echo freezes, “What?”  

“You can’t tell me you didn’t know. She can’t even walk in a straight line when you're in the room,” he chuckles.  

Echo looks at him confused, “I knew she was a little clumsy but... I don’t think it's because of me.” 

Hunter closes up the crate they were organizing, “Well do you like her?”  

A slight blush covers his cheeks, “I-I mean she’s... I...” 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Just confess to her Echo before she takes the whole ship down accidentally,” Hunter grins walking away. Echo stands there flustered and confused wondering if she really does like him back... 

... 

You head back to the marauder thinking about what Tech said and wanting to believe that nothing would change if you just told Echo your feelings, but that feeling of anxiety that sat in your stomach refused to leave.  

You entered the ship to silence, forgetting that Hunter said everyone was running out to do errands. You put your bag down and start to head to the cockpit when the fresher door opens revealing a shirtless Echo.  

You both freeze and stare at each other, your cheeks instantly turning bright red, “wow... I mean, sorry I th-thought no one was... here...”  

You look down avoiding his gaze as he grins realizing that Hunter may be right, “No worries. You mind passing me my shirt?”  

“S-Sure,” you say grabbing his shirt and walking over to him, except because you weren’t paying attention in your frazzled state you tripped over your bag and went hurtling forward. You closed your eyes expecting hard metal ground but instead felt warm skin. You opened your eyes to the toned pale skin of Echo’s abs, your heart jumping into your throat.  

Echo chuckles, “You alright?” 

“Yeah I... yeah...”  

Echo pulls you up but doesn’t let go, lifting your chin to look at him for the first time in weeks, “I always thought your clumsiness was cute, but you didn’t have to literally fall for me.” 

“I fell for you a long time ago,” you say and freeze, realizing the words that left your mouth.  

Echo froze too, scanning your flustered face for any sign that it wasn’t true, but what he found was red cheeks, a fluttering heart, and wide eyes that looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.  

“I fell for you too, I just know how to walk properly when your around me,” he says gently stroking your burning cheek. 

You close your eyes, “D-Does this mean I can ask you on a date?”  

“I’d love to go out with you y/n,” he smiles warmly, his breath fanning our face, “but I wanna do something else first.” 

You open your eyes to his closed ones leaning in and kissing you gently. You immediately kiss back, cradling his face in your hands. He smiles into the kiss, gently trailing his light kisses all over your still red face and then leans back smiling.  

You trail your gaze over his figure a small smirk on your lips as you throw his shirt behind you, “couldn’t find your shirt...”  

He laughs shaking his head, his nose bumping yours, “Oh really?” 

“Yup. Might have to... check the whole ship...” you say as you kiss him again.  

He snakes his arms around your waist, “Well I better hold onto you, so you don’t go falling again.”  

You smile, “I can’t help falling for you, Echo.”  

He smiles kissing you again, “I’ll be here to catch you, every time.”  

[frickyeahfanfic]

〉the enemy of my enemy

chapter 1 - collision.

ethan hunt x f!reader summary: You’re alone. Prague is the first real lead you’ve had on VANTAGE since everything went haywire—and you’re not about to let some fancy IMF agent ruin your shot. But when Ethan Hunt intercepts you mid-mission, everything spirals. word count: 1911 tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, spy, forced team-up, female operative reader, pre rogue nation ethan warnings: some violence. a/n: it's been quite literally years since I've published anything so please forgive me. watched MI: The Final Reckoning and just felt the need to crawl back here. enjoy! this is sorta set between ghost protocol and rogue nation.

PRAGUE. NATIONAL HOUSE OF VINOHRADY,  01:43 HOURS.

The air is thick with voices, music, expensive perfume and most certainly the threat of concealed firearms. You scan the room from the balcony level with vigilant eyes, taking note of every exit and every security guard, looking for your target. 

You haven’t seen him yet, but you’re not leaving yet. You know he’ll show up. 

The marble clicks where your heels land as you move across the room. Maybe he’s behind a pillar talking to someone. Adrenaline courses through your veins and keeps you wide awake, despite the last few sleepless nights. 

Tasks were part of your routine. Get in, take out a target or grab something important, and then get out. You had a team behind your back, at least one person helping you out, giving you pointers, helping you see around corners. 

But now, you were flying solo. 

It’s… a long explanation by the way. You had no time to think, you just needed to get out before they killed you, or worse. 

And now you wanted vengeance. And to make things right. But mostly vengeance. 

You were working twice as hard now, with zero backup and only your skills to get the job done. It was tiring work, but thankfully caffeine exists and you have no desire to stop now. 

There. 

Well your target certainly didn’t mind standing out a little. A man in a grey and red plaid suit was talking to a small group of people, hands clasped behind his back and hair slicked to the side. You recognized the small tattoo on his neck and remembered his facial features from a picture you scraped off of the dark web. 

His name was Viktor Dralech, but you didn’t care. He was a black-market tech broker who was planning on selling a data chip, a sort of key, that had coordinates to a powerful set of servers that VANTAGE was planning to exploit and use. 

Uhh, yeah. More on VANTAGE later. The name practically makes you snarl. But for now, you were focused on the task at hand.  

The chip would lead you right to them. The plan was for Viktor to sell it to the highest bidder, someone who would help financially sponsor VANTAGE. They would have access to the server’s whereabouts, making them just as powerful as the lead organization. 

All you needed to do was slip in, take out Viktor, get the chip and get out. You’d figure out the rest later. Since Viktor was a black- market broker, no one would really notice if he disappeared at the end of the night. 

You make your way down the stairs, not too quickly as to draw attention but fast enough to get in a closer proximity. The flowy black dress you were wearing concealed exactly what you needed: a knife holstered to your upper thigh. And the bangle that hung loosely around your wrist housed a powerful tranquilizer that worked slowly, enough that a man wouldn’t immediately pass out, but grow weary and collapse after a few moments. 

A server passes by with tall flutes of gold champagne and you snatch one, taking a small sip of it and leaving the rest to swirl around. You’re just in earshot of Viktor, and you pick up on his conversation he’s having with a woman. 

You feel a prickle on the back of your neck. Like someone was watching you. You pause, taking another drink of the champagne in your fingers and look around, trying to stay sane. Maybe you were just nervous- 

No. 

A figure is watching you from the stairs. He’s in a navy suit, his dark longer hair frames his head and he’s got a stone cold look on his face. 

IMF’s golden boy, Ethan Hunt, is here. 

My, what company. This is exactly what you didn’t want to happen. This was my solo mission. 

He makes eye contact with you and tilts his head. He says something under his breath, no doubt he’s on comms - a twinge of jealousy hits your stomach as you’re reminded how lonely you are- and he’s on the move. 

You turn back towards Viktor and realize he’s a few feet further now. All you needed to do was run into him accidentally, splash your drink all over him, get your tranquilizer in him and get the chip that’s most certainly in his pocket. He didn’t seem like the type of guy to be all sneaky with his wares. 

And you needed to beat Agent Hunt to the chase. 

As you moved carefully over to Viktor, you could still feel Hunt’s eyes on the back of your neck. 

You were inches away from your target when a hand wrapped around your upper arm forcefully, stopping you dead in your tracks. 

“Where do you think you’re going,” a voice whispered low in your ear. Your head snapped to the side, realizing it was Hunt. How’d he get down here so fast?

“Let go of me,” you snarl back, trying to get free of his arm, subtly, as to not raise the alarm and have security guards involved. “Stay out of this.”

You glare at him, looking up at his stone cold features. His eyes are green, just like his file said, but you can see a bit of blue in them. 

“No, you need to stay out of this, if you get in the way, I have no choice but to kill you.”

Okay. Rude. We just met. 

But something in his face tells you he’s not joking. Quick, think, you can’t let the chip you’ve been tracking down for weeks get away from you now. No doubt Hunt has backup, probably someone else in the room ready to jump in. You know you could handle them, but you’d be ultimately letting your only chance of getting back at VANTAGE slip away. 

You continue to glare at him, “I’m the only one who can decrypt that chip.” 

He nearly laughs. 

You tilt your head. “You think I’m joking? You’ll be really sorry once you realize that and I’m not here.” 

You know he doesn’t want to take any chances. He inhales sharply. “Fine. Let me get the chip and stay close to me. If you run away, I will kill you, you leave me no choice.” 

Ok we’re still on killing terms, but you nod. Thank goodness he believed you. 

“Make a scene,” he says in your ear, finally letting his death grip go off your arm. You don’t like following instructions, after doing everything by yourself for so long. But at least you’re not working alone anymore. 

You continue to walk casually past Viktor, and in a quick move you trip on your dress, letting go of the champagne flute to crash perfectly on your target. Our target I guess. You catch yourself before your face hits the ground and people flock to your aid, obviously trying to help this poor girl out. You get up, using Viktor’s body to hold yourself up, and you start frantically talking in French, apologizing to the broker. Out of the corner of your eye, Hunt walks by Viktor in the commotion, and you catch his hand slip right into Viktor’s right pocket. Well good thing he did his research too and knew that Viktor was left handed, ensuring that he would most likely keep the key on the alternate side. 

Some people rush to Viktor’s aid, attempting to take off his jacket, but he shouts at them, wanting to keep it on. You watch as he pats down the pockets, realizing that his prized possession tonight is gone. 

“Check the exits!” Viktor shouts in Czech, panic breaking through his voice.

He’s going to cause a scene, you think quickly, and you start walking off, shaking your hands to get the champagne off of them, indicating the desire to wash them off. Suddenly, bodyguards and security staff are on high alert, and start securing the exits. 

Hunt is nowhere in sight. Ugh. Why did you think you could trust him? 

A familiar hand wraps itself around your arm again and you turn and see Hunt by your side. 

“This way,” he says, pulling you towards an exit that has only one armed man. 

The guard attempts to stop you both, but Hunt says something in Czech, something about, “Oh my wife needs some fresh air, she’s going to throw up.” He doesn’t let up. He demands to search you both, and amidst the chaos happening in the room behind you, Hunt lands one firm blow in the guards face. You quickly take your knife out of the holster on your leg and stab the guard’s leg, ensuring that it wouldn’t be easy to get off the ground. You wipe the blood quickly on the satin fabric of your dress and sheath it back. 

You notice Hunt watching, hopefully realizing that oh she’s dangerous.

Bullets fly through the gala. The hand tightens on your arm. 

“Run.” 

You both bolt towards the door. The IMF agent’s hand is still on you, man, why can’t he just let me go? And he leads you to the cars parked outside. He steals a key from the unattended valet stand, and clicks the button, and a black Audi lights up. Getaway car. 

He only lets you go when he drags you over to the passenger side and opens the door. “Get in, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.” Considering he has the chip you so desperately want, you’re not going anywhere without him. 

“What a gentleman,” you scoff, getting in the car. He ignores your comment and gets in the driver's side, and in moments you’re peeling out of the lot. Gunshots ring through the air, the security guard that had stopped you both must have caught up, but Ethan Hunt was flooring the vehicle, and within moments the National House was just a small building in the distance. 

You’re panting, adrenaline high coming down slightly. 

“Yeah. I got it.”

You turn towards Hunt’s voice. 

“No. I don’t know. I’ll take care of it.” 

He’s on his comms, talking to the voice in his earpiece. You’re assuming you’re the “it” he’s talking about. Your jaw clenches. “It”? Really? Guess that’s all you are to the IMF. Just something in the way. 

We stop at a small white brick hotel, and Hunt jumps out of the car and storms over to the other side of the car. You unlock your side and get out, and you put out both of your hands, palms facing the agent.

“Stop, stop, don’t grab my arm again. You’re going to bruise it,” you laugh. 

He quirks an eyebrow, as if minutes ago you didn’t brutally maim a guard in your way. 

“I’m right beside you. Besides, who’s going to decrypt those files for you?” 

He doesn’t say a word. Somehow, his dark eyebrows seem to furrow more.  

The hotel lobbyist gives Hunt a key and you both go upstairs to a room. You note carefully what floor and room you’re in. He makes you go through the door first, and once the door shuts, you hear a pistol click. 

You turn around and see that Agent Hunt has it almost point blank against your heart. 

“Now you’re going to tell me everything.” He says slowly. 

He takes a step forward, gun now flush against your chest.

“Who are you?”

》 chapter 2

[theartofwoompwoomps]

Our thing Pt.1

Shockwave x human reader

Summary: Imagine Shockwave with a human he can’t communicate with, not because he can’t but because he doesn’t want to

—————————————————————————

One thing shockwave notice about you had to be the noise. Your chatters, mumbles, and small yelps were always present.

Glazing down his optics towards you analyzing you’re still form. He wasn’t sure what he felt. In fact he couldn’t feel anything.

But it was strange when he saw you recharging.

Maybe this was the source of his unease. Not being able to hear the usual ruckus that came from you felt peculiar.

Taking his optics off you as he reaches for a folder nearby, one that had your name plastered on it. Quickly scanning through it he scribbled down new data.

“ subject: Homosapien y/n

Current observations of the subject charge bring unease. The reason is not known.

Hypothesis : the human’s pent up distrust and stress might be released as they recharge. Soundwave and past experiments have confirmed their capability of electric charg—“

“ショクワヴ”

oh, looking down his optics see that his small human has already begun to climb his arm. They were clearly trying to see what he was doing.

Using his other servo to lift them, as soundwave would say, gently the noises from you quickly returned once more. 

Well, he was holding you by the back of your collar and letting you dangle in the air. Your own alien denta appearing as you squirm and say something louder.

It’s moments like these that make him appreciate the fact he hasn’t given you your own translation chip. 

Indeed it would be easier to communicate with you, but such fear and unease impractical reason of absolute understanding every complaint and hateful word settles in his subconscious.

Finally he sets you down on his shoulder, and hands you your own data pad— which is incredibly extremely sized down for you. 

he then proceeds to revise his other work.

Yes, even if he can’t comprehend your words, it’s better this way.

———————————————————————

Masterlist

[chu16a-blog]

Benji Dunn x Reader - Enemy to Lover (Part 1/6)

Pairing: Benji Dunn x Reader

This is chapter 1/6 fanfic (everything is already written because I have exams in a week, and I'm procrastinating). However, I will upload only one chapter per day, ehehe

Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

CHAPTER 1: SHADOWS IN BERLIN

Ethan Hunt sat stiffly at the center of the briefing table. Benji Dunn and Luther Stickell flanked either side, the tension between them and the CIA rep so thick it could choke.

"This target is to be captured alive," the agent said, sliding the thin manila folder across the table. "She has stolen a highly sensitive asset. She is considered extremely dangerous. Location pings in Berlin, for now."

Ethan flipped open the folder. Sparse intel. No name. No clear photo. A single blurry image of you, mid-stride.

"What's the asset?" Luther asked.

"Classified. You're to retrieve it, and her."

Benji squinted. "What did she do, exactly?"

"She's considered extremely dangerous," the agent repeated with clipped precision.

Benji raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, you mentioned that part. Like, how dangerous? John Wick dangerous or more like ‘don’t eat the wrong sandwich’ dangerous?”

Luther gave him a look. Ethan stayed silent, still scanning the folder.

The agent didn’t blink. “She’s killed before.”

Benji looked surprised, but not entirely convinced. “And yet you want us to bring her in alive?”

"Yes," the agent said flatly. "Just follow the mission."

Ethan’s eyes narrowed further.

The rep gave a stiff smile. "Just follow the mission."

---

The train slid into Berlin Hauptbahnhof just before dawn. Cold wind spilled across the platform as the doors hissed open. You stepped out without hesitation, no luggage, no pause, no second glance at the cameras above the ticket barriers.

New identity burned into your pocket. Data chip sewn into the lining of your sleeve. One chance.

You’d been out of the CIA for less than forty-eight hours. Not that they’d called it an “exit.” People like you didn’t resign. They vanished. Or were buried.

Berlin was the first step. The last known vault of hard-stored intel from the Helix Project. You needed the initial data set—schematics, weapon details, control bypass.

You ducked into an alley. Adjusted the weave of your scarf. Took a breath.

They would come soon. CIA. Or something worse.

You’d seen the file requests ping on the ghost server. Not even an hour after your extraction. Redacted names. One you recognized: Ethan Hunt.

Great. IMF. The CIA’s favorite wildcard cleanup crew.

You didn’t want to hurt them. But you wouldn't be captured either. Not again.

You kept moving. Always moving.

No mistakes.

No attachments.

No mercy.

Not until this thing was gone forever.

Berlin was only the beginning.

Rain misted down onto slick pavement outside an abandoned cybernetics lab tucked away in Berlin's industrial zone. Ethan, Benji, and Luther were in position.

Inside, you were hunting for an encrypted drive left behind by a contact. The place was collapsing from years of neglect, flickering lights exposing fractured tiles and broken labs.

"I’ve got visual," Ethan murmured into the comm.

From your perch near a shattered window, you spotted Ethan.

You cursed under your breath, bolted from the console and into the maze-like hallways. It didn't take long before you heard footsteps.

Ethan was fast.

But not fast enough.

You darted through a heavy security door, slamming it shut just as the sound of pursuit echoed behind you. The metallic clang reverberated through the dimly lit server room, casting long shadows across the rows of humming machines.

Benji Dunn was there.

He stood at a terminal, fingers mid-type, eyes widening as he looked up. His body froze—like a deer caught in headlights.

You had a gun in your hand. And every reason to use it.

The two of you stared at each other across the dark room, breath suspended in the charged stillness. A flickering overhead light passed across your face as your eyes locked.

Benji didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was no fear in your stance—but there wasn’t comfort either. He didn’t know what to expect.

His breath hitched, chest rising as though bracing for a bullet.

“…Hi,” you said lightly.

Inside your mind, you paused. Why did I say hi? It was ridiculous. You barely knew him, and he was the enemy.

His mouth opened. Then closed.

She said hi.

Why did she say hi?

Is that normal? Do assassins say hi now? Was that sarcastic? Cute? No—dangerous. She's dangerous.

But her voice… it echoed in his head, light and smooth and unexpectedly warm. And those eyes—serious, focused—but there had been a flicker of something else.

Before he could blink, you were gone.

He stood frozen for a beat too long then snapped out of it, cursing under his breath as he bolted after you. He turned the corner just in time to see the tail end of your coat whip around another hallway.

Benji shook his head violently. Stop it. She had a gun pointed at you. A literal weapon. You're being stupid. Hormones are not bulletproof.

And yet, as he sprinted around another corner, a traitorous part of him kept repeating it:

She said hi.

He almost tripped. Who even says hi in the middle of a mission? That’s not protocol. That’s… flirting. Was that flirting? Oh god. Am I into that?

He definitely needed to recalibrate his instincts. Or at least stop thinking her smirk was kind of hot.

“Benji?” Ethan’s voice crackled through the comm, sharp with urgency. “What’s going on?”

Benji huffed, sprinting. “I—I think I’m chasing her? She said hi—and then she ran—and now I’m running!”

There was a pause.

“You think you’re chasing her?” Ethan replied.

Benji wheezed. “Well, she’s very fast and very armed, and I’m just trying to keep up without dying!”

Luther cut in dryly, "Be careful. She’s not a stray cat, Benji."

"I KNOW," Benji panted, turning a corner and catching only empty air.

As you escaped the facility, drive in hand. You found yourself still thinking. That guy’s… kinda cute. Who even is he? You briefly pictured your own breathless face saying hi, the silly flirtatious thought creeping in but you shook it off sharply. No. He’s the enemy.

[mierins]

jessamine // ino takuma x reader; oneshot

“You let me win.” His tone is accusatory. “Congratulations,” I reply flatly, massaging with my sleeve at my jaw. He wipes at his face aggressively, as if by rubbing his eyes, he could alter the shape of the exchange. “That’s not what I-- You didn’t even try.” “And yet, you’re pissed off,” I answer. “Imagine how you'd feel if I did try.” ... I should have ignored him-- I don’t speak to anyone, much less scrappy Tokyo boys with a chip on their shoulder and more pride than manners. Something in me realizes this is the most sentences I’ve strung together for anyone except for maybe Iori-sensei.

...

The coldest girl in the world meets a boy with sunshine in his face; or, the orbit of Kyoto's resident ice princess and a scruffy Tokyo sorcerer with everything to prove.

x Playlist x

ao3 link

Rating: M Word Count: 10.1k Warnings: A really unlikeable MC/reader insert, mild sexual content, enemies to friends to lovers to strangers trope, Jujutsu Clan bashing but also typical classism, MC is a walking identity crisis masked by being a bitch, heavy angst in ending.

September, 2013. 25th Annual Kyoto-Tokyo Goodwill Event. First Year.

Everyone knew who I was. I hadn’t exactly collected the data, but the breakdown is approximately as follows: half of them pitied me, and half of them resented me.

Silent in a set of traditional robes in Jujutsu High navy, I keep my hands folded demurely in front of myself, not a hair out of place. I look more ready to be a guest at a Shinto wedding ceremony, than an inter-campus sorcery brawl.

I suppose that was the point, though. I don’t want to be here-- have never, in fact, wanted to be here.

The pity lay in that my parents were dead-- killed by curses when I was too young to know what power I held at my fingertips, but when I had already been old enough to long for a more simple life, for I was dragged kicking and screaming to Kyoto Jujutsu High, into a strange land of gods and monsters.

The resentment lay in that I never tried to make anything of myself there-- and it was never expected of me to do so, anyways. I was the last surviving scion of my clan-- my mother had uncles, sure, but they belonged to another name, another bloodline-- but I was last of my name, and was therefore afforded all the privileges, titles, and inheritances that had encompassed.

A sprawling estate. All the clan’s cursed tools. All the family fortune. The selection of a representative to the higher-ups’ council. Close ties to the Jujutsu Headquarters due to being their ward. An ancient clan name. Power in both the political and the cursed realms.

In short, I had everything.

Everything, but the choice to leave.

And so I made myself difficult. To read. To know. To like.

To control.

And so when the Tokyo students arrive for the exchange event, brimming with raw energy and easy laughter, I don’t offer anything, any semblance of sportsmanship or goodwill despite the name of the event, to any of them-- even when a first-year boy with shaggy brown hair reaches out with a smile and a name that I make myself forget.

“Ino Takuma.”

I look down at his hand, and then back up at him, and then raise a brow.

I have long since surpassed the urges of shame, and I’m willing to drag this on for as long as it takes him to get the hint that I’m not here to make any friends. My reputation has obviously not managed to precede me to such an extent that he knows what I’m about.

I see his olive skin flush, and then he scowls, snatching his hand back as if I’ve burned him.

“Fine. Forget it.”

September, 2014. 26th Annual Kyoto-Tokyo Goodwill Event. Second Year.

The Tokyo campus, located on the outskirts of the sprawling metropolis itself, was startlingly rustic for how positively avant-garde their main teacher, Gojo Satoru, happened to be, nearly the twin of the Kyoto campus.

Iori-sensei keeps an eagle eye on me as we make our way up to the gates, as if suspecting me of attempting to make a dash for it at any given minute. That might explain the buddy system we were on during the train ride over, really, though I’m sure I’d been so unpleasantly impervious to Zen’in Ranta in his attempts to engage me in obligatory small talk that he’d probably started to cry blood by the end of it.

Ridiculous. As if I’d have anywhere to go if I were to run. My money doesn’t become mine until I turn twenty. Until then, it’s in trust, with the provision that I will receive a sorcerer’s education.

Goddamn it, great-grandpa. If I can go back in time to when I was ten, I would break every one of his gout-ridden fingers until he takes that out of his will.

First event: group battle.

My schoolmates, ever the tacticians, made the bold, strategic decision to completely ignore my presence. Which suited me just fine, since I wasn’t planning to be a part of it anyways. I’m simply a Grade Four liability wrapped in clan niceties and a sour face that revealed too much of my inner thoughts. I spend the time napping in a tree, and climb down only when the victory bell sounds for Kyoto.

Second event: one-on-one battles.

This wasn’t in the schedule from last year-- or maybe it was, and I had been simply removed from the matchups once Principal Gakuganji realized that attempting to make me cooperate was beyond his scope of ability.

This year, though, I’m given the proper inducement: if I don’t participate, I will be forced to repeat the semester. Thereby jeopardizing the inheritance. Thereby jeopardizing my ability to actually get the fuck out of here.

I let the begrudging respect for the way Iori-sensei has seemingly figured out how to render me cooperative simmer for a bit-- just long enough to avoid giving her the satisfaction of immediate compliance-- before I go to find the roster, scanning it for my name-- at the bottom of the list, and printed next to it, Ino Takuma.

Not a clan sorcerer. So why did the name itch at the back of my brain, as if I remembered it?

It’s not until I’m called down to the ring (with an insistent nudge from Iori-sensei), that I realize who it is-- the boy who tried to introduce himself to me last year, all earnest eyes and gangly limbs. Taller now, lankier too, his hair no less shaggy and now brushing past his ears.

I bowed-- formality’s sake, nothing more. He didn’t, just rolled up his sleeves and shoved his beanie down over his face, performing some kind of esoteric chant.

He really needn’t bother. I don’t want to fight, anyways. I shuffled one foot back into a lung, hands coming up-- enough to give them a show, enough to keep my grades afloat, but no more.

“Don’t think I’m going easy on you just because you’re some poor little orphaned princess,” he mutters under his breath, eyes burning with some kind of judgement.

I blink once, slowly.

I’ve heard variations on dead parents from my peers enough that it doesn’t bother me-- not like that, no, but still--

“You’ve had a year to think of insults, and that’s what you came up with?”

He bristles, and as the drum sounds to signal the match start, I can see his hand spark with cursed energy.

I use none of my own.

For a moment, the two of us measure one another up, and then he’s lunging, and I’m dodging back as the first blow comes for me.

He grins, as if he’d done something (oh, the arrogance of men)-- “What’s the matter, princess? Can’t keep up?”

I didn’t respond, steadying myself again.

He came in again-- this time a feint with his arm, then dropping down for a kick. He was smart-- he wasn’t just a pair of hands and a cursed technique that felt as raw and unrefined as the energy that flickered around him.

But I give him nothing as he’s trying to press my defense, trying to see what tricks the Kyoto heiress has hidden up her sleeves.

No counters.

No blocks.

No cursed technique.

Just movement, dancing away from every one of his attempted blows. I catch Iori-sensei’s eyes in the stands. How’s that for cooperation, sensei? I doubted any of my classmates had ever seen me exert myself like this either, but I wasn’t going to be totally hopeless. I just-- wasn’t going to try particularly hard to rise the ranks or work.

It’s this endless duet that meanders along the edge of the sparring ring, him attacking, me barely playing defense, and I can see the vexation bloom in his eyes.

Until I let him hit me.

Just once-- his elbow catching the edge of my jaw. A strike that’s sharp enough to send me reeling back, but he’d pulled the blow enough that it wouldn’t bruise. Deliberately, I let my stumbles take me just outside the boundaries of the sparring ring, scattering the white sand that formed the border.

The drum rings out again. The match was over.

One point for Tokyo Jujutsu High, scored by Ino Takuma.

His classmates cheer. Mine clap politely, trying to pretend as if I didn’t throw the match.

He yanks his beanie off, panting, victorious,-- and red-faced with annoyance.

“You let me win.” His tone is accusatory.

“Congratulations,” I reply flatly, massaging with my sleeve at my jaw.

He wipes at his face aggressively, as if by rubbing his eyes, he could alter the shape of the exchange. “That’s not what I-- You didn’t even try.”

“And yet, you’re pissed off,” I answer. “Imagine how you'd feel if I did try.”

“Do you even care about being a Jujutsu sorcerer?” he demands.

I should have ignored him-- I don’t speak to anyone, much less scrappy Tokyo boys with a chip on their shoulder and more pride than manners. Something in me realizes this is the most sentences I’ve strung together for anyone except for maybe Iori-sensei.

“No,” I shrug, turning on my heel.

July, 2015. Tokyo. Supplemental assigned pair mission. Third Year.

I should have expected this-- really. I should have known the moment I let Iori-sensei cajole me into participating in the one-on-one duels by threatening to flunk me, that I was opening the floodgates. That moment of weakness-- of letting someone learn that in fact, the bitch princess of Kyoto did have something to lose, and stakes to play for-- had been all it took for Iori-sensei to embrace the newly-discovered leverage she had over me.

Tokyo in July was an atmosphere of curses so thick in the air that it felt like smoke before a fire.

The oppressive heat hit like a wall as soon as I stepped off the train, the assignment tucked into my sleeve for safeguarding. My first field assignment, a low-grade curse. Accompanying a Grade Two sorcerer, since everyone else was on missions already, and I was just skulking around the air-conditioned halls of Kyoto Jujutsu Tech like a phantom.

I get in the auxiliary manager’s car, a young woman a few years older than me, perhaps a recent grad, with bleach-blonde hair and dark roots that were beginning to show. I wasn’t sure if it was indicative of a fashion trend, or an overdue visit to the salon.

She gave me the quick rundown as we pulled away from the station: the curse was believed to be nesting in an abandoned apartment block on the outer edge of an industrial district. Grade Two Sorcerer deployed, possibly injured. No barrier in place yet, but she’d handle it once we arrived. I nodded silently, having tuned most of it out once I realized the redundancy of the mission brief, and watched the buildings blur past the window as the streets turned shabbier and more cramped.

I expected someone older. One of the third or four years. Maybe one of the recent grads.

I didn’t expect him.

Ino Takuma looked like he’d tried to fight a paper shredder or bear-- and lost. One sleeve of his uniform was torn clean off, his forehead was bandaged haphazardly over a still-seeping gash, and there was a bloodstain blooming at his knee where the denim had been ripped open.

He was crouched at the edge of the sidewalk in front of a condemned building, water bottle pressed against the side of his neck, and I’m debating whether or not it’s too late to ask the auxiliary manager-- Nitta, I think her name is-- to turn around, and pretend the mission brief was lost on the train, but then she pulls to a stop directly in front of him, and unlocks the doors for me.

As I disembark, I watch, fascinated in the way one might be with a slow-motion replay of a train wreck, as his expression shifts from boyishly wearied, to sour disgust. “You have got to be kidding me,” he scoffs. “You?”

I sigh, offering back the barest hint of a bow as Nitta pulls into a parallel park and begins to cast the barrier down. “Hello to you too, Ino.”

He stands, with the barest flicker of discomfort that he tries to hide from me-- I wonder if it were his knees, or from sitting in a crouch too long. “You’re who Iori-sensei sent?”

“I was told someone needed help,” I responded blandly, "Apparently, that someone was you.”

He’s grinding at his jaw. “Fine. But don’t get in the way. I’m not in the mood to babysit.”

“That’s ludicrous,” I shoot back. “I practically raised myself.”

“Whatever, princess.” He takes a final swig from his water bottle before tossing it over at Nitta, who, to her credit, doesn’t even blink before reaching out to catch it. Dusting off his jeans, he turns to look over his shoulder at me. “Keep up.”

I scowl at him in response. “After you.”

The interior of the tenement is-- I think to myself, if there is a hell, it surely must be modeled off of this building. I immediately make a resolution to go light some incense at the campus shrine once I’m out of here, because I am not going to spend eternity in such an appalling state, thanks very much.

The walls themselves smell rotten, as if this were a decomposing organism, and not a rusty old building. Everything feels damp-- moist, even-- a dark film clinging to the yellowing wallpaper as we make our way down the hall, and down another set of stairs.

I repress my temptation to gag, and hold my sleeve over my nose instead.

Beside me, Ino rolls his eyes. Let him judge, with the beanie covering his entire face, looking like a scarecrow given human form with his spiky brown hair.

He’s muttering something under his breath, and I almost think he’s taken up insulting me again before I realize it’s the mantras required to activate his cursed technique.

The heat and the living avatar of human misery must be taking a toll on me today, because I don’t have the foresight to ready myself before Ino’s pushing me behind him brusquely. From a drooping, water-stained ceiling panel, a twisted arm busts forth, followed by what might have been a head, and rusted nails for teeth-- like some festering blister finally bursting.

Including the spray of foul water and everything.

I actually gag this time, falling back even more as Ino snaps with impatience, “Kaichi!” and a horned projectile forms between his hands.

I close my eyes, rolling my shoulders back, letting my own cursed technique ripple over my skin-- a thousand refracted prismatic points, turning me crystalline.

They say that diamonds are a girl’s best friend. I am a diamond, and therefore, by definition, my own best friend.

The curse snaps its maw threateningly at Ino-- obviously having been the culprit of the mauling earlier with tatters of his uniform still between its teeth, the projectile still zooming around the stripped basement as the curse weaves and dodges it, trading blows and snarls with the other boy.

Obviously, the reason they called me here was because round one was an abject failure. I make the executive decision not to feed Ino to the curse and charge forward. It’s too preoccupied with my companion, too eyeless to see, too stupid to sense the way I slide under its blistered belly, punching up before Ino even has the chance to react, or protest.

Diamond against cursed flesh-- let’s see which is stronger.

I fucking hate brawling. It’s graceless and uncivilized in the highest degree, too much elbow grease for my proclivities, but something about this mission-- maybe it’s the irritation at being deprived of air conditioning and clean walls, maybe it’s the absolute annoyance of my companion that fuels me on. I just want to get it over with. I don’t give the curse a chance to react. I just keep throwing my fists at it, again and again, till I’m covered to the forearms in cursed gore.

It shrieks, stumbling back, and Kaichi’s horn finally homes into its heart, exploding it into a splash of ichor.

Even in a crystalline form, the disgust on my face is evident as I step away from the detonation point.

We stand there in silence for a moment, the only sound being our breathing, the drip of a mildewed wall, and the hum of a faulty generator-- and then he says, “Didn’t know you had it in you, princess.”

“Please,” I let the diamond retract, the blood sloughing off as well, until I’m pristine again. “You don’t know me at all.”

September, 2016. Aomori Prefecture. Tokyo-Kyoto Joint School Training Mission. Fourth Year.

These woods were haunted.

Even a civilian would know that-- the Hakkoda Mountains are full of ghosts, some as ancient as the island itself, some as new as hapless hikers. 199 men were lost in a military training expedition in the snows a century prior. Some of their corpses were found still standing, as if frozen in time.

Gojo Satoru, in a brilliant stroke of genius, had decided that instead of having us participate in the Goodwill Events this year, the fourth-year kickoff event would be an inter-campus simulated training mission in the far north of Tohoku.

“There’s more than enough cursed spirits to go around!” he’d cheerfully exclaimed on our train ride north, with all the exuberance of a toddler who got into the candy jar.

Unfortunately for us, there was no sugar crash in sight here.

It’s a pity, really. There were a few amongst the new gaggle of freshmen that had all the makings of a company I might have tolerated-- maybe even respected, if I were feeling magnanimous. Not that I’d ever admit such a thing aloud. I’ve sworn, many times, that I’d never befriend anyone associated with this godforsaken world of curses. But still--

There’s the unexpected Kamo clan heir who’s practically oozing the doleful weight of clan obligation, all formality and reserve wrapped in a set of traditional robes.

And the Zen’in girl with a gun strapped to her waist and disinterest writ clear across her posture, all edge and no tolerance for any of her classmate’ antics.

Bound by clan hierarchies and rigidity, their faces screaming, I have to do this, and so I refuse to make this a pleasant experience for anyone else.

My kind of people.

It’s just my luck that the one year where I’d actually want to take interest in the proceedings, just so happens to be the one year we’re here instead, trekking through the browning forest towards some dilapidated hot spring, on some overglorified field trip that no one asked for.

Even Iori-sensei looks half a second away from snapping Gojo’s head off, what with the way she’s glaring daggers at him and muttering under her breath. The Tokyo students are all trekking merrily on ahead, as if this could be a stroll in the park, following the lead of their instructor.

Gojo may call it a test of teamwork, but I suspect for most of the Kyoto cohort, it’s more a test of patience.

Now, looking at the site of our “camp” for the night, I give it another generous half day before we’re going full Lord of the Flies or Battle Royale on each other.

Tashiro Hot Springs were once, if not bustling, at least some place that indicated some semblance of civilization, given that an entire military unit was lost trying to make that their reconnaissance point.

Now, though?

Technically, yes, there were still buildings-- at least, what remained of them. The main lodge was a liminal wooden husk, warped by age and weather, the beams partially caved in like it had given up halfway through a collapse and simply decided to languish in ruin instead. The whole thing reeked of damp timber and neglect.

Then there were the remnants of the onsen on the grounds-- a rock bath and a wooden one, fed by natural hot springs that continued to flow, as if unaware that all mortal contact had ceased to seek out its bounty. One might imagine this was a luxury-- until you took in the sludge, algae, and layers of decay crusted at the bottom of the basin.

“I have got to stop getting assigned to places like this,” I sniff, fighting off the urge to make a face at the ever-present scent of sulfur that lingered around the grounds. I let my school-issued bedroll fall to the ground with a sullen thud, barely even disturbing the layers of decomposing leaves.

Once I get back to civilization, I was going to book an everything spa, because if the technology doesn’t exist to Men-In-Black this shit out of my mind, I was at least going to get it scrubbed off of my skin.

The first thing I notice in the dusk, is that it’s quiet. Too quiet. Some kid from the Tokyo school’s yammering on about the wildlife guide he’d picked up at the Aomori train station when we’d first pulled into town, about the black bears lurking in the highland forests, about the pit vipers slithering through the undergrowth, about the presence of giant hornets, the risk of lyme disease, and the likes.

I can’t help myself, and from where I sit, a few paces away from where the rest of the students are gathered at the fire, I tilt my head, and lob into the crowd, “Where are they all, then?”

The gathering falls silent. Ino casts me an overly-familiar glare, and I stare back, the unrepentant wet blanket over every gathering. I hear Iori-sensei take a breath, and I’m bracing myself for the familiar lecture about team spirit and manners, but then Gojo Satoru of all people, stands, brushing off his trousers.

“She’s right.”

It’s a shame that I don’t get to gloat at the acknowledgement, because in the next moment, something crashes out of the woods, into our campsite.

Dripping maw, hunched shape-- in the dark, someone without any cursed energy might be forgiven for mistaking it as a rabid black bear, but the lot of us knew better-- cursed energy flowing all around it, twisted into some primeval misery that reeked of sulfur and death.

It’s followed by another hulking beast, nearly twice the size of the first-- and pandemonium breaks loose.

For a group of fourth year Jujutsu sorcerers, my peers are surprisingly quick to startle, because screams start lancing through the night air. The fire sputters as someone hurtles over it, kicking up a spray of dirt and mildewed leaves.

That selfsame Tokyo kid who had been merrily babbling away about the wildlife is now screaming for Gojo, who, surprise, surprise, is nowhere to be found.

I sigh. Let the games begin.

The bear-curses are rampaging their way through camp, and students are scrambling for their bags, their equipment, and I almost laugh, watching them scatter.

But I’m not dumb enough to just stay standing there-- and I deftly grab my own bedroll, slipping back through the woods in the direction that I think we had come from.

As soon as I’m around the corner, out of sight of the cursed spirits, I drop to my knee, quickly rummaging through my bag. A cursed talisman rustles as I retrieve it, bloodred sigils sparking with the flame of cursed energy as I ignite it, holding it aloft as I stand again to pick my way cautiously down the overgrown path. I ignore the radio at the bottom of the pack.

Sparks of cursed energy flicker across the night sky, and I begrudgingly salute my classmates for mustering enough to fight back-- couldn’t be me, as I’m trying to weasel my way out of here.

Then, abruptly, my shoulder snaps back as I walk directly into something unseen.

I recoil slightly, blinking. The path ahead is empty. No trees in my way. No roots. Nothing visible at all.

I reach forward again, and my hand stops short against something smooth and unyielding.

Not bark. Not rock.

A barrier.

Gojo’s idea of “training,” no doubt. I sigh in disgust. Of course it couldn’t be as easy as just picking up my bag and strolling out of there.

A veil has been cast. Our instructors have penned us in.

I allow myself the luxury of a string of swear words just as something else crashes through the woods, and I’m encasing the diamond over myself in the span of a breath, sacrificing unobtrusiveness and cursed energy for glittering durability, ready to fight, or at least to survive if it were one of the bear curses-- or worse-- because Gojo Satoru definitely would come up with worse.

Ino Takuma’s wide hazel eyes find mine. He’s panting, hair mussed, beanie clutched in his fist.

“Shit,” I breathe. Of all people.

He echoes the sentiment. “Fuck.”

I retract the diamond form. Gesture to the boundary I’d just tried to cross. “They set up a veil to keep us in.”

“Of course you’d be trying to run,” he mutters under his breath.

It’s called being smart, and staying safe, thanks very much. Just because I know when to walk away, and not try to throw my life away like the rest of these chucklefucks.

Instead, I ask-- “And where were you headed?”

He flushes slightly. Seems I’ve hit a nerve.

The next moment, a shadow surged out of the trees, where it had been lying in wait, silent, watchful. A pit viper, grotesquely enlarged-- twenty, maybe thirty feet of scale and muscle coiled beneath the skeletal outlines of trees that groaned under the weight of its cursed form. Less uncanny than the bear-curses, at least recognizable by shape. But far more terrifying for that very reason.

I hate snakes. I could even say I’m terrified of them, but that would be admitting far too much.

The cursed viper flicks its tail like a whip, and Ino doesn't even have time to take in another breath before he goes flying, a ragdoll that crashes into the undergrowth with a sickening crunch.

Everything goes slow-motion in the span of seconds, as if time itself crystalized around me, weighing the outcomes, the options, the choice between fleeing the scene, leaving him to fend for himself or--

He isn’t mine to worry about. Not my friend. Not my ally. Not even my schoolmate.

But he’s not getting up. Alive, still, groaning coming from the bushes he’s buried in. But the viper is slithering towards him, yellowed fangs glistening in the dim light of our curse talismans.

Diamond surges across my skin in the span of a breath, and I’m in the air, leaping at the curse-- nothing but bare hands. I extend out my fingers like claws, dig them into the gaps between the scales. Let the gravity carry me down, tearing a gash through its reinforced flesh. The snake rears back with an unnatural screech that could have only been produced by a curse.

I’m on Ino in a second, yanking him to his feet by his collar as his eyes widen. “Get your fucking ass up.”

He tries to laugh, I think, but it ends in a wince and a cough instead. “Never knew the Kyoto ice princess had a mouth on her.” He’s discombobulated. Definitely shellshocked. Possibly concussed. It’s disconcerting to see him like this, when he’s always been so… prickly towards me. Argumentative. Combative. Resentful, or what have you. Pick your poison, and mix it in a shaker.

I let go of his sweatshirt, grabbing the beanie out of his hand to shove onto his head, not bothering to dignify him with a response as I wheel around, just in time to slam a crystalline fist into the snake’s jaw, sending its head reeling once more.

Behind me, I hear him gasp, “Auspicious Beasts Summon-- Kaichi!”

The increasingly-familiar horned projectile blasts past my ear, close enough that I can feel the puff of air it leaves behind in its wake, catching the viper in the underbelly where I’d already scratched past its scales. It wails, writhing as Kaichi burrows itself into the beast’s heart.

The curse explodes in a haze of dark sludge, leaving us there in the forest.

Ino spits into a nearby bush, saliva mixed with blood, and he turns, opens his mouth as if to say something, before he collapses. I let my diamond armor retract, and grasp onto his arm, shifting more of his weight onto my shoulder.

The forest is silent around us, save for the sound of our breathing.

September 2016, Tokyo. Kyoto-Tokyo Goodwill Event Closing Ceremony. Fourth Year.

“Senpai,” a blue-haired first year begins, trailed by a diminutive blonde and the Zen’in girl. Her bangs slant a bit alarmingly over her forehead-- I choose, out of the kindness of my heart, to believe this was an intentional fashion statement and not the result of a rebellious teenaged streak. “Your hair looks so nice.”

“Save it,” I reply calmly, twisting a small piece of the fresh-roasted eel off of the filet with my chopsticks, before letting it melt in my mouth-- and though it was delicious, I don’t try to make any kind of effusive gesture, staying as composed as ever. I doubted the girl was telling the truth, given that I’d just barely managed to brave a wash in the communal showers and managed to throw on a nicer kosode before the farewell dinner.

(It was, as always, Gojo’s fault, for delaying us at some dessert shop and causing us to miss our train back-- prompting us to all scramble and show up in various states of either disheveled or tardy as a result.)

“We don’t know where to go,” Nishimiya, the eldest of the trio, tries instead-- realizing the flattery from her first-year friend isn’t sticking. “None of the salons we tried know how to work my hair.”

“Are they paying you for missions yet?” I ask. The trio nod in sync.

Oh the cruelties of the Jujutsu world. Forcing us to get down and dirty just to get the money it would take to make us look human again. Rinse and repeat in a vicious cycle. Not that I needed it. I had my own inheritance for that reason.

(Wait, is that why all my peers react with such disdain towards me?)

“Well, all this,” I gesture expansively to myself. “Costs money. Not student-allowance money. Clan inheritance money.”

I can see the blue-haired girl’s face fall, and I turn my attention back to my half-eaten meal. Typical of most everyone to be done by now, socializing, non-alcoholic drinks in hand, speakers playing some jazzy ambient mix a few people are dancing to-- given my tardy arrival, and the fact that everyone’s so starved as to forgo table manners altogether.

“How are we supposed to get that?” asks the Zen’in girl waspishly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I got the name, but I’m dead broke anyways ‘cause the family won’t give me anything. Just packed me off here to screw with her.”

She’s glaring at another girl across the room as she says this-- one with nearly the same face, just with spectacles perched upon her nose and long hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. Sisters, I gather. Maybe twins.

“The inheritance goes to all the men first before it gets to us. So marry your cousin. Change your sex. Kill all your male relatives.” I reply with a shrug, taking a sip of my green tea. “I could honestly do without the money, if it were going to be tied up in so many damn strings like learning to be a sorcerer.”

I expect the girls to scoff, maybe storm off-- since I’m not exactly being all that forthright, or earnest. But instead-- they’re rapt, Nishimiya perching on a chair, Zen’in Mai leaning against the table, Miwa with her feet planted firmly to the ground, curious despite the disappointing answers I’d already levied upon her, perhaps too intimidated to socialize without her friends around her.

It’s as if, for the first time in maybe a dozen-odd years, that maybe, what I’m feeling, and what I’m saying, matters. I wasn’t just the Kyoto bitch princess here. They looked at me as if my philosophies were worth considering. That I wasn’t just some vain ingrate with a chip on her shoulder and too many zeroes in the bank account.

“You ever think about leaving?” Mai asks abruptly, feigning the nonchalance of studying her nails-- a cute, girlish manicure that matches her friends’. I feel almost envious, given the way everyone in my year tended to give me a wide berth-- granted, it was partially self-inflicted, but still.

I tilt my head slightly, setting down my chopsticks with a decisive clack. “Every day.”

That earns a pause from the three-- and I can see the gears turning in their heads. Miwa, from a civilian family, who probably thinks this is some Harry Potter shit, something cool, and not blood and ancient vows and survival of the fittest. Nishimiya, a child of two worlds, born of two sorcerers, who’s never known anything else but this path. Zen’in Mai, who’s been forced into this life just as much as I was, but without the safety nets and freedom to act that I’ve always been privileged with, even as I strained at the bit to prove that I was miserable.

“The moment I’m twenty,” I say, voice cool and composed, “I will. This life’s a scam. All this blood and fighting, and for what? Just to be treated as a piece of meat and incubator by the clan men? Just to die as fodder? No thanks. I’d rather stay free, stay pretty, take my inheritance, go on a shopping spree, move to California or Portugal or somewhere and forget what cursed energy even feels like. I’d rather be ordinary.”

Miwa stares at me like I’ve grown two heads, whilst Nishimiya frowns as if trying to decipher a foreign language.

“That sounds…” Zen’in Mai begins.

“Vapid?” I offer with arched brow, echoing words I’ve heard all too often from my peers.

“Nice,” she finishes, almost reluctantly.

I raise my cup of tea to them. “It is, isn’t it? Go find your own way in life.”

And, because they’re all falling over themselves with thank you, senpai, and bowing, and I’m feeling particularly kind tonight, I add, “Tell you what-- I’ll take you guys to the salon when we get back to Kyoto.”

They scamper off, leaving me with my cold rice and a sensation of-- something I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s just the underclassmen who are leaving this campus with a new perspective.

“Corrupting the youth, are you?” Ino’s voice cuts through the low hum of conversation, warm and teasing. I turn around from where I’m nursing the remnants of my bowl of food, and find him leaning against the wall, the boyish grin back on his face. He’s cleaned up surprisingly well in an obviously borrowed white dress shirt that hangs a smidgen too loose around the shoulders. His hair, though, remains scruffy as ever.

“Me? Never,” I say smoothly, raising a brow. And because I can admit, that despite myself, I’m glad he’s here, instead of in the hospital, I add, “I’m just being honest to them, that’s all.”

He grins, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks that have replaced his typical sweatpants for the night. “That’s what makes it worse, princess.”

His injuries were mild, mostly bruises and a hint of minor head trauma. Nothing permanent. Nothing that sleeping it off on the train and Dr. Ieiri’s technique couldn’t handle.

The music switches from an ambient instrumental to something more upbeat-- current radio hits rigged to the speaker from someone’s phone, no doubt, and Gojo Satoru has gone and done us the favor of shutting off the overhead lanterns in lieu of strobe lights. It’s not quite a club dance floor, not exactly, but enough for the underclassmen to bounce around, burning off the rowdy adrenaline of their jujutsu duels.

For a moment, I allow the thought to flicker quietly in my head, like the light of the cursed talismans we had clung onto on that mountain. That I would have missed him if--

Don’t, the part of my brain that’s dedicated to self-preservation warns. I decide to listen to it, when he extends out his hand with a half-expectant smile. “You’re too overdressed to be sitting in the corner all night, princess,” he says.

It’s a dangerous line of thought, coupled with the temptation to say yes. As dangerous as the earnestness in his eyes. I decide to guillotine it right where it lay.

“I’m not really the dancing type,” I admit instead, with a light shake of my head, a subtle curve to my lips. Just being honest. No rancor behind the statement-- no haughty stonewalling that makes his face turn red and his hand fall back to his side, as it were all those years ago in freshman year.

His brow furrows, half-amused. “Aren’t you? I thought the Kyoto ice princess would have picked up some moves with fancy tutors, or somethin'.”

“I’m the type that steps on toes,” I reply dryly. “And never apologizes for it.”

Ino chuckles at that, as if he’s managed to catch onto the metaphor behind the statement.

“Yeah,” he says, half to himself. “Yeah, that checks out.”

June 2017, Tokyo. Just after the Jujutsu Tech Graduation Ceremony.

The joint ceremony between the two Jujutsu academies is hosted in Tokyo on a sunny June day, on behalf of the higher-ups, who like keeping their little pageants close to home.

The light filters down on us like a benediction as we pass through the ceremonial torii gates out of the shrine for the final time as pupils.

We’re herded together for the commemorative photo-- Kyoto graduates and Tokyo graduates alike, all mixed together in one neat little gaggle, our senseis bookending our group, pretending like we haven’t spent the last few years in annual school-sanctioned events wherein we try to beat each other up.

Families gather. Shutters click like the rhythmic beat of some foreign mechanical heart.

My classmates drift apart into circles-- each their own little sun in navy blue, their families orbiting them, the excitement in the day palpable as hugs are exchanged. Numbers. Promises to keep in touch. Congratulations.

For me, this was just any other day.

Graduation marked the end of their youth, in a way-- the transition point between being a student, and being a career sorcerer. Some would go on to fight their way up through the ranks. Some would go home to their clans, get involved in the secret game of chess behind the veil of cursed energy. Some would stay at their high school campus to become teachers.

Some would die.

In truth, the last was inevitable-- just a matter of when it was crossed off the list, and in what order.

For me, though-- nothing has changed. Nothing will change. Graduation was less a milestone, and more just another step up, a year closer to true freedom.

Just one more year, I tell myself. One more year till I come of age, turn twenty. Till I’m out from under the thumb of the higher-ups. Till I’m able to take all my money, and get out of here-- till I’m able to live as I pleased.

Still, I wear the uniform. I accept the certificate from Gakuganji’s liverspotted old hands. I bow when prompted. Applaud in the right places. Smile for the group photos obligingly, though never with teeth.

And then I make myself scarce in the dorms-- in my guest room, bare save for the clothes I’d thrown over the desk chair while trying to figure out if I had wanted to spend any time touring Tokyo.

No one wanted the unpleasant orphan in their graduation memories, after all. I couldn’t blame them. My walls were so ice-cold and high up, that most people would rather journey somewhere warmer than risk hypothermia.

I’m sitting on my bed, trying to decide between a casual summer yukata and a boat-necked sundress and whether or not it would be worth the time to go to Harajuku when I hear a knocking at the doorframe, and then a familiar voice through the door.

“Yoo-- hi? Ya there?” the Kansai accent is thick, and recognisable.

I sigh, then dump my dresses onto the bed before I go to the door. “The fuck do you want, Ranta?” I asked.

“The grads are all goin’ down to the izakaya in an hour or so--” he begins, practically withering at the gaze I level at him-- a feat, considering he was already the shortest kid in the collective graduating class anyways.

“-- And Iori-sensei put you up to dragging me down there,” I conclude, unimpressed.

For all the posturing that the Zen’ins do, all that bullshit about the inherent superiority of men or whatever, it brings me no small amount of amusement that Ranta, and a good few of his cousins, all seem to be scared shitless of Iori-sensei. I doubted anyone else would have been willing to do her bidding in this matter.

He nods in the affirmative.

“And I won’t have to see your family’s sorry asses there?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just the students.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

I shut the door in his face, and an hour later, I’m pulling up in a sleek black sedan outside the restaurant that Ranta had mentioned. At least, even if I’m the loner and loser here, I can at least look impervious to the misery and resentment being inflicted, what with the swanky Uber and the block-printed yukata.

I thank the driver, and step out to find that most of the seniors are already gathered-- cliques formed, food ordered, drinks poured, tables occupied.

Perching into a stool, I briefly wonder if I could slide a tip across the bar and convince the bartender to overlook the fact that I’m not turning 20 till next year, and to make me a drink or two anyways. It felt like that kind of night-- anything to drown out the introspection.

A warm presence slides into the seat across from me. “Two Sapporos, please,” Ino says, forgoing his usual sweatshirt for an oversized graphic tee, though his beanie remains perched upon his head.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

He winks back.

Later, out of earshot of the bartender and halfway through a platter of karaage that’s rapidly disappearing between us-- along with an additional bottle of sake he ordered without asking-- I murmur, “Look at you, corrupting the youth and encouraging underage drinking.”

He laughs, throwing his head back, and it’s bright and unfiltered and entirely too contagious. The drinks have softened everything, blurring the hard edges of the world like someone’s dipped the night in honey.

“And yet,” he says, downing the remnants of his sake glass whilst I survey the motion of his throat, “here you are, agreeing to drink with me, princess.”

Then-- time ebbs and flows with the conversations-- post-grad plans, restaurant and music recommendations, punctuated teasingly with that one refrain-- princess, and the sake and karaage are both gone now. Somewhere in that time frame, he’s graduated from Ino, to Takuma.

The lights in the izakaya dim further, whether from the hour or the haze in my head I couldn’t say. But I can feel his presence still-- closer now. His knee brushes mine. His shoulder dips into my space. His voice is quieter, and there’s heat coiled under it like something dangerous when he says, “You’re beautiful tonight.”

I flush, heated under the collar of my yukata despite the fine cotton fabric, and mumble some kind of excuse me, somehow gathering enough presence of mind to get myself out the door.

Outside, the night hits colder than I expect-- cool and biting in a way uncharacteristic of June, just enough to jolt my senses back from the edge. I lean against the stone wall of the izakaya, just past the reach of its flickering neon sign.

Behind me, the door creaks open. I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Takuma joins me in the quiet. No words for a while. Just the stillness that sinks like a stone into dark waters.

His face is flushed-- I don't know whether it’s from the drinks, or from the heat that’s flowing between the two of us. I don’t know who makes the first move-- there’s just the stillness against the Tokyo night.

Just that at some point, the silence snaps, and his lips are on mine. Or mine on his. A collision. Slow at first, like testing the water with a toe. But the second we realize we’re not pulling away-- heat flares, hungry and real.

He leans in, his mouth brushing my cheek, voice barely above a whisper. “Love hotel? Or back to the dorms?”

My pulse is a riot in my throat. My hands are already curling into the collar of his shirt. “You’re drunk,” I murmur, kissing him again. But I’m no better.

And then, when we're trying to fumble our way through an unfamiliar room, and his hands are insistent on the ties of my yukata, he's pressing his forehead to mine, peppering kisses against my face.

My hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging it loose from where it’s already gone wild. His beanie is discarded somewhere on the nightstand. His hands are reverent and possessive in turn, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. “Shit, princess,” he half-laughs, half-groans, eyes dark, wild with something deeper than just lust. “You’re too dangerous.”

When I finally reach for him, truly touch him, the last barrier between our bodies stripped away, his breath catches. His whole body shudders like he’s been waiting for this for longer than just this one night.

I throw my caution to the wind, and we lose ourselves in each other-- completely, with all the reckless abandon of youth. There’s no space for thought, no room for restraint, not in the heat between our bodies or in the way his voice breaks when he says my name like it’s something fragile. Eventually, breathless and warm, we drift. His arm drapes across my waist, heavy and sure, an anchor against the storm of my roiling emotions.

But when dawn crawls in thin and gray through the window blinds, reality follows behind it with a worse blow than the hangover.

I wake before him, and for that I’m grateful. He’s still asleep beside me, face turned toward mine, boyishly unguarded. I brush the hair from his forehead, skate my thumb over the scar there, and for a moment, I let myself imagine the quiet calm of waking up to his face-- not just this morning, but every day after.

And I can’t stand it.

Because I remember his antagonism at my unwillingness to fight. The way he’s always wanted to prove himself. The mentor he mentioned in passing last night, the upcoming promotion to Grade One within the next year. Eyes bright, as if he were hoping I could find it in me to be proud of him.

In some ways, I was. In others, I just feel like I’m mourning something that’s never quite existed in the first place.

Because he’s good. As earnest as the sunshine. Wants to fight the good fight.

And I… I’ve always wanted out.

He murmurs something in his sleep and shifts onto his side, one hand reaching for me blindly.

I pull away before he could touch me.

I dress in silence, careful not to make a sound. My yukata chafes against my skin, wrinkled from where it had been discarded in a pile of our clothes. The scent of him, boyish, sea-salt and citrus, brushes briefly against my senses and my eyes feel tight.

For a moment, I’m tempted to just crawl back into bed, to kiss him awake to greet the dawn.

But I can’t do this.

I slip out before the city wakes, before the sun paints the sky with its rose-hued fingers, before the streetlights flicker off, before he can open his eyes and ask me to stay.

In an hour or two, when the sun begins its ascent over the sky, he’ll wake, finding the other side of the bed empty.

In an hour or two, I’ll be halfway back to Kyoto, and it’ll be as if I had never been there.

December 2017, Tokyo. Disciplinary Hearing for Hakari Kinji, Second Year Jujutsu Tech Pupil.

The courtroom of the Jujutsu Headquarters is expansive, forbidding, shadowed. Ancient stone and silence. A shoji screen panel concealing the faces of the elders from the rest of the court, like some shrouded altar to unseen deities.

This isn’t a trial or investigation. This is a sentencing.

Hakari Kinji, the accused, a tall young man with dark hair, stands at the center of the room, flanked by two guards-- arms bound behind his back, posture lazy with the flippant boredom of someone who, despite the intimidating grandeur bearing down upon him, could genuinely care less about the entire spectacle.

I respected that.

I’ve already said my piece. That Hakari Kinji was a promising young sorcerer, but that an act of aggravated assault on a higher-up, on my own great-uncle, was unconscionable. That I recommended a suspension period of a year, and a probationary period following, because of course, Hakari had great potential as a sorcerer. But that his unwillingness to respect the elders of our community made him a liability.

Hakari’s cursed technique, all glitz and glamour and vice, offends every conservative instinct in my great-uncle’s body, and many more sympathisers like him. To them, Hakari isn’t just some degenerate youth-- he’s a walking antithesis of the tradition they cling to so dearly. And really, that was what this was all about. The black eye will fade. He has enough to afford dental implants. But it’s about putting Hakari down. Sending a message.

I met my great-uncle’s eyes where he’d been seated, just in front of the panel of higher-ups. Wearied, but not frail. Wounds on display. In his traditional robes.

He gives me a faint nod of approval.

I swallow to tamp down on my shudder of disgust.

This was a man who’d let me be an orphan, despite the fact that he was my mother’s uncle. My mother had a family who could have taken me in, instead of letting me be raised at the Kyoto Jujutsu High, but they didn’t.

And yet, at a moment when he’d wanted me to come condemn a young man who he’d probably pissed off in some manner, he comes to me, makes me play the polished and demure heiress again, to bow and scrape in front of the higher-ups for their petty power plays.

The timing’s perfect. Gojo Satoru is out of the country on a mission with his newest pupil, Okkotsu Yuta. He won’t be there to play white knight for his student, to strongarm the higher-ups out of their warpath of vengeance on a boy whose only crime was to have a low tolerance threshold for the crotchety, conservative bullshit that had inevitably been spewing from my great-uncle’s mouth.

During a time such as the Night Parade, too-- when all hands were mustered to ward off curses, but an old man deemed it more important to argue and provoke a kid who was just trying to do his job, and follow the orders to fight for civilians, for his fellow sorcerers, for the future of Jujutsu.

I barely give the hearing any kind of preparation or genuine effort-- after all, my place was to just show up, look pretty, parrot the party line, bow appropriately low, play the concerned grandniece, as dictated by the clan obligations. I barely even glance at the schedule of proceedings.

That was my mistake.

The figure that comes to the stand after me as a character witness for Hakari himself wears a borrowed white dress shirt, one that nearly fits his frame now, with scraggly brown hair he has tied into a low ponytail, and my gut drops into the soles of my shoes.

Ino Takuma.

I keep my fingers clenched tight in my lap, willing myself not to react. Not even when he turns to address the assembly, and I can feel the weight of his gaze. I didn’t look. Barely blinked.

Didn’t let myself remember how his mouth had felt on my neck, the last time we’d been around each other.

“As Hakari Kinji’s senior at Tokyo Jujutsu High, I can attest to his character and potential,” he begins, more clipped and formal than I’ve ever seen him.

“I’ve known him since his first year. We’ve trained together. Fought together, on missions, as well as during the Night Parade. I’ve seen him take hits for fellow students who don’t even like him, who have the same opinion of his cursed technique that some of you in this room may have-- that it’s too flashy, too loud, too vulgar to be considered orthodox jujutsu. But that’s not what I’m here to argue about.”

I breathe in slowly. Focus on the wood of the barrier in front of me.

“I won’t say he was right for fighting with Matsuda-sama, but he’s not a volatile or dangerous individual. He’s just angry at the way that people treat his cursed technique, the way they write him off before being able to come to know him as he truly is. Hakari Kinji is a hardworking sorcerer, a loyal comrade. Someone who’s dedicated to pushing the limits of jujutsu and power. People like him are rare. And his suspension would be an undoubted loss for our world, one that sends the message that we’re going to keep turning our backs on power, just because it’s not in the conventional form we’re comfortable with. I ask that you waive his punishment to probation, and practice leniency on him. Thank you.”

I can feel his eyes on me as he returns to his seat, as the higher-ups murmur to each other behind their shoji screen, as my great-uncle stands from his seat and joins them, with one last glance cast at me.

The ruling is passed within minutes-- the deliberation period mostly for show, the boy’s fate sealed the moment his fist connected with my great-uncle’s face.

Hakari’s suspension would stand.

I can see Takuma stand, his chair screeching back, stalking out of the chamber. After him files some of the Jujutsu High students-- I can recognize their uniforms.

I wait for the room to mostly clear out, before I make my way down the aisles towards the door. Praying that he wouldn’t be waiting outside for me. But of course he was.

Leaning against a column outside, a quiet fury in his eyes. I attempt to brush past him, avoiding his gaze, but his hand shoots out. Closes around my forearm.

“You couldn’t even look at me in there.”

I stop, but I don’t turn. “Don’t make this about you,” I say quietly. I’m tired, I realize. Of wanting, and being unable to have. Of waiting for my strings to be cut. Of the way he looks at me, like he expected anything better from the ice bitch of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

“Maybe it is about me,” he snapped. “Maybe I’m sick of being the one who remembers that night, while you’re busy running away and pretending like it never happened.”

I feel my heart tremble in my chest, and force my face to keep in its placid, cold mask. “That night,” I said, carefully-- as if trying to rationalize it to myself, “was a mistake. We were drunk, we were just floating off the high of graduation.”

He laughed-- but it was a bitter bark that didn’t suit him at all. “No. The mistake was thinking you were ever going to stop running back to your lap of luxury.”

I don’t-- I can’t-- respond to that.

What could I even say? That I still dream about his scent and the weight of his arm over my waist? That I chafe against my titles, my cage, my obligations? That I wish I could disappear?

I turn to look at him-- and really look at him then, at the embers in his dark eyes, furious and betrayed and heartbroken all at once.

There’s something in my face, finally, that prompts him to let go of my wrist, and I turn away again, pacing quickly out the doors.

The heat of his fingers leaves an invisible heat, a shackle around my wrist.

October 31st, 2018. Prelude to the Shibuya Incident.

The knock comes just after dinner on Wednesday night. I open the door of my study, find Mrs. Konoe, the housekeeper, who wordlessly presents me with a sealed message from the headquarters.

The scroll is tied with a red ribbon, pasted over with a talisman, the insignia of the Jujutsu Council stamped upon it. It sits upon a lacquered tray, the scarlet seal atop it like a warning. I stare at it for a brief moment, and then retrieve it with caustious fingers-- as if I were handling some kind of venomous snake.

I wonder what else could be the matter here.

I’d just received a notice from the higher-ups confirming my status as a retired sorcerer after all the paperwork was processed, along with a notarized letter from my trustee informing me that the estate had been formally transferred. My name, now signed across all the deeds and titles. The house was mine. The fortune. The clan seat.

I unravel the scroll.

This summons is issued to you in your capacity as a retired Jujutsu sorcerer, and as head of one of the twelve ancestral Jujutsu clans of Kyoto.

You are not presently obligated to report due to your retirement, however, in response to the veil lowered over Shibuya Station and the overwhelming risk to civilian life presented by this event, the Jujutsu High Council has extended voluntary muster orders to retired sorcerers of sufficient rank and capability.

Should you choose to accept this summons, please report to the perimter in Shibuya City, Tokyo, by 2100 to receive further orders and unit assignments.

My hands curl around the edge of the scroll, biting at the inside of my cheek to keep something down-- fear, maybe, or guilt.

My answer had already been a resounding no by the end of the first sentence-- but the mention of Tokyo just cemented it. Too afraid of the ghosts there.

I remember my last day I’d ever set foot in the city-- chocolate brown eyes that welled with betrayal. Of the way my heart sank with every step I took out of the headquarters.

Too afraid to face the feeling of Takuma’s sure hands on my body.

Too afraid to face the weight of what ifs that completely obliterated my own plans.

And now, I imagine him stepping into Shibuya, ever the hero. Here to protect. To save. His beanie pulled over his face, summoning the cardinal mythical creatures from his fingertips that shatter through curses.

I imagine him looking around the perimeter of Shibuya once, as the sorcerers mill about, readying to their battle stations. Just once, to see if I was there. If I’d show.

But I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t.

If I went, it would never stop. I knew how this life, the clans, the higher-ups, Jujutsu sorcery in general, tended to consume people whole. But if I gave them the in, if I gave them the quarter, they’d never stop asking of me. Taking of me.

One more mission. One more summons. One more hearing.

I’d be twenty-five.

And forty.

And sixty, if I were lucky enough to make it that long.

I stand from my desk-- pace to the hearth in my study.

Kneel before it, as if in some kind of prayer-- and feed the scroll to the fire. Watch the paper curl in on itself, bright embers bleeding across the ink, and scattering into ashes.

I think of California, or Portugal. Somewhere I could go, and forget.

And I hoped-- in the depths of my soul, in the places of myself I hadn’t quite repressed and pruned of color-- that he would make it through the battle.

Even if I would never see him again.

Even if he hated me forever.

Even if he was in his rights to.

The price of my freedom was just the idea of facing the rest of my life as a stranger-- to the world, to him, to myself.

Alone.

A/N:

- Sorry MC is a piece of shit and a genuinely unpleasant individual. U can imagine her becoming a better person after the events of the oneshot though (or demand that I write a sequel) cause oof I kind of hurt my own feelings with the ending. - Yes I know Takuma was made a sorcerer through family lineage but I thought it would be more interesting narratively for the juxtaposition between the two of them if he's coming in from a civilian background, with everything to prove, and this super old-timey technique being a medium that he still puts a modern spin on, vs the MC who's just diamonds_are_a_girls_best_friend.mp3 and also absolutely HATES being in the world of Jujutsu but is basically the last scion of an incredibly ancient family. - Also yes her powers are literally just being Emma Frost sans telepathy. I think part of why she hates being a sorcerer is that she hates that her cursed technique is basically just to be a tank. Nothing flashy or magical, she just has to turn to diamond and then punch and kick. - The incident in the mountains MC refers to is the Hakkoda Mountains disaster, which was the largest loss of life in mountaineering ever. The spring they visit is also a real place, and as of 2018 the place is now unreachable by bridge (I think). Spooky. - Also yes I did imply that MC is part of why Mai and Momo specifically think the way they do when they show up in the Goodwill arc. Lol. Takuma was right, she's corrupting the youth. - If you noticed from placebo there's a lot of Izakaya-ing lately. The reason for that is because I simply miss going to Izakayas with my friends. - Ranta is my favorite plot-device cameo ever. Yes, I could have technically made the character an OC but I just wanted the implication that Zen'in misogyny simply crumbles in the face of Utahime's wrath. Also my personal headcanon involves the Kyoto clans taking in mostly sorcerers from cadet branches of the Big Three, or smaller clans, hence MC and Ranta's presence there. Also explains Noritoshi in the main storyline ig. - Age of majority in Japan in 20 which is why that's kind of the Reader's main fixation, turning twenty and getting out of there. I guess in that sense maybe I should have tagged this with underage sex warning but she's 19 and he's 20 by that point so eh it's YMMV. - Also... the fic is named after Jessamine Lovelace let's hear it for the Shadowhunters Chronicles fans who are still out thereeeeee

[merakiui]

fairy-tale felicity.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy relationship/behaviors, obsession, horse hybrid!reader, age gap (reader is 20/21 and riddle is 31), brief mentions of past abuse and neglect, codependency, kidnapping note - the lab has rescued a horse hybrid, and riddle is tasked with rehabilitating her. he bites off more than he can chew when, as his relationship with you progresses and the program boasts promising results, he finds himself getting attached.

As soon as Riddle clocks into the facility, right on time as usual, an assistant researcher barrages him like a freight train. Her entire demeanor kindles concern, a cloying, clawing sort that gives way to uncertainty and, subsequently, confusion.

Before he can ask, she interrupts in a clipped tone: “Dr. Crewel’s called you to the exam chamber.” She hurries along so quickly that he struggles to keep up, soles squeaking against too-clean linoleum.

“What’s happened?” He matches her pace and fixes her with a sharp stare. “Is everything all right?”

“There’s this horse…thing he found and—well, it’s hard to explain. I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Riddle doesn’t push the matter further, sensing he’ll know soon enough. Crewel’s assistant wastes no time in leading him even though he has the lab’s layout memorized. It must be severe, whatever this horse-thing is. If it requires his specific presence, surely there’s a sensible explanation. After all, science prides itself on explaining the unexplainable.

He’ll take his chances and prepare for the worst.

The door is shut and the glass is frosted, indicative of privacy, but Riddle doesn’t hesitate to knock. At his superior’s command, the door slides open on smooth hinges. Riddle swallows hard and steps through with steeled nerves.

He was expecting this horse-thing to be distinctly centaurian or monstrously grotesque, so he’s surprised to see a woman lying on her back on a metal examination table, arms and legs outstretched and tied down. Her eyes are shut, and she’s dressed in a thin hospital gown. Riddle is about to ask what’s so odd, but then he sees your ears and legs. 

So not a centaur. Perhaps something akin to the fabled faun he’s read so much about?

But that’s not what’s so surprising. What is, actually, is the rough state you’re in. There are bandages wound tight around your arms, legs, and throat, and Riddle theorizes scratches, bruises, and lacerations are hidden beneath those clean fabrics.

“A timely arrival,” Crewel comments, looking at him from a handful of documents. 

Medical reports, Riddle assumes, watching veterinarians flit about to take vitals and run tests to gather heart rate, blood type, and even the status of your fertility. Invasive, yes, but the lab is thorough—a facet Riddle is most proud of. He shuffles closer, hazarding a glance at your bandaged legs. Ghastly chips and cracks run up and along your hooves. He notes you’re without horseshoes and grimaces.

“Dr. Rosehearts.”

“Yes? You called for me, Dr. Crewel?”

Taking one final look over what appears to be data on your current health, Crewel finally addresses Riddle properly. “I have a task for you.”

“Involving this hybrid?”

“Correct. If I recall, you mentioned you’ve dealt with horses before.”

“That’s true, yes…” He knows the path Crewel is treading and he’s dreading it. “In my youth, I participated in competitive horseback riding. One of our responsibilities in the Equestrian Club was to care for and look after our horses.”

“How many years was that for?”

“Eight or so. Admittedly, it’s been some time since I’ve kept up with it.”

“I see. Then I assume you’re aptly aware of their biology?”

“To an extent, yes. I know their diet and habits. How to handle one. How to calm one. How to ride one. Etcetera. I’d say I have my fair share of experience.”

Toeing the line of piqued curiosity, Riddle keeps his eyes pinned firmly on Crewel even though the doctors’ hushed chatterings reach his ears. He tamps down the urge to turn and watch the hybrid.

“Internal structures are intact. Minor fracture in the left wrist,” one observes. “We’ll insert the microchip between her shoulder blades soon. Be prepared to move the specimen.”

“What’s the plan after rehabilitation? Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show?” another adds, detached but inquisitive.

“Not just that. Is it possible to breed her? If she’s more human than equine, does that not qualify her as a beastfolk? Although most of them are centaurs, right?”

“Yeah, but Dr. Crewel’s calling her a hybrid.”

“There’s a difference?”

Riddle wonders that, too.

Crewel clips the pages together before handing them to Riddle for his perusal. “We responded to a call regarding her.”

Her meaning you, the hybrid. Riddle leafs through the documents, scanning each with his discerning greys. Calls weren’t uncommon; most of them were usually false, the result of people who didn’t understand that the meaning of a rehabilitation lab is found in its title and that they can’t just call to report their friend for being a fool in need of treatment (which was almost always untrue). But sometimes there were genuine calls—the ones in which hybrids needed help or rescuing or intervention of some sort. This seems to be the latter case.

“And does that explain the state she’s in?”

“Mostly. What we know so far is noted in the report.”

He finds it then—the official reasoning behind your condition. “Physical abuse and neglect,” he reads, running down the list as it grows longer and sadder with every word.

“I suspect she’s become averse to humans as a result of this severe maltreatment. She was given a sedative via tranquilizer dart. It was the only way we could cut her free from the cuff without harming her.”

“The cuff?”

“The shed she was locked in. Cuffed to a post—nearly frostbitten, poor thing—and fed scraps.” Crewel’s eyes narrow with disdain. “Rotten mutts, the lot of them.”

Riddle hums, speechless. What a tragic situation.

“Were the ones responsible caught?”

“Most of them.” Crewel brushes past Riddle to observe the hybrid up close. “She’s the result of unethical breeding, which isn’t as uncommon as we wish it was. But the case is in the hands of the authorities now. I’m not going to trouble myself with the misdeeds of a few bad dogs.”

“What will become of her? I imagine rehabilitation is our top priority?”

“Precisely. This is where you come in.” Crewel gestures to the slumbering hybrid. “You’re one of our best good boys, Dr. Rosehearts. As such, I’m entrusting you to look after her.”

“Look…after,” he parrots, tongue heavy in his mouth. “I’m sorry, what? You can’t possibly mean—”

“The lab is no place for her. Not in her current disposition. You’re in charge of rehabilitating her from home. Prove to her that humans aren’t all naughty pups in need of proper discipline. You’ll report your progress and findings directly to me.”

“I… I can do it. Naturally.” Confidence swells within him; he’s satisfied to have been chosen for such an important duty. But rehabilitation from home, in which he won’t have all of the helpful tools the lab carries, is daunting in its own right. “I can’t guarantee I’ll have willed her fear away. She might always fear humans.” He gazes sidelong at the hybrid and straightens his posture. “With all due respect, I’m a scientist, not a therapist.”

“I don’t expect you to be one.” Crewel turns away, tailored lab coat swishing with the motion. “You aren’t required to work miracles. That’s not within your job description. Besides, an ambitious pup will never succeed if he adopts Icarus’s mindset.”

Riddle scoffs around a laugh. “I have no intention of flying too close to the sun. I’ll do it in accordance with the rules.”

That earns him an approving nod, which is really all the validation he currently needs, before Crewel steps back to watch the vets prepare you for the microchip. Riddle stands beside him, hungering for more information.

“Aside from her past with humans, is there anything I absolutely must know? How old is she?”

“We’re thinking somewhere between twenty and twenty-one in human years. A fully mature adult by equine standards.”

He cringes at the gap. “I’ve no idea what the youth are like nowadays, especially not one who’s yet to be integrated into society.”

Crewel chuckles, folding his arms across his chest. “Will that be the foundation for your method of approach?”

“Ideally, I’d like to establish some form of connection—whether that’s by appealing to her human traits or simply appearing non-threatening. I can’t treat her like an animal. She’s human, too. But then… Well…” He shakes his head, sighing. This is a difficult equation with an unclear solution. Normally, Riddle adores these problems—the ones that get his brain turning. But this is troubling, and he can’t be clinical about it as if it’s something mathematical. He peers at the file once more. “She’s a thoroughbred? Huh. Vorpal was the same.”

“So you’ve experience with thoroughbreds.”

“I have experience with thoroughbred horses, not thoroughbred horse hybrids. But perhaps her thoroughbred nature matches that of Vorpal’s.”

Riddle worries his lip between his teeth. Thoroughbreds are notoriously hot-blooded. This may prove to be more challenging than I thought.

It’s not the first trial he’s been handed, and it won’t be the last. His entire life has been one big trial, lived out rigidly and righteously, and he’s learned to weather the difficulties by conforming to the long and often unspoken list of rules prescribed by his mother. There are rules for everything. Rules for when one should sleep if they wish to get a full eight hours. Rules for when one should speak if they wish to follow the guidelines for group etiquette. Rules for when one should have a certain flavor of tea or tart depending on the occasion. For thirty-one years of his life, he has followed all of them near-perfectly.

This circumstance is no different. The task has been assigned and, as he has dozens of times prior, he’ll follow the rules to see it through to the end.

But what exactly are the rules in dealing with a damaged hybrid? It’s the only word he can think of when he looks at you, however offensive it may be. It’s an objective observation: You’re damaged and alone, certainly afraid. He doesn’t want to picture the horrors you’ve endured—the dehumanizing experiences you’ve been subjected to at the hands of humans.

Riddle is human, and so this is very conflicting. How can he, a human, help a hybrid, who fears them like they’re nightmarish monsters? And they definitely are to you. If anything, he’s less of a human and more of a cruel beast in your eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep her here?” he ventures. The vets sedate you once more when it becomes clear the drugs are wearing off. Your tail swishes, fingers twitching, and then you fall still once more. His eyes track the IV tube to the needle pricking the top of your hand. “Safer, too. There are too many variables in my home. It wouldn’t be a suitable environment.”

“It’s separate from the lab, though—a fresh, stress-free space. Less chances of running into us, and we’re the last people she wants to see.”

“She won’t want to see me either.”

“One is better than a roomful.”

Riddle can’t refute that.

“I’ll do it,” he says, “but on the condition that you refrain from interfering directly. If I’m to rehabilitate her, then it is only me she’ll see. For now, at least. Before she can interact with other humans, she must first learn to trust one and that will be me.”

“Very well. Those are acceptable terms.”

“And I’ll need a week to prepare.”

Crewel considers the request before nodding. “A week gives me time to study her further, so I’ll agree to it.”

I’ll need to hybrid-proof the house, gather textbooks and information on horses and horse hybrids, look into dietary needs, write up daily and weekly schedules, research phobias and ways to treat them, draw up a plan of action… A backup plan, too. Just in case.

Surfacing from his inner ruminations, Riddle fixes Crewel with a stern look. “You’re going to study her in a way that isn’t hurtful, yes?”

“Of course. This requires patience and tact.” He leans over the examination table to peer at your ears as they twitch. Still sound asleep. “Rest assured, Dr. Rosehearts. No harm will befall your hybrid.”

“S-She is not my hybrid.”

“She is for the time being. I’ll give you one year.”

“A year is a long time to provide room and board for a hybrid. Besides…” He hesitates to think the logistics over before adding, “You’re asking me to shape my life around her needs. Not that I’m unwilling, mind you. It just feels…long. We can’t even be certain of the results.”

“If you’d prefer I send her to Dr. Hunt—”

At the mention of the morbidly eccentric researcher, Riddle shakes his head, a flicker of possessive fidelity sparking in him. 

“There’s no need. I’ve already agreed.”

“Good boy! Then I’ll take this week to collect more data, and by Friday morning we’ll deliver her to your doorstep.”

“I’ll be ready,” he says, but he doesn’t believe it.

Just how ready can one possibly be for an assignment as sensitive as this? He supposes he’ll find out in a week’s time.

In classic Riddle Rosehearts fashion, he drives himself mad with preparation.

If his meticulous schedules and plans are worth anything, he’s about as ready as he’s ever been. He feels as if he’s about to welcome a glass sculpture rather than a hybrid into his humble home, what with its many precautions. Corners have been covered with rubber guards, dishware and utensils have been locked away and swapped with paper and plastic, and he’s blocked off the second story with a safety gate. The type used for pets and children. It was the only thing he could think of while he debated whether he should lock the medicine cabinet or just move everything upstairs.

For one year—that’s exactly 365 days—he’ll live out his life on the ground floor of his home. And he’s ready.

Is he, though?

He pored over the files day and night, reflected on new data from Crewel, and drafted dozens of plans in preparation for your arrival. Most of these plans ended up crumpled and tossed in the rubbish bin, accompanied with a groan and a muttered complaint, but last night he reached an epiphany after finishing his third read of a psychology textbook on phobias.

Anthropophobia is the fear of people, he’d jotted in a new notebook just as the clock struck midnight. For many phobias, exposure therapy is a useful and valid method of treatment. Seeing as I’m not a licensed therapist, CBT is not a possibility and I can’t bring her to a therapist myself. That would involve its own setbacks and hurdles. Therefore, I’ll keep track of her progress as I attempt exposure therapy.

The textbook recommended he try approaching it with harmless hypotheticals: Imagine you’re interacting with a few people. At first he thought it might work, but in order for you to even listen to him you’d have to trust him. And you can’t trust someone if you’re fearing for your life. For a moment, he considered purchasing a horse costume and masquerading as one himself, if only to ease your anxiety, but that would constitute a dishonest practice.

Now, sleep-deprived and uncertain, Riddle attempts to bolster his confidence. He stands at his front door like a prisoner awaiting punishment, tapping his foot against the floor out of nervous habit. A grandfather clock ticks behind him, calling out seconds and minutes in low, slow, foreboding tocks. He flips through his notes to refresh himself even though there’s no need for that; he’s already reviewed five times since he woke up.

You’re overdoing it, he tells himself. But is he? It’s better to be overly prepared.

The sudden rap at the door startles him. He hurries to open it, almost tripping on the hardwood. Inhaling a steadying breath, he holds it for a moment and then releases it. He’ll be okay. He’s a scientist. A scientist in hedgehog slippers, but a scientist nonetheless. He can do this.

“Good morning, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting when he peers out at his snow-dusted lawn, but it definitely wasn’t this. You’re bundled in a thick coat, boots yanked up to your calves, and a woolen hat is pulled down over your eyes. To hide your equine features, he realizes. Hybrids are something of a taboo subject, especially those who can’t be classified as standard beastfolk. The divide that separates both is a slippery slope.

“She’s sleeping now, but I suspect she’ll wake in an hour or so. Her left wrist is still healing, so do be mindful.”

Riddle frowns. It’s not very kind to drug her every time you need to transport her somewhere…

The week and its events were rough on you. He knows this because he was there for the briefing. Riddle’s seen needles and pills forced into you more times than he’d like to admit, and he’s heard Crewel’s trademark, “This is the only way to keep a pup docile,” so often it’s become a haunting mantra. The first rule, he decides right then, is that there will be no sedation unless absolutely necessary.

How else is he to rehabilitate you if you’re unconscious for most of it?

Crewel steps through the threshold and lowers you onto the sofa. Riddle stands rooted to his spot, observing him as he ducks out momentarily and then returns with a suitcase.

“Clothing,” he explains, setting it down in front of Riddle. “As well as a few sedatives and sleep aids. Prescribed medications and supplements. Nothing you’re not already familiar with.”

Thank the heavens, he thinks with great relief. I didn’t even think about purchasing clothes for her.

“I won’t need them.”

At least not the sedatives and sleep aids.

“Whether you use them or not is entirely up to you. It never hurts to resort to old tricks when training a dog.”

For once Riddle’s glad he’s the one in charge. Crewel views everything through the lens of a behaviorist and Rook Hunt is…Rook Hunt. Obviously, by process of elimination, he’s the most qualified for this job. Who else is going to advocate to get you fitted for new horseshoes?

“Would you like me to come into the lab at any point during this?”

“If you deem it necessary. If not, you know how to reach me. I expect an email detailing her progress every two weeks.”

“Right…” His gaze pans over to you. “What will happen after the year’s over?”

“The higher-ups will decide.”

As they have for every other case we’ve dealt with, his brain fills in the blank. Riddle doesn’t like that. Crowley does his research most of the time, but it doesn’t seem fair to send you off to Queen-knows-where if you’ve just started opening up to humans. Riddle recalls the furtive mumblings of the vets—Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show? Is it possible to breed her?—and feels himself growing ill.

“All right. Sure. Yes,” he babbles dumbly, shaking those thoughts out of his head. “I won’t let you down, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure that’s possible anymore. Not when the stakes are so high. This is an expectation, not an experiment he can toy with as he pleases.

The last of Riddle’s withering courage goes out the door with Crewel, swept up in a flurry of snowflakes. He heaves a sigh and then deflates, exhausted even though the day has just begun.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he mumbles, wringing his hands to calm himself.

He considers removing your boots and coat but thinks better of it. For a minute, he simply lingers. When it becomes clear that you aren’t going to wake anytime soon, he resolves to get started on breakfast to pass the hour. He may not be a five-star chef, but he’s had enough practice to know how to cook passable, edible meals. Although passable is not perfect, and even though he knows he should devote more time to cooking he’s never had that chance. He’s up before the sun’s risen, lukewarm coffee poured in a travel cup, and then he’s off to the lab. An unhealthy habit he ought to snuff.

Now that he’s homebound, he should make an effort to try a little harder. After all, he has a guest now. Riddle wants to impress, if only so he can finally hear someone other than Trey tell him his cooking is good. Genuinely good. He knows Trey only says so because good is a safe word with many interpretations, which is almost always succeeded with a line about how he’s willing to share a few pointers for improvement.

For now he settles on something easy, keeping all of your dietary needs in mind: oatmeal, diced fruits, an assortment of nuts, toast, and scrambled eggs. It’s less cooking and more arranging, but it’s the best he has to offer right now.

He’s in the process of setting the table for two when he realizes it’s highly unlikely you’ll be joining him. Gathering your plate and cup, he brings both into the next room over and sets them down on the table alongside a napkin and plastic utensils. With his hands on his hips, Riddle surveys his handiwork and beams.

It’s better than nothing.

His eyes find the suitcase then. It looks fit to burst, bulging with clothes. Crewel must have overpacked, but then that makes sense. Fashion is his passion, and he’d sooner shrivel than send you out into the world, which is currently limited to Riddle’s house, with plain attire. He wonders if any of the contents were designed by him or simply selected from the racks with taste and style in mind.

Riddle supposes it’s not important right now, so he drags the suitcase down the hall and into his room. Technically, it’s his study. But it will serve as his bedroom for the duration of this program. Your room—the eternally empty guest room—is right across the hall. The bed is small, but it’s cozy enough. He thinks you’ll like it, if only because it’s better than the dull lab with its hard tables and blinding lights.

He’s about to begin unpacking when a jarring crash pierces the air. Startled out of his skin, he stagger-runs out of the room just in time to see you splayed on the floor, plate overturned and food spattered. He opens his mouth to snap at you and then stops short. You notice him then, your eyes blown impossibly wide, nostrils flaring, and you scurry back as if burned.

“Wait!” he exclaims without foresight. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

He surges forward, intending to come to your aid. You make a noise that sounds like a gasp and a squeal, your breaths coming in panicked huffs and puffs. He watches you curl into a cower and his heart aches at the sight. Gathering his composure, Riddle peers at the mess and then back at you.

Distance, he reminds himself. And patience. Take it slow.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” He issues you an apologetic smile that sits awkwardly on his face. His tone is soft, an even approximation of tenderness. “I’m not going to hurt you. You may not believe that, but it’s the genuine truth. My name is Dr. Rosehearts and I’m here to look after you. You remember Dr. Crewel, don’t you? The researcher with the black-and-white hair.”

Paralyzed, you blink back at him.

“W-Well… Ah—um. Ahem. Starting today, this will be your home.” Riddle risks another step towards you and promptly stops when your arms fly up to shield your face.

What did the book say? Proceed with caution, use an indoor voice, let the subject approach you… I don’t expect her to warm up to me right this very second. Still, there has to be some way to show her I mean well… If it was Vorpal, I’d adopt a calm demeanor and make myself appear harmless. Standing too tall would make me seem like I’m a predator. But that might not work. She’s human, too.

“I know you’re scared. I’d be the same if I was in your place. That’s perfectly understandable. You don’t know much of this place or who I am—and you might think it’s scary right now—but I promise this will be good for you. This place is nothing like the ones you’ve been at before, okay? It’s safe. Nothing will hurt you here. I’m not going to get any closer. You can stay there if that’s what makes you feel comfortable.”

Minding your skittish temperament, he retreats to the kitchen. When he returns, he notices you’ve pulled your hat over your eyes and shaped yourself into a ball in the corner of the room.

Gingerly, he sets his plate on the table.

“Breakfast,” he says. You don’t say anything. “It’s good for you. The most important meal of the day, actually. Studies show that eating a healthy breakfast improves—” He swallows the rest of the statistic, flustered. Now is not the time, Riddle. “T-That aside, eat only if you’re hungry. I won’t force you, but it’s here in case you want it. I’ll be in the room just down the hall if you need me.”

Riddle departs for his study-turned-bedroom. He sits at his desk, opens his notebook, and takes a pause.

Was that the right method of approach? I introduced myself in an amicable manner, I was patient, and I didn’t show any signs of hostility. Despite everything, she probably finds my mere presence hostile… I shouldn’t have shouted like that.

With a regretful groan, he pens a reminder: Keep voice and tone in check. Always.

On some level, he understands. Or he’s trying to, at least. Every time he puts himself in your shoes, he winds up back in his childhood home, sitting at a desk piled high with thick texts on every core subject. And the one responsible for his entrapment in youth? A woman who is more warden than mother. His life has been a predetermined fairy tale since he was conceived. Even now, sitting successful in a relatively cushy position at the lab, he still feels like someone else is writing his story.

They’re holding the quill, scrawling his existence onto mystical pages, and he’s stuck following the script, bound by rules both known and unknown.

By the time he’s finished jotting notes, an air of dissatisfaction falls over the room. He should take a walk, clear his head, do something thoughtless. Anything to distract him from the encroaching bitterness of a bad mood. Riddle catches the time on the analog clock. An hour has passed. It’s been eerily silent. He doesn’t worry because he knows there’s nowhere for you to go.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to check.

Unsurprisingly, you’re still plastered to the corner like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Grey eyes sweep over the room, finding the breakfast he left you untouched and congealed. He’s about to frown when he notices something peculiar. The floor, which had once been a mess, has been cleaned. Riddle’s thoughts stall out into confused static.

Did she eat the contents off the floor?

Perhaps it’s not so farfetched. If that’s how you’ve been conditioned to eat, it’s only natural you’d follow that habit. He knows about routines well enough, for his entire existence has been lived out in strict, demanding routine, but this habit is one that fills him with an immeasurable pity.

You shouldn’t have to do that here. In fact, you shouldn’t have had to do that at all. No one should.

“I hope it was delicious,” he says, allowing a smile to bleed into his inflection. “I’m not much of a chef, but I’ll do my best to make sure you’re fed delicious, healthy meals. You won’t have to eat anything off the ground anymore.”

No response. He wasn’t expecting one. He knows you’re capable of speaking, for he heard your voice in the lab during the moments where you were kept awake for important procedures. Truthfully, he’d prefer to hear your voice when it isn’t filled with sorrow, fear, or a mixture of the two. But this is just the beginning. He doesn’t expect results within a day. A start is a start, and patience is a virtue.

“Dr. Crewel tells me you’re afraid of humans.” At that, your ears flatten on your head. “I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve been through for that fear to have developed.”

Riddle hesitates, unsure of the point he’s attempting to make.

“I understand—sort of, I think… Well, not exactly. But, to a relative extent, I understand how it feels to be alone and misunderstood with no one to turn to. Sooo.”

Not even a day in and I’m ruining it. At this rate, I’ll just look foolish and she’ll never want to trust me, let alone other humans.

“I’ll always be here if you need me. My study is right down the hall, and across the way is your bedroom. Dr. Crewel’s left me with plenty of clothes for you, so you can take that coat off if it gets too warm. Your boots and hat as well. Oh, and I’ve also got your vitamins and supplements. Those are important to take. I’ve yet to arrange them, but once I know when and how often you’re intended to take them we can start there.”

He needs this rigidity. It’s comforting. It’s familiar.

“The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Um… You can use it at your leisure. The same goes for everything else here. You’re free to explore this floor or grab something from the cupboard if you’re hungry. I won’t mind.”

It occurs to him then, standing there and watching you huddle, that familiarity is one of the best medicines when taken in healthy amounts.

Inspired, Riddle rushes back to his study, plops down in his chair, and opens to a blank page. He’s got it—the perfect schedule. And it’s all formatted around familiarity! He writes like he’s coming up on a deadline, pen soaring across lined paper in a blind rush. His handwriting may be illegible, but the messy scribble is his and his alone. He understands the intent in the chicken scratch.

Adjusting my approach slightly. Going forwards, I’ll build our routine around familiarity, reads the concluding statement of his newly improved three-page plan. He tucks the journal away in a drawer, feeling more ready than he’s ever been.

At first, time felt slow and sluggish—an agonizing crawl into a far-off future. But before Riddle realizes it it’s already been one month, and he’s spent that time dutifully following his schedule. He wakes at seven, showers at eight, and begins breakfast at nine. You sleep on the floor and eat your meals in the sitting room, wordless and anxious. He learned you won’t eat if he’s watching you, so he’s taken to having his meals in the kitchen. It was awkward at first trying to gauge just how quickly you’d eat so that he could clean up—and one time he walked in on you scarfing down your lunch in a rush, which had given you such a fright that you almost choked—so now you have a little handbell you ring whenever you’ve finished.

Since you first started living with him, you’ve taken to eating from plates and bowls rather quickly. Riddle surmises he’d be the same if he just learned there are cleaner surfaces to eat food from. But he’s happy with this development. He wasn’t expecting you’d take to plates and utensils so rapidly.

In the beginning you regarded most of your meals with suspicion, so Riddle would take tentative bites out of his portions to prove the validity and safety of each. He’d say the same thing every time—“It’s very delicious. I think you’ll like it.”—and you would submit with flattened ears, feasting with your hands. He attempted to teach you how to use the plastic cutlery, but you’d been too fearful to let him get any closer and so he put that plan on pause.

Now, after plenty of dedication and determination, familiarity has been established. You’ve since shed your coat, boots, and hat—though they’re kept close in the corner; you won’t let him touch them—and now you dress in the clothes Crewel provided. He moved the suitcase into the room when it became clear you only ever get up to use the bathroom, allowing you to pick and choose outfits as you please.

Riddle wasn’t expecting it, but you’re surprisingly self-sufficient. You bathe without complaint and you clean up after yourself, stacking your paper dishes to make collection easier. You even take your vitamins and supplements without pitching a fit! He’s honestly impressed; his expectations were, admittedly, rather low when he watched you kick and scream in the lab. But this space is different. It’s nothing like the lab. Maybe you recognize there’s some sort of comfort in that.

You’ve yet to venture into the guest bedroom, but he won’t push it. This is already good progress and it’s only been a month. You may be nervous around him, hiding at every sudden, loud sound and trembling when he strays too close, but at least you’re somewhat receptive to him and the things he provides.

So it’s a surprise when, on a mostly unremarkable Tuesday evening, you call out to him.

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

He forces himself to act normal, replying from the other room in the calmest tone he can muster, “Is something the matter?”

“Are… Are you really not going to hurt me?” The question is uttered so softly he almost misses it.

“I would never.” He rises from his chair, monitoring his noise level, and creeps closer. “May I look at you?”

“Um… S-Sure. That’s fine.”

He peeks around the corner and waves. “Hello.”

You flinch. “H-Hi…”

“Do you have a name? I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.”

“I don’t, sir.” 

Riddle blinks, taken aback by the formality. “There’s no need for ‘sir.’ Just call me Dr. Rosehearts.”

You avert your eyes and drag your knees into your chest. Taking a few deep breaths, you mutter a cursory apology.

“It’s all right. If you’re not opposed to it, may I give you a name?”

“Okay.”

He pauses, reflecting on the ones he’d written in his notes based on his observations. “How does (Name) sound?”

You nod your approval. “T-Thank you…for the name.”

“Don’t push yourself if you’re scared or uncomfortable.”

“But I… I want to talk! Ah. S-Sorry for being loud…”

“It’s all right. What would you like to talk about?”

“I… Um, sorry. I don’t… Um.” You bury your face in your knees. “I… I can’t look at you… I’m sorry.”

Riddle can’t believe it. You’re willingly engaging in conversation. It’s only been a month—not even, actually—but you’re talking! He wonders what’s working because something must be if you’re already trying to overcome your discomfort to speak. Is it the schedule? Is it the routine and all of the little things in between that help make it easier for you—the handbell and the distance and the patience? Or is it positive social contact you crave, so much so you’re shrugging off the fear in order to make a connection?

You don’t have much of a choice regarding socialization, considering he’s the only other living creature here, so maybe this was inevitable. Still, it’s amazing progress. He’s already itching to notify Crewel of this development.

“I think I can talk if I’m like this. Looking at someone’s eyes is too much for me.”

“Are you certain? I don’t want you to push yourself.”

“I’m sure. It’s not so scary if I’m looking at the floor.”

“All right.” Riddle gazes at your empty plate. “Dinner was good?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“Really?” He can’t stop himself. The question falls free. “Do you really mean that? You’re not just saying that?”

“I mean it. It’s delicious.”

Riddle smirks, feeling very accomplished. You can’t compare his cooking to anyone else’s, aside from whatever they fed you at the farm, and so that makes his the best. It’s an honor, even if said honor is awarded by default.

“I’m…not known for my cooking prowess, so I’m glad you find it enjoyable.”

“I do. I’ve never had anything like it before.”

He quirks a brow. “What have you had?”

“Round and red thing. Um… Orange thing with a green stem. Bland foods. Dry stuff.”

“Red… Apples?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a fruit. They’re sweet. Very nutritional.”

“Oh, that’s what it’s called? I never knew that. I like them a lot.”

“I’ll have to buy some then.”

“Will you really?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t do you any good if you were forcing yourself to eat something you hate.”

I should know. My mother’s cooking isn’t the most delightful cuisine.

Unseasoned some would call it. Ridiculously healthy, down to exact portions and perfect calorie counts. Riddle’s since learned to be more lenient with his meals, eating until he’s full rather than following the strict parameters he was once held to. Instead, he eats what he enjoys and keeps his health in check. He hopes to impart the same wisdom to you. You’ve already lived a nightmare. Now he’d like you to start living a wondrous dream.

“Oh. Um… T-Thank you.”

“There’s no need. I’m just doing my job.” He smiles even though you’re not looking. “I’m aware you’re not very partial to human interaction, but if you’re willing I’d like to help you get comfortable with it.”

“I can’t.”

An immediate rejection. No surprises there.

“Would it be okay if we start small with just me? You don’t have to agree. I can leave you alone if you’ve had enough.”

“I…can try. You’re not very scary and you’re not mean. You’ve never forced me to do anything either…”

“I’m here to help you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’re not lying? You… You won’t trick me later?” You lift your head to look at him, warily eyeing his face to search for a fib that isn’t there. “You won’t send me back to the farm or that cold place with the humans?”

I can’t promise that last one. Anything but that, he thinks. Once the year expires, you’ll be handed over to Crewel, where he’ll determine what to do from there under the jurisdiction of the higher-ups. But Riddle can’t share confidential information with you, especially since it’s something you won’t want to hear.

“I won’t do any of that. You have my word.”

The entire point of this program is to treat your fears and get you accustomed to humans. By the end of the year, you’ll probably be begging him to let you see and meet others. At least, that’s what he hopes will happen.

“And you won’t make me take any sleep medicine?”

“No needles or pills. I only ask that you continue taking the other medicines as prescribed.”

Nodding your acquiescence, you rise to your feet and take a reluctant step towards him. Silence stretches between the both of you. He watches, anticipating. But then you shake your head and take three steps back, pressing yourself against the wall.

“S-Sorry. I thought I could… Never mind.”

“You’ve only been here a short while, but you’re already making an attempt to communicate with me despite your apprehension. You’re very brave, (Name).”

“W-Well, you haven’t given me any reason to be scared. So… So I think I can trust you. Maybe…”

Trust is a powerful thing. A responsibility and a privilege all in one. Therefore, he won’t squander it.

That night, while in the process of drafting an email to Crewel, Riddle listens to your hooves on the hardwood as you move down the hall. He glances past his monitor to the small sliver of space between the door and wall, wondering if he imagined it due to his lack of sleep, but then he hears the guest room door creak open and shut softly.

Unbelievable, he thinks, stunned into silent amazement. She’s sleeping in the bedroom.

It feels too fast and too slow. Major progress on a minimal timeline. Again, he thinks he’s dreaming and so he steps out of his study to check the sitting room. It’s empty. You’ve even taken the suitcase with you. His mouth hangs open in muted shock.

Is she starting to feel comfortable here?

What felt like an impossibility at first is gradually becoming a reality.

The schedule worked.

Good things only ever come to those who wait. Perhaps this is a plausible proverb worth its salt. As the weeks pass and you continue to interact with him, Riddle begins to take note of your personality. You’re not nearly as fiery as Vorpal was, but you are very lively—so much so that it’s almost hard to keep up with sometimes. Riddle wonders if this is a side effect of the circumstances you came from. Forced to live a life of solitude, in which you were condemned to exist in silence and act as if invisible, you’ve taken to the idea of companionship rather swimmingly.

As the old saying goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Riddle has done everything in adherence with his own set of regulations, strict in his dedication to personal forbearance. And you’ve made miraculous progress, a testament to his persistence. Crewel seems to approve of the results, voicing his opinions in emails worded with pleasant praise. Riddle couldn’t have predicted where he’d be by this point, but with this steady stream of improvement he theorizes you’ll be more than ready by the end of the arrangement.

He told himself he’d keep a healthy distance, if only to avoid feeling even more sympathy and thereby compromising this study, but he can’t help it. You’re growing on him.

In the wake of everything, he’s managed to amend his own schedule. Riddle thought he could sleep at his desk and all would be well, but you didn’t seem to like that he was neglecting his health in order to look after yours. To his surprise, you nagged him: “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? It’s your job to know someone’s health, so don’t forget about yours.”

Aiming to placate you, he made the sofa in the sitting room his bed. He does that a lot—placate you. It’s not his intention to be a doormat—and he’s not—but he doesn’t like seeing you in pain or upset. Once, when he tried to slip out of the house to go grocery shopping, you interrogated him as if he was guilty of some serious crime, fearful that he’d leave and never return. No matter how much he assured you, you didn’t believe him and so, wanting to keep your eyes free of tears and your heart unburdened, he decided to order groceries online and have them sent to his doorstep. It was simpler and it chased away any thoughts you might have had regarding an abandonment that would never come to pass.

Riddle doesn’t take issue with it. You’re learning as you go, and he’s realizing that hybrids are much more complex than he once imagined. Of course they’d be, though. They’re half-human, too, possessing much of the same emotional intelligence as complete humans. And sometimes you prove to be more insightful than he is—he, the researcher who spent the majority of his early twenties shackled to his schoolwork.

He wonders if you have any goals for your life. Any important items on a bucket list you might want to cross off. Or maybe you’ve never had the pleasure of indulging in these kinds of musings, for you’ve never been allowed that happiness.

Riddle stares at his reflection in the milk, stirring what’s left of soggy cereal with his spoon. It’s New Year’s Eve, but this will likely be the first year she’s ever felt truly free. Twenty-something years of nothingness… I can’t imagine what that’s like.

But he can. Partially. He lived it, grew up with the hollow in his heart—a void that needed to be filled with validation (and sometimes still does today). He was only ever whole when his mother recognized his efforts and told him what was right from wrong.

He’s not like that anymore, but some days it really does feel like he’s falling back into inherited habits, a caricature of the imperfect.

A paper plate drops down onto the table. Riddle flinches out of his spiral to find you lowering into the seat across from him.

“I hope it’s okay to sit here. It’s just that… Well, you looked sad and lonely eating by yourself. I thought I’d keep you company. It gets boring sitting in the next room over.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” He coughs, coltish. “I’ve finished here, so you don’t need to force yourself.”

“Who said I was forcing myself? I want to sit here. If it’s okay, that is.”

“Oh. All right then.”

You beam at him, eating as if nothing’s amiss. He sits in silence. This is the first time you’re eating with him. Crewel will enjoy hearing about that in the next email.

“We’ve an hour until the new year,” he says, still awkward despite having known you for a little over three months now. It’s occurred to him that what he lacks in socializing he makes up for in logic. Although sometimes he envies those who can have stupid, mindless fun and not have to fret over reputations and repercussions. “Do you have any resolutions?”

“Resolutions for the next year… What’re those?”

“They’re like goals. Things you hope to accomplish throughout the year. There are all kinds of goals—personal and social and financial.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“New Year’s resolutions are notorious for being forgotten or discarded. Most people usually follow them within the first week before giving up.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s appeal in wanting to fix something you’ve been putting off. Sometimes we need excuses to do the things we don’t want to.”

“Do you have anything like that?”

Riddle hesitates around his answer. I should call my mother. It’s been some time. I should also reorganize my study. It’s starting to look a little cluttered. I should get better at cooking. I should learn new recipes…

“Not exactly,” he says instead. “My only resolution is to help you.”

Your ears perk up at that, and your tail swings freely from side to side. He cracks a small smile at this visible sign of merriment.

“I want to help you, too! I’ll talk more and I’ll help you in the kitchen. That way you’ll never be sad or lonely again.”

“Did I truly look so distressed?”

“It doesn’t fit on your face. I like seeing Dr. Rosehearts when he’s in a good mood, so please feel better.” You hold your hand out. “You’re the first human to be nice to me. I want to return the favor.”

Riddle peers at your outstretched arm. You’re standing up and leaning over the table in order to reach him. It’s an endearing sight. “I’m just doing my job. It’s nothing special,” he admits, modest.

“But it is to me. So… So thank you. I hope all of your resolutions come true, even if you don’t know them yet.”

He nods, finally closing his hand around yours. It’s warm in his grasp, a rightful fit that fills him with felicity. This is what life is all about, he soon realizes. It’s not just endless studying or mundane days spent cooped up in the lab. It’s about simple, slow pleasures—about little joys savored in peaceful solitude. It’s getting swept up in the sweetness of housebound happiness.

Riddle thought this was the stuff of legend, an impossible, idealistic fairy tale. Now he knows that’s not true because he’s living it, and it’s the most flavorful dream he’s ever encountered.

“Oh, that reminds me! They’re playing the New Year’s program on TV. Shall we watch the last few minutes together?”

You gasp, your eyes bright with wonder. “Can we?”

“Absolutely. I think you’ll like it. Do be warned, though. There may be fireworks. I know loud sounds aren’t exactly comforting for you.”

Riddle recalls the first time you heard the grandfather clock announce itself with its booming chime. You hid in the corner, trembling all throughout the night. At the time he could only try to talk you through the fear, unable to offer physical comfort. But now you’ve grown accustomed to the clock and its sounds.

“I think I’ll be okay. You’ll be with me, right? And you can just turn the volume down if it’s too loud.”

Humming his agreement, he stands from the table. He aims to be suave and falls short, the feeling bleeding into surprise when you release his hand and dash into the sitting room. He clicks his tongue and follows after you, amused.

The room seems much brighter when you’re in it.

“Hurry! Hurry! You said there’s not much time left. I wanna see the countdown.” You pat the sofa insistently.

Riddle claims the space beside you, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. He flips through the channels before landing on the right one. Just in time, too. It’s two minutes to midnight. With your stare pinned on the screen, Riddle’s free to admire you in secret. You’re practically vibrating with excitement, shifting and bouncing in one place. It’s impossible to imagine anyone wanting to hurt you when you’re too good for this world and its humans.

Perhaps that’s what makes it unfair.

The host holds a champagne flute in one hand and a microphone in the other, lifting it towards her co-host as they practice a playful toast. One minute left and then this tumultuous year will be behind him. He could spend it reflecting on every notable event from every month, on past years lived and lost to loneliness, but that would be futile. Nothing can compare to the time he’s lived with you, for those months are priceless and precious.

A timer displaying ten seconds flashes on the TV, descending through the numbers one by one. You stare, transfixed by the lights and sounds. Riddle watches you, drinking in your wide-eyed expressions like a man parched. The New Year is welcomed silently under his roof. No boisterous celebration needed. Distantly, just beyond his house or within the scene on TV, fireworks resound in joyous, explosive bangs. He intends to wish you a happy New Year, but you lean over and rest your head against his shoulder. He flinches, almost moving away out of instinct, but he remains seated. The contact is new but not terrible.

Opting to bask in the quiet alongside you, he clicks the volume down and watches what’s left of the program until you’re dozing. He’s never known peace quite like this before.

And while he guides you, sleepy and disoriented, to your bedroom, he wonders why he was ever trying so hard to stay impartial.

Three weeks into the New Year, Riddle’s woken at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. He blinks through the groggy haze of sleep, blindly feeling around for the switch on the coffee table. Lamplight casts the space in a pale yellow glow. You’re standing in the hall, fidgeting from hoof to hoof. He blinks, certain he’s dreaming, but you remain.

“(Name)? It’s late. What’s going on?”

“H-Hot,” comes your reply, thick and raspy.

Alarmed, he throws the covers off and sits up on the sofa. You flinch back, the reflex engraved into your being no matter how long it’s been.

“Sorry… Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just—ah. Um…” He swipes his tousled fringe out of his eyes, clumsy and half-asleep. “Come to me instead. It’ll be okay.”

You hesitate for a beat before staggering towards him, knees wobbling all the way. He listens to the shaky clip-clop of your hooves on the hardwood. “Feels weird,” you elaborate. “My head is all foggy…”

Upon closer inspection, Riddle realizes you’re sweating as if you’ve just run a grueling race. Now he’s wide-awake and worried. A potent combination.

“Let me check.”

He makes sure you see his hand first before he reaches to touch your neck, assessing your pulse. It’s pounding beneath his fingertips, a wild thrum of barely restrained ardor. He moves to touch your forehead next, but you seize his wrist. He stares at you, bewildered.

Shuddering like a leaf in autumn, you guide his hand to the space between your legs. Riddle’s breath hitches when he feels the wet patch soaking through your shorts. He stumbles away in his shock, tearing his arm out of your hold. You shrink back, looking hurt and betrayed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dazed while he watches you rub your thighs together.

Not good.

He knew this was coming, or he thought he knew. Admittedly, it was one of the last things he considered when making plans to house you. A major oversight that’s come back to bite him.

“W-What’s wrong? Is it bad?” You peer at him through lust-lidded eyes, your speech on the verge of slurring. “Am I gonna overheat and die?”

“What? No. No, of course not. It’s—you’re in estrus. I… I should’ve known better, but I didn’t and now—”

“Estrus? This isn’t sickness?”

“Have…” He swallows hard, palms unnaturally clammy. “H-Have you not experienced this before?”

“Mm, not that I remember… No, I usually—round things. A…pill. I was given pills,” you ramble in between high, reedy breaths, lashes fluttering. “Dr. Rosehearts, I can’t take it… S’hot all over. Make it stop. Please.”

Suppressants, he thinks and drags a hand over his face. It’s been put off for so long and now that you’re no longer on them it’s crashed into you all at once.

“I see. All right then. Well…” Riddle peeks at you through the cracks in his fingers. “I’m sorry. Had I known… If I was more adequately prepared, I’d have made sure to get you something… S-Something to help with…it…”

“You… You know how to make it go away, r-right?”

Riddle inhales sharply. “I…”

Riddle Rosehearts, don’t you dare, he reprimands himself. You know better.

Does he, though?

His mouth moves faster than his brain, sparing him the consequent morality crisis. Before he can slip into that debate, he instructs you to sit down and spread your legs.

“A-Are you sure that’ll help?”

“I promise,” he whispers, stressing the syllables. You take another moment to watch his face before nodding and obediently following his commands. He lowers to his knees like a sinner on trial, holding yours apart before they can close. “I’m here for you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, body tensing.

“Relax. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

“When?”

“It’ll be a few days. The estrous cycle for a mare usually lasts around twenty-one days. There are two phases—you’re in the first. You’ll feel like this for about a week, but I’ll do my best to help where I can.”

If I can.

You whine when his fingers drag against your skin. They hook around the waistband of your shorts and he slides them down.

Sensitive, he notes, lips curving up into a tiny smile. Cute.

He knows he shouldn’t go any further than this. His thoughts are enough to scandalize even the most open-minded researcher, and he can’t possibly include this in his biweekly report. Just what would Crewel think of him? What would any of his colleagues think? You’re a specimen, the focal point of his research, and he’s kneeling before you with a head full of obscene imagery. Riddle really should stop before he crosses the line between right and wrong and surpasses the point of no return.

There’s no coming back from this—no chance of returning to the dynamic of scientist and subject.

But what else can he do? Leave you in this state, where you’d feel sticky and miserable throughout the week? At the very least, if he’s going to throw morals aside and embrace depravity, he might as well relieve you of this biological burden. He can deal with his own later.

If he wanted to be clinical about it, he could dress in his uniform, don a pair of rubber gloves, and put on a surgical mask. Perhaps that would ease his guilty conscience. But he’s already come so far; it’s too late for any of that.

“Just breathe. You’re all right.”

You do so, inhaling and exhaling in shaky intervals. His dick, half-hard and yearning, throbs against his pajama pants. Pressing two fingers to the damp outline of your pussy, he feels your slick soaking through the fabric and knows it’s pointless to try to will his erection away with bland, boring thoughts. He couldn’t even if he wanted to—not when your voice is in his ears, your every gasp more alluring than the last.

“Please…” You grab at the blanket, throwing your head back against the sofa. “Please.”

You don’t even know what it is you’re begging for, but you’re begging nonetheless. Riddle finds the sight adorably addictive. He pokes and prods, tracing your folds through your underwear to estimate the exact shape and size. He’s proven correct when he peels the sodden garment away, tossing it over his shoulder.

“You’re very pretty here,” he observes, the ribald remark coming out more refined and flattering than he intended. “Like a rose in bloom.”

You shiver and whine impatiently. “Hurry… Make it go away—please, Dr. Rosehearts.”

He wants to take his time exploring, the researcher side of his brain infinitely intrigued. But that’s not feasible when you look just about ready to melt into a puddle of sweat. So he does away with any ideas of foreplay, abandoning the thought of building tension when it’s already at its peak, and slides two fingers along your puffy slit. You gasp and shiver when those digits circle your clit, massaging the area generously. He’s not sure what he’s doing at first, the motions foreign to his clumsy fingers, but he’s studied so many anatomy diagrams in his time and it boosts some of his confidence. That’s really all that guides him along. There’s also the lust, but he’s ignoring it. Sort of.

Not really.

Riddle slides his fingers deeper, amazed at how easily they’re sucked in. You cry out and buck your hips up to meet his hand.

“M-More—oh!”

“Greedy thing,” he mumbles, but there isn’t any bite to the non-insult. “I’ve only just put them in and you’re already feening for more.”

“Sorry. Sorry… I—haa—I can’t help it.”

“It’s all right. Only fair, after all.” He glances up at you and smiles angelically. “This is to be expected. It’s your first heat.”

“First heat… You mean there’s more?”

Riddle’s breath catches in his throat. How should he explain it—that this will happen every breeding season and there’s nothing to stave the inevitable? Unless, of course, medicine is used to tamper with hormones and cycles. Riddle wonders if Crewel would send some over if he asked, but that would require telling him about this and he doesn’t want to risk being too grossly candid.

“It’s…complicated. You don’t need to concern yourself with the specifics right now. Let’s just focus on getting through this one, okay?”

“Okay.”

His other hand rubs appreciatively along your inner thigh. “Good girl.”

You smile and sink back against the sofa. Riddle sets to work driving his fingers in and out, curling them every now and then to stretch you and admire the way your pussy weeps. It’ll be a pain to clean the couch, but it’s not like he’s particularly attached to it. He’s due for a new one anyway. Your gasps fill the room with pretty pitches of pleasure. He gazes at your face as it flickers through desperation and desire, both blending together to make you look perfectly blissed-out. If you had any thoughts in that head, they’re all but pomace now. Surely, otherwise you’d be more coherent in between shameless moans.

There’s a side of Riddle that knows, and it takes all of his willpower not to address it. It’s just part of any animal’s biological clock. Of course you’d be thinking about it, whether consciously or not, during your heat. At the very least, if not your brain, your body recognizes the imperative to sink down on his three fingers all at once as if they’re a cock.

But he can’t lose in his internal war with ethicality. Because if he loses it’ll end with you pumped full of as much cum as he can possibly give, and then he’ll be known as the man who knocked up his hybrid specimen. It’s tempting like the worst drug, a sure-fire way to distort his linear logic. It’s bad; he knows. But it would be so much better to replace his fingers with the real thing and fulfill mutual urges in unison.

I wish.

He can’t, so he won’t fall prey to the charm of concupiscence.

It takes a few more determined thrusts and a pinch to your clit, and you’re squirting on his fingers with a pornographic squeal. He stares at the mess dampening the blanket in muted astonishment.

Riddle didn’t know a reaction like this was possible.

He’s humiliated at his inexperience. His lessons in anatomy have always been strictly scientific, and he’s never explored anything outside of that box. He’s never been horny enough to masturbate to porn either. To think the human body is capable of such a feat when caught in the throes of ecstasy… Just what else can you do?

You’re panting when you come down from your orgasm, eyes pinned on the ceiling. He knows you’re nowhere near satiated and so, after determining you’re okay, he continues his ministrations. He’s just being greedy now. Can you blame him?

“Dr. Rosehearts, I want—” your fingers wrap around his wrist, testing his restraint, but he resists the temptation— “I want more… Deeper. Bigger. Please…”

“I… I can’t,” he manages, the words strained with regret.

He wants nothing more than to plaster you to the sofa and rut into you with reckless abandon, hard and fast and then soft and slow. Enough times to ensure you’d be staggering on unsteady hooves come morning. He’d do so in a heartbeat if not for the repercussions and the rules, an entire novel’s worth of them reminding him of the facts. He can’t win in a match against nature. It’s impossible.

“I’ll be good. I won’t ask for anything ever again. So please—”

Riddle heaves a mournful sigh. “I want to help, but this is as much as I can do—as far as we can go. I’m sorry.”

The risks are greater than the reward. I can’t.

But he wants to.

I could lose my job. I’d be outcasted. They’d never look at me the same.

You fix your lips into a despairing moue and pat the space beside him. “Then… C-Can you come up here? Sit next to me.”

With his fingers still thrust up inside you, he rises from the floor and moves in to kneel on the cushions beside you. His arm wraps around you to keep you steady while the other remains between your legs. This newfound proximity allows you to cling to him, and you fall back onto the sofa with him on top. Riddle adjusts the position to straddle you, trapped between your legs as they close around his waist. He props himself up with his other hand, placed right beside your head. You loop your arms around his neck and drag him down, endeavoring to pin your bodies like priceless art on a wall. He doesn’t object, allowing himself to be pulled.

Riddle peers into your glossy eyes. Fairy-tale tears cling to your lashes, trickling down your cheeks in delicate droplets.

“How do you feel? Any better?”

“Still the same,” you grieve, chest heaving. Your eyes trail down to the very obvious tightness in his pants, and you quickly blink overstimulated tears away. “You… You’re in estrus, too?”

He almost cums right then when you press your palm against his crotch. Momentarily stunned, he bows his head and tamps down a gratuitous groan.

How, pray tell, is he supposed to win the war when he’s the weakest soldier of all, tethered to his restraint by a flimsy set of morals?

“No, not estrus. No, this is—” He hisses through his teeth, his brows furrowing. “H-Hold on. If you touch there…”

As he says it, he rocks against your hand. You squeeze him through his pants, and the hand that had been diligently caressing your cunt stops for a brief second. He can’t get carried away, but he’s already on the verge of cumming and you’ve only touched him twice. Not even skin to skin but through fabric! That must be a new form of pathetic.

“I wanna help you, too.”

“Yes—right, I understand. But it’s not—” 

Riddle swallows the rest of that sentence, breathing hot and heavy. His attempt to feign composure is weak. He knows there’s no point to it, but he tries anyway. A wasted effort. Before he can think any further, he reaches down to grab your hand. He lifts it to his lips, hesitates, and then presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. You watch him through hazy eyes, warming beneath him like cinders in a hearth.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

You grip his hand with renewed affection. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

Riddle can feel the blush setting his face aflame. ��Perfectly fine. This is normal.”

His fingers delve deeper, searching for that special spot within, and the discussion ends there. Your protests taper off into lewd incoherency. He decides then that he’ll buy you a few toys to make up for tonight.

Better bloodless silicone than something with real risk, he concludes, watching you twitch and writhe.

He’s made up his mind. 

Or so he thinks.

You reach for his cheek, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. He smiles and leans into your touch. It’s fleeting, a mere few seconds of sweetness, and then that same hand is at the back of his head. You yank him down with surprising force and smash your lips against his. He freezes like he’s just fallen into arctic waters, his fingers halting inside of you.

It’s Riddle’s first kiss at thirty-one.

He doesn’t outwardly panic, but his mind is a muddle. He should kiss back, shouldn’t he? But he’s never kissed before! How does one even go about kissing? Is there a technique he should practice to perfection? Does that even exist? He’s drowning in so much distracting doubt that he almost misses the way your tongue slides across his lower lip.

If there exists a method to his madness, this is surely it.

Riddle kisses you like he’s dying. There’s no rhythm to the exchange. It’s a mere meeting of mouths and minds, brought together for the singular purpose of hedonistic indulgence. His thoughts are all but dumb mush by the third kiss. Not that he really needs to think about anything at all. You’re teetering on the edge once more; he can see it on your face. Your ears twitch at every new sound he makes, curious and content. You’re not afraid.

He’s so relieved. You trust him, and he trusts you.

Gasping into your mouth, he pulls his hand from between your legs and grabs hold of your hips, dragging you closer. He doesn’t need to look to know he’s already soiled his underwear, cum dampening the fabric. All at once he feels like less of a level-headed adult and more of an insatiable adolescent who’s just learned of sex for the first time. Which, technically, this is his first time. Yours, too. 

And he’s ashamed. Not because he came from kissing alone, but because he didn’t get to do it inside—and it’s a dangerous thought like this one that stokes the shame in his belly until it’s near-volcanic. Despite this, he can’t stop himself from rutting against you, still fully-clothed and achingly stiff. 

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

“What is it?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead.

A sob shakes through your body like a seismic tremor. “Please… Please just put it in. I can’t take it anymore. Hurts.”

“Next time. For now…” He swallows the lump in his throat. It’s not wise to make promises like that, but he’s come so far already. “This will have to suffice. I’m sorry.”

You nod even though you look like you want to argue. To make up for it, he peppers your face with quick kisses until a dreamy grin sprawls on your face.

“There we are. A pretty smile for a pretty lady. No sadness, okay?” He brushes your clit again and you’re gone, tipped over the edge into a mind-numbing climax. “Just relax for tonight. You’re in capable hands, my dear.”

The hours stretch on into a vicious cycle of hot and cold. You emerge from the haze long enough to snack on apple slices and toast before you’re inevitably pawing at his arm for assistance. He suspects the days that follow will be the same, exhausting not only his body and its physical and mental capacities but his patience as well. It’s nothing he can’t handle. He didn’t survive years of higher education just to lose to his dick. What sort of researcher would he be if he allowed that to happen?

Embarrassingly, the first item on Riddle’s list for next month’s necessities is a box of condoms. I won’t need it, but it’s important to be prepared, he reasons. Just in case. But even he knows that’s a bald-faced lie.

So he decides he’ll get two boxes.

Partway through the program, Riddle receives a benumbing email. Notwithstanding the upbeat, jazzy notes spilling from the record player, the melody doesn’t put his frazzled nerves to rest. If anything, it serves as background music for his worries.

I’ve been in contact with the higher-ups. They’re quite impressed with your results. If all continues to go well, we might just be able to find a home for her. A few buyers have already expressed interest. Keep up the fine work, Dr. Rosehearts.

- Divus Crewel

Riddle must have read those five lines a dozen times before he decides to confront the truth. The lab is making plans to sell you after rehabilitation.

“There’s no feasible way… What is he thinking?” Riddle mumbles, scrolling through old emails to distract himself. “This is a process. He can’t just—he can’t shove her into society and expect all to be well! She’s not some pet to be sold off either.”

He lowers his head onto his desk, fighting the urge to yawn and simultaneously filter through the stages of grief. It’s late. He should get to bed. But how can he sleep with this weighing heavy on his mind?

“Ridiculous,” he snaps with a scoff, returning to the email once more. “Risible, even. I won’t allow it.”

His fingers tap the keys one by one, hesitant at first. Eventually, he types a harsh, angry message that reads more like a rant than a respectful email. Riddle simmers in that tension while he deletes every word. It helps a little—grounds him enough to start drafting a real email. He types in time with the energetic sax and drums, each blending together to form a seamless flow. Relaxing in his office chair, he taps his foot to the rhythm.

Just then, his door opens. He sees your ears over the top of his computer and pushes away from his desk to take you in from head to toe. You look comfortable in your satin nightgown, tail frizzy and tangled from rolling around in bed. He’s reminded of the times he’d brush Vorpal, smoothing down his coat with even strokes.

“Dr. Rosehearts?” you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Did I wake you? Sorry… I’m a little busy with work right now and I lost track of the time.” He glances at the record player. “I’ll stop this so you can go back to—”

“Oh, no! No, please don’t. I like it.”

“Ah, is that so? In that case, come closer. Let’s listen together.”

He lifts the tonearm to play the song from the beginning. Music soon filters out of the turning vinyl. You hurry to his side, placing your hands on his desk and leaning in close to peer at the record player. He watches your tail swish languidly.

“Amazing… How does it do that?”

“Play music?” You nod eagerly, and he smiles. “The needle runs across every groove on the record, and from there it takes the vibrations from the moving record to make sound.”

“Wow. That’s so fancy.”

Riddle chuckles. “Actually, it’s a bit dated. I’ve had it for quite some time. Nowadays, everyone’s streaming music from their phones because it’s easier.”

That’s what the youth do, right? he thinks desperately, as if you might correct him.

“But this is so wonderful! I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s like…magic.”

“Is it really?” Riddle doesn’t realize he’s propped his elbow against his desk, his cheek resting casually in his palm. He snaps out of the daze moments later and clicks the email away even though he knows you can’t understand it. “Here—pull up that chair. You can move the books.”

You do as you’re told, dragging it over and plopping down without hesitation. “So what’s this song called?”

“It’s a classic. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ to be more specific.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a metaphor of sorts. He’s singing about how much his loved one makes him feel—that he feels very happy whenever he’s with them. Up in the clouds. On the moon. Of course this is an impossible feat for just anyone to accomplish—flying to the moon, I mean—so that alone is supposed to describe just how elated he is with his lover.”

“Lover? Is that like you and me?”

He knows you don’t mean it in that context, but he still flusters. Awkwardly, he coughs into his hand. “N-Not exactly… This is a love song. A romantic love song.”

“Ohhh.” You gaze at the record as it spins, head cocked to the side. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s like—” Riddle pauses, unsure of how to properly explain the concept of romance when he himself has never understood it. His mother and father are not a romantic standard by any means. Still, he has to make an effort. “There are different kinds of love. Romantic love is…love in which you can share intimacy and affection with another person. Like kissing or holding hands. Dating and marriage. At least, I think it’s something like that…”

“Then what about that time you helped me during my heat? Is that also romantic love?”

Riddle shakes his head, recalling that night with ferocious clarity. “That’s a little different.”

“How so? We kissed, didn’t we?”

“Y-Yes… But that was just a physical way of expressing desire.”

“Desire?”

“You don’t have to be in love to kiss someone. Sometimes it’s a matter of physical attraction. Besides, you weren’t thinking clearly that night.”

Neither was I, but that’s besides the point.

“Oh. But, Dr. Rosehearts, I like you because you’re nice. I think you’re very smart, too. And you’re always here to help! Physical or not, you’re amazing.”

Riddle blinks back at you. Your bold, plain-spoken nature never fails to surprise. He exhales a long breath, as if he’s losing air and slowly deflating, and places his hand on your head. You allow him to pet you, your eyes falling shut. He scratches behind your ears, carding his hand through your scalp. A wave of intense sorrow washes over him. In just two months, you’ll be on your way out the door and he’ll never see you again. He can’t allow that. But what else is he supposed to do to prevent that? He has a job to do and rules to follow. What he really needs is more time. More months to stall the inevitable.

A year passes much too quickly when it’s lived out in serenity. He’s gotten too used to living like this—to the beauty and bliss of friendly coexistence.

“Thank you for saying so,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to your face. You lean into his palm, eyes flicking open to watch him. He runs his thumb over your cheek.

In just two months, he’ll lose the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The song swells once more before trickling into a joyful conclusion. His arm falls to his side. 

“Let’s listen to another one, yes?”

“Can we really?”

“We can listen to as many as you’d like.”

“You’re the best!”

With a chuckle, Riddle rifles through the many records on his shelves, each organized by decade and genre. He skims through them until he lands on one in particular, pulling it free from its confinement. He admires the design on the sleeve for a short moment before taking the record out and exchanging it with the former. It’s packed away in its original casing, placed back on the shelf in its rightful spot.

“This one’s good, too. I think you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?”

He sets the tonearm down. “‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’ Another classic.”

You sit and listen to the music alongside him, absorbing every honeyed lyric. And then, after the instrumental has reached its excitable peak, you grin knowingly. “You sure like your love songs.”

Riddle laughs sheepishly. “It does seem like that, doesn’t it?”

Some of his first records were albums and single songs purchased from his time abroad. He can’t remember what compelled him to poke his head inside the little record store set into some obscure, hole-in-the-wall location in a quiet corner of the city. Maybe it was curiosity or a longing for a new learning experience. He’ll never forget the wise words of the shop owner, though: “Music is special in that it’s like food. There’s something for everyone. And if nothing else, music brings us together and allows us to forget our troubles for a moment to soak in the song itself.”

Since then, Riddle’s developed an affinity for collecting records. New and old, they’ve filled the shelves in his study over the years. The shop owner’s words are abundantly clear now. Sharing music is a lovely thing. Sitting with you, delighting in the stories and messages woven into beautiful instrumentals, Riddle realizes he’s never known this feeling before. This gentle connection. Maybe he’s happy someone else can appreciate these songs alongside him, or maybe there’s more to it than simple enjoyment.

“Love songs are so beautiful…”

He hums his agreement, basking in the singer’s whimsical voice as he admits, “‘And let me love you, baby. Let me love you…’”

You fall silent then, and he assumes you’re listening and imagining all sorts of fluffy scenarios to pair with the tune. But when he turns to check if you’re still sitting there, he finds you staring at him.

“Is this one no good? I can change it. Would you like to hear something from another decade or in another language? We don’t have to stay in the fifties and sixties.”

“No, this is fine. I’m just looking at you.”

“May I ask why?”

“You looked so peaceful. The Dr. Rosehearts I know usually looks stressed or sleepy.”

Now acutely aware of the dark circles under his eyes, Riddle winces. He does have that look about him, doesn’t he? The gloomy, sleep-deprived sort that puts into question whether he’s the sociable type.

“I’ll make an effort to fix my schedule.”

“Please do so as soon as possible. You have to promise.”

He snorts, amused. “I promise, Dr. (Name).”

Your once-serious expression softens, and you giggle. “You’re the doctor here, not me!”

I’m not a very good one, he thinks. Good doctors don’t feel these things for their patients.

Frankie Valli fills the quiet with his heartfelt declarations: “I love you, baby. And if it’s quite alright I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night.”

He’s not sure what he’s doing when he leans forward. The tug is magnetizing, tension budding and blossoming in time with the rhythm of the song. You meet him halfway to close the gap. It’s an innocent peck. Nothing as libidinous as last time. You drift away slightly, still staring into his soul. If he felt like it, he could move in for another kiss.

“C-Can we—”

And he does. Unlike last time, his lips mold to yours naturally. He’s still not very confident in his technique, or lack thereof, but this time he’s led on by a desire more potent than bodily cravings. Riddle places his hands on the chair to cage you in. You reciprocate in this manner, grabbing his shoulders to drag him closer. The both of you kiss each other breathless, unable to keep away. You dig your fingers in his hair and melt into the messiness. Riddle knows he’s not dreaming. That assumption withers into nothing after the fifth kiss.

It’s when the song has ended that he pulls back, his heart in his throat and his eyes blown wide. A single strand of saliva connects your mouths, snapping when you move further back. The feeling that courses through his body, electrifying his nerves with pinpricks of anxious excitement, is exhilarating.

“Yes,” he manages, hoping you’ll understand. His fingers interlace with yours. “Yes, we can.”

The tonearm is lifted from the record, but that’s as far as he gets before you’re seizing his wrist and yanking him towards your bedroom. He just manages to snatch a handful of condoms from his desk drawer on his way out.

Rather impatiently, you shove him down on your bed. He stares, stunned by your intrepid temperament, so much so that he’s almost boneless when you make quick work of his clothes. They’re thrown aside in your haste. You strip yourself of your nightgown next. The frilly fabric pools at your hooves. He’s not sure why his first instinct is to give you privacy, shielding his view. But then you’re crawling onto the bed and pulling his arms aside. You peer down at him, smiling hopefully.

Lying flat on his back, Riddle thinks he just went to Heaven and met an angel.

You palm him through his underwear, and he’s ashamed that he’s already hard and leaking pre-cum. You don’t seem to mind. In fact, he watches your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. The one thing he deprived you of in the midst of your heat when you needed it most, and now you get to have it. He’d be a fool to try to deny the fact that he’s also just as eager to sink himself inside you and make good on a promise he uttered long ago.

He squeaks when you seat yourself on his lap and wiggle your hips like a slut. Despite the fabric preventing raw skin to skin contact, he can still feel the outline of your pussy pressing against his erection. He’s dizzy and overwhelmed, still in disbelief that this is even happening.

“I think about you a lot,” you admit suddenly, and his eyes flick from your waist to your face.

“What?” he mutters oh-so-smartly.

“When I’m in the bath, I think about that night you helped me and I—” You bite your lip, coy and shy and so cute. As if you couldn’t get even more appealing. Oh, you’re driving him wild. “I touch myself and pretend it’s you. I use the toys you got me, but it’s not the same. It’s not you.”

Riddle’s eyes widen to a comical size. “Does…” His mouth dries up. “Does it have to be me?”

“Yes, it has to be you. Who else?”

His fingers dance along your bare stomach, tracing a path towards your breasts. Indeed, who else? Who else if not him, the only human qualified to care for and protect you?

“You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve helped.”

“Why didn’t you before?”

“It was reckless. I couldn’t…”

You rock your hips. He hisses through his teeth. “I don’t care about risks and consequences.”

But I do.

Does he, though? Does he, Riddle Rosehearts, really, truly, honestly care about those things? He thinks he does—knows he ought to—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He’s still going to use a condom. So maybe he cares a little. He’s not that impetuous.

It takes some persuading, but he manages to convince you to get off of him long enough so he can pull your panties off. His underwear goes next. He intends to switch to missionary, hoping to be romantically memorable, if not predictably traditional. But you push him back down. He doesn’t object to this. Witnessing you take charge is more fascinating than anything he had in mind. Most of his ideas for tonight are plainly vanilla. He’d probably cum if you traced the palm lines on his hand.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks, fumbling to unwrap a condom. He’s impressed when he rolls it on one-handed. He practiced that same trick weeks ago, determined to master it then and impress you later. It’s not a useful skill by any means, but it looks attractive. “If you’d rather we take things slowly—”

“I can’t wait any longer. Please,” you beg, querulous. “I need you right now or I’ll die!”

He laughs at your dramatics. “Well, in that case, we best not delay.”

Riddle drinks all of you in as you wrap your hand around him. He sucks in a shuddering breath, tensing on instinct when you line yourself up. The head of his cock prods at your folds. Suddenly, he has no idea what to do or where to put his hands.

“Relax. It’s okay,” you murmur, squeezing him for good measure. He throbs in your hand. How is he going to restrain himself when he’s already on the precipice? You’ll be the death of him.

Your face contorts with concentration, brows knitted and lips pursed, and you bore down slowly. He doesn’t want to miss a moment of this, so he forces his eyes open. Awkwardly, he searches for your hands and, finding them, holds on tight. You offer him a wobbly smile, your fingers curling sweetly around his. It’s a slow process. You don’t seem to be in any rush and neither is he. Inches are swallowed gradually. He’s certain it’d feel better without the protection, but that’s something to consider for the future. Right now he’s focused on you, on the way you gasp and dig your nails into his hands, on the way your walls clench around his cock in a slick, sinful embrace.

“You’re doing so well.” One of his hands slides from your grasp to rub your hip. “Take your time.”

“Dr. Rosehearts—” you place your hand over his, flustered— “Dr. Rosehearts—”

“Riddle,” he blurts. “My first name.”

“Riddle… It’s lovely just like you.”

He flushes scarlet up to his ears. “Is it?”

“Mhm. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess—” he groans when you shift on his lap— “guess it never occurred to me.”

I was trying to distance myself. If I’m Dr. Rosehearts to you, it’s easier to avoid the obvious. He sighs, but it comes out pleasured instead of wistful. What even is the obvious?

He can’t admit it outright because then it would be real—more so than a passing thought. He can’t even be sure if you feel the same! Why ruin a good thing? Riddle wonders if that question matters as much as it used to. After all, none of this will mean anything in two months.

“I’m gonna start moving.”

Your voice brings him back to the present. Why is he even looking ahead in the first place? Two months is plenty of time. Even though he soothes himself with this fact, he knows it’s not enough. He’s acting greedy and spoiled, coveting more than just temporary tranquility.

He’d grouse that it’s not fair, but it’s never been fair. He has no room to voice his complaints, and even if he does he’s certain he won’t be heard. This is a reality he must accept.

You lift yourself off of him and slam down in one quick motion. Throwing your head back, you gasp in unison with him. It’s snug and warm, but it’s perfect. You squirm and search for the right pace while he encourages you with a patient smile. Within no time, you settle into the rhythm, fucking yourself on him like a natural, and he can only admire your figure from below, his hands permanently laced with yours. You look and feel soft. It’s the only adjective flitting about in his head while he follows your bouncing tits, entranced like they’re the most fascinating thing on the planet. And to him, a virgin at thirty-one, they most certainly are.

The hand that had been petting your waist glides over to the space between your legs. He marvels at the way you’re stretched around him, inches sliding in and out with your gyrations. Loud, bawdy moans spill from your parted lips. Finding his confidence, he grinds his thumb into your clit to watch you come further undone. It prompts more whines from the depths of your throat.

“Yes! Oh, thank you, Dr. Rosehearts. Please keep touching me there!”

“Unless you tell me, I don’t intend to stop.” He didn’t even know his voice could reach a pitch as deep as it does, tinged thick with a ravenous lust. “You’re such a pretty girl… So sweet for me.”

“It’s—ooh!—just like the song.” You tilt your head at him, eyes glittering in the dimming dark. “I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

Riddle thinks he’s losing his mind because, though it’s so far from funny, he giggles like an infatuated schoolgirl. “‘You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,’” he quotes, beside himself with euphoria. He meets your plush ass halfway, bucking his hips up into you. Your grip on his hand tightens. “Do you remember the rest? ‘Pardon the way that I stare…’”

“‘There’s nothin’ else to compare.’” 

“‘The sight of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak.’”

“That’s it!” A bright smile blesses the beautiful face that’s left him besotted. It’s taken time, but you’ve blossomed under his care. He’s proud of you. “I’ve got good memory, don’t I? I only listened to it once, but I remembered the line.”

“You have excellent memory,” he praises, rewarding you with another gentle massage to your clit.

“Will you—mmh, haa… Will you play more love songs for me?”

Riddle hesitates. It’s just music. There doesn’t have to be any deeper meaning involved, and he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. He thinks he should distance himself, dig a cavern before he falls any further, but that’s impossible when your bodies are so closely connected. And he likes sharing slices of his life with you. It’s like marriage but without the legalities or ceremony. You’ve never had a surname of your own. You could take his and the unofficial could become official within the confines of this little paradise.

“O-Of course,” he answers around a groan, his composure cracking.

The conversation falls apart when you set to work fucking yourself on him. It’s salaciously slapdash, the way the squelch of skin on skin reverberates in the room. He’s nearing the edge of ecstasy, as are you, and he feels free. Unbound by the rules, if only for tonight.

He allows himself to wade through passionate waters, his body ablaze with unquelled vehemence. Time trickles onwards. He rubs you to your peak, witnesses you squirt with a noisy cry. You call out for him and something in him snaps. His fingers dig into your hips and he drags you down on top of him. Riddle fucks you through your orgasm, fueled by your tearful gaze. You babble senselessly—how good it is, how you never want him to stop, how it’s too much and too little and just enough all at once. It’s not long until he’s reaching his apogee. Eyes shut, lips pressed in a thin line, he holds you still when he spills over.

Riddle comes back to himself seconds later, blinking through the fog. You pet his hair fondly, flopping beside him. Instinctively, he brings his hand up to your head to return the gesture. The two of you are a tacky, breathless mess, reeking of sex and sin. It’s an invigorating smell, waking him right up.

“Again,” you plead.

You shimmy enough for his cock to slide out. Riddle doesn’t know his limits yet, but he expects to be mostly flaccid. So it’s a pleasant surprise to find he’s still somewhat hard. Vibrating with a woozy sort of giddiness, his stomach a butterfly garden, he removes and ties the condom filled with his spend. He almost doesn’t believe it. His first time with you. More than just fingers and kisses. Sex.

He pulls you closer, flipping the position so that you’re caged beneath him and he’s on top. “Give me a minute and then we’ll go again.”

You open your mouth to demand more, so he grants that unspoken wish with a kiss. Your fingers wrap carefully around his cock while you lick languidly into each other’s mouths. It’s dangerous, the hold you have on him; he ought to have a new condom within reach. Just in case.

“You’re not tired?”

Riddle grins, smug. “I should be if I want to fix my schedule.”

You pout. “Do that tomorrow.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

The night is long and sleepless, but, tangled in your arms, it’s the most bliss he’s ever known.

Like a dreadful harbinger of calamity, destined to descend at the expiration of two months, Crewel arrives a day earlier than what Riddle was expecting.

“Shit,” he mutters, carding his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You peer at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t what we agreed upon,” he’s rambling to himself, pacing before the door. “I specifically said I would bring her in tomorrow. We still have one more day. This isn’t—this is completely unfair!”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You tap his shoulder and he startles.

“Oh, (Name)! Hello. Did I worry you? I’m a little…troubled. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He smooths his hair down. “Can you wait in the bedroom? I’ll be back. I just need to talk to someone. I won’t be more than a few minutes.”

Riddle flashes you a soothing smile that’s mostly forced, but it does the trick. You linger for a moment before turning and retreating down the hall. Inhaling a steadying breath, he grips the handle and steps outside. The door shuts softly behind him. He feels brittle, like he’ll break at the slightest tap.

“Dr. Crewel, this isn’t what we discussed.”

“I thought I’d come a day in advance. That shouldn’t be a detriment to the results.”

“It is, actually. I haven’t had time to tell her about…” He shakes his head. “You can’t take her. Not today. She isn’t ready.”

“If your emails are any proof, I’d say she’s plenty ready.” Crewel folds his arms and eyes Riddle dubiously. “Furthermore, I don’t believe this is the proper place to hold a private conversation.”

“I urge you to reconsider. She’s—Dr. Crewel, it’s only been a year. She’s not ready for other humans.”

“But she’s at peace with you.”

“And she won’t be with you—or anyone else, for that matter.” He steps in front of Crewel when he strides forward to grab the door knob. Riddle bristles, threatened. “I refuse to throw her back into an unsafe environment. We can’t even be sure the buyers will treat her well.”

“Of course we can. Background checks exist for a reason. She’ll go to a good home.”

“She doesn’t need a ‘good home.’ This is wrong, Dr. Crewel. I agreed to rehabilitate her. That was all.”

“And you’ve done just that. Nothing more and nothing less.” Crewel sighs. “Dr. Rosehearts, I understand your attachment is coming from a place of sympathy, but a good trainer knows to separate himself from the pup he’s looking after.”

You’re wrong.

Riddle opens his mouth to object, but Crewel’s eyes narrow. “Before you speak, I advise you to take your surroundings into account.”

With a stiff nod, he submits and opens the door. Crewel steps inside and peers around the interior in search of you. It’s then when Riddle notices the pack slung over his shoulder. It reminds him of a medical kit. His heart drops into his stomach.

“Who are these buyers? Are they safe? Trustworthy? Do they have any criminal offenses noted on their records?”

“The Felmiers are a reliable lot. They run a family-owned apple orchard in Harveston. They have a son around her age. I’m certain she’ll get along with him. Arrangements have already been made to deliver her by next week or so. Should all go well, I intend to follow that schedule.”

Riddle stares at him, gutted like a goldfish.

“You…” He barks out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Did you think I wasn’t?” Shrugging the pack off, Crewel sets it on the table. He slides on a pair of latex gloves before procuring a syringe from inside. He flicks the needle before turning towards Riddle. “Now then, is the hybrid around?”

“Are you mad?” he hisses, intercepting Crewel on his way down the hall. “No needles. No sedatives. She’ll go peacefully if you give me time to talk to her. With all due respect, Dr. Crewel, your sudden arrival will stress her out. She’s not expecting you. She’s only comfortable with me.”

“That’s why I plan to put her to sleep. We can avoid most of that.” Crewel gestures to the syringe. “Would you prefer to do it instead?”

“I’d prefer to do it another way.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.” Crewel brushes past him. “I’d like to be back at the lab before noon.”

Riddle grits his teeth, frantically scraping his brain for a solution. There has to be something he can do—anything! He’s a researcher; it’s in his blood to be innovative and intelligent. But what else can he do? He has to protect you. He has to comfort you. He’s supposed to do all of these important tasks, and Crewel’s ruining it. Putting hard work and progress aside, he doesn’t want to destroy the trust you’ve placed in him.

Before he can get swept up in a panic, your frightened whinny pierces the air. His heart crumbles in his chest.

“Dr. Crewel, wait!” He hurries into the room just in time to find the lead researcher gripping your arm. You lock stares with him from where you’re cowering in the corner, tears running down your cheeks in salty rivulets. The uncertainty flashing in your eyes is almost tangible, spotted with flecks of fear. “Don’t panic. It’s okay! He’s just—we’re bringing you back to the lab for…tests. You’ll be okay. He won’t hurt you.”

But that’s a lie. All of it is.

You attempt to yank your arm back, but Crewel holds firm. “Be a good pup and listen to Dr. Rosehearts.”

“No! Let go of me!” You thrash, kicking out with your hooves and narrowly missing Crewel’s ankle. You glance fiercely at him, your expression broken and betrayed. “Dr. Rosehearts, you promised! You said you wouldn’t—you promised!”

He did, didn’t he?

With a clenched jaw, Riddle turns his back on you. There’s nothing he can say or do to make it better. You fight Crewel with everything you’ve got, crying out when the needle pierces your skin, and you continue to struggle up until the sedative takes effect. Eventually, your sniffles and sobs grow silent and your body falls still, breathing evening out into something peaceful. Riddle frowns at you when he turns around.

“You care. That much is apparent,” Crewel comments as he gathers you in his arms, passing Riddle the empty syringe. He stares at it, frigid and unfeeling. “But I expect you to exhibit just a little more professionalism next time.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again,” he grinds out, stepping aside to allow Crewel passage. “I’ll pack the suitcase and then we can be off.”

The drive to the lab is made in stifling silence. Riddle follows behind Crewel, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanche. By the time he’s made it to the facility, he’s a numb husk.

I should’ve done something.

But what can he do? This was unavoidable.

Like an empty puppet, he walks woodenly beside Crewel. He’s back where he began: the examination room where he first encountered you. Only this time it’s not for a meeting but, rather, a departure. Crewel lays you down on the metal table, delegating orders to the few lingering assistant researchers. They spring into action and strap you down. It’s the same rigmarole as before. Nothing new.

“The Felmiers… Have you met them in person?” he asks, absentmindedly skimming the file on the family in question. He reads what he can stomach and, though he hates to admit it, they really do seem like a safe match for you.

“We’ve talked over the phone a few times.” Crewel studies your hooves, checking each in case you’re in need of new horseshoes. Unlikely. Riddle made sure to reshod you two weeks ago. “You’re welcome to accompany me to their farm. I’m sure the hybrid would appreciate a familiar face.”

“I’ll consider it.” He sets the file down on the counter before reaching into an open drawer to procure cotton swabs, gauze, and antiseptic wipes—among a few other useful items. “I would like a moment alone with her once she’s awake.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to clear the air. Is that enough?”

Riddle considers the speed at which his deft hands work. “Twenty would be better. She’ll be disoriented and frightened when she wakes. She’ll need time to settle down so that I can properly explain her situation.” He glances over his shoulder at Crewel. “I’ll need a sedative in case she lashes out.”

Crewel nods towards an assistant researcher. “Get that for him, will you?”

She nods and speeds out the door. By the time she’s returned, the rest of the researchers have finished their assessment of you. Crewel smiles approvingly.

“She’s much healthier than she was a year ago.”

“Aside from correcting her eating habits, I made sure she took her vitamins and supplements.” Riddle rifles through another drawer for a scalpel and forceps. “We exercised regularly. Walked laps in the house. Stretches in the morning and at night.”

“Good.” Crewel runs a gloved hand through your tail. “I assume you used the special shampoo I recommended?”

“Of course. (Name) enjoyed it. Said it was very gentle on her hair.”

“You named her?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let her live nameless under my roof,” he snaps, feeling around for the bottle of enzymatic detergent in the very back of the cabinet. He places it beside the growing pile on the countertop, pauses to reflect on what else he’ll need, and then crosses the room to grab a few cups from another shelf. As he pours the substance, he adds, “Did you expect me to call her ‘hybrid’ for the duration of her stay?”

This should be enough, he thinks, dropping the surgical tools in to soak.

“No. Although it did surprise me. There’s no mention of that name in your reports.”

“I wrote them in accordance with our protocol, hence why she’s referred to as the hybrid specimen.”

“I see. In any case, good work, Dr. Rosehearts. You’ve done well.”

“I always do.” Riddle smiles thinly. He doesn’t feel proud. He feels filthy—a liar who’s broken his promise.

You don’t deserve this. He gazes forlornly at you. You shift in your sleep, your ears perking as if listening.

Crewel notices you jerk in and out of slumber and snaps his fingers. The assistant researchers file out at once. “Twenty minutes,” he reminds Riddle as he departs. “Keep her calm.”

Riddle nods, watching the door slide shut behind Crewel. And then, after he’s disappeared around the corridor, he bounds over to lock it. The glass frosts over. Privacy at long last.

He yanks another drawer open in search of latex gloves and a surgical mask. Finding them, he heaves a relieved sigh and dons both.

“You… I trusted you,” you croak, struggling weakly on the metal table.

Riddle pivots on his heel. “I’m sorry. I—” He surges forward and stops when you squeeze your eyes shut in fearful anticipation. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You already did.”

“And that’s inexcusable. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I should’ve told you sooner. But I—” He hesitates, frowning behind his mask. “I’m going to fix things, okay? You have to trust me on this.”

You shake your head slowly. “I can’t. Because of you, the other human… You let him… The needle and the sleep medicine—”

“I know. I know and I’m sorry.”

“You promised, Dr. Rosehearts.” Feeble like a foal, you tug against your restraints. “Please don’t send me back… I’m begging you…”

“I won’t! (Name), I’d never. I’m here to help you.” He taps the needle twice. “We’ll talk later. I don’t have much time. Please cooperate.”

Your eyes slide from the ceiling above to the syringe. That’s when the real struggle begins. Animalistic, driven by instinctual dread, you thrash on the table. Your shrieks are shot through with stress, each whinny a reminder of unpleasant pain.

“Stay away from me! Get away! Don’t come any closer! Dr. Rosehearts—Riddle, please don’t…”

He hardens his resolve, wipes the area on your arm with a prep pad, and holds tight. “I’m sorry, but I must do this. You’ll understand soon enough.”

The needle pricks your skin. You hiccup around a blubbery sob.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing the area to soothe you. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to be here every step of the way.”

“No… No, please don’t. Riddle, I wanna go home. Take me home.”

“And you will. Soon. I promise.” He stands dutifully at your side, watching the sedative run its course. Time drags on. Your eyelids flutter shut and snap back open. You’re desperately trying to stay awake. “Rest well, (Name). You won’t feel a thing.”

Your fight seeps away just as your body grows sluggish and still. “Don’t hurt me, Dr. Rosehearts…”

He smiles even though you can’t see it. “That’s a good girl. Just relax. I’m here for you.”

And with that, you fall.

He works swiftly, undoing the shackles and flipping you over onto your back. You slump like a limp, boneless fish, arms hanging loosely. If the circumstances were different, he’d be a bit more careful in handling you. But he’s working on a tight time constraint and there’s no room for error or struggle. 

Calm down. You can do this. Steady hand. Steady mind.

He exhales softly and then reaches to undo the tie at the back of your gown. The clothes you originally arrived in are packed away in a bag. He hopes you aren’t particularly attached to them because they’ll likely be left behind after he’s finished.

I think I could work at a coffee shop, he muses while wiping you down with another pad. Or I could do freelance work. Something low-profile.

His fingers waltz across your back, pressing down in search of a bump. He finds it right where he expects it to be: between your shoulder blades. He’s about to do something bad. Something against the rules. But, as he retrieves the tools from the cup and dries them off, he knows this is for the best. You can’t survive on your own in some quiet corner of the world. It doesn’t matter if Harveston is safe and peaceful. It doesn’t matter if the Felmiers will take care of you.

You belong with Riddle. He’s meant to look after you. It’s part of his job as a researcher. It’s because he’s the first human to have ever treated you with compassion that he’s allowed to do this. What may look like a bad thing to everyone else is just a step in the right direction. This is good.

He needs you just as much as you need him.

Riddle cuts into soft skin with precision, slicing along the area in which the microchip is contained. His heart is thudding in his chest, but he doesn’t let the idea of getting caught and punished deter him. He knows it’s wrong. He knows there will be severe repercussions. He knows he’ll never be able to show his face around the lab ever again. But if that’s the price he must pay in order to protect you from dirty, deceitful humans, he’ll gladly forsake his lofty station.

Anything to be able to spend the rest of his life with you.

He unearths the chip and plucks it out with the forceps. It comes free with minimal resistance. After setting it aside, Riddle pats the bleeding wound with cotton gauze. Crimson seeps into pristine white as soon as it makes contact. With a resigned sigh, he leaves it to soak up as much as possible before crossing the room to retrieve the sutures and remaining tools. It’s not a clumsy operation, even if he currently feels that way. Regardless, he would never do anything sloppy—no matter how important or inessential it may be. Although, if he were to admit to the truth, he works faster than he normally does, stitching you up with expert, unfaltering fingers.

Riddle’s not sure how much time he has left when he dries and bandages the area. He isn’t looking to find out.

“Let’s get you up,” he mumbles after tying your gown. It’s awkward, more struggle than success, but he manages to drag your unconscious body off of the table. Steadying you in his arms, he glances around the room to ensure he isn’t forgetting anything. It’s surreal—the last time he’ll ever find himself in this environment—but he’s ready. He has to do this.

If he doesn’t, he’ll never see you again. And who can say you’ll enjoy your life in Harveston? Who can say you won’t immediately call out for him when you wake in an unfamiliar home, greeted by unfamiliar people? He’d never forgive himself for abandoning you.

Riddle only hopes your grudge can be soothed. He’s not like the other humans you’ve feared your entire life. He’s shown you he’s different, and you believed in that—in him.

It’s not wrong. It’s a rescue mission, he assures himself, but the delusion doesn’t stick.

Instead of wallowing in his crime-in-progress, Riddle drapes your arm over his shoulder and, tucking the scalpel away, helps you over to the door. He staggers more than he walks, having to account for the dead weight, but he doesn’t let this hinder him. Worst of all, it’s not even the fear of getting caught that bothers Riddle.

It’s the fact he left the examination room a mess! The guidelines are there for a reason, but he completely ignored them and neglected to clean up after himself. That’s tantamount to stealing the specimen!

Not really. It does feel like it, though.

Riddle pokes his head out the door, glancing down the empty hall stretching on either side. He’s actually doing this. He’s breaking the rules—the law!

It’s worth it, he realizes. Every moment spent with you is a dream come true; he’s never been happier in this idyll.

Down the hall he goes, his lanyard swaying with every step. His keys jingle noisily, but he presses onwards. There’s no way around the cameras or the guard at the front of the building. He can bypass the latter with a smooth lie—so long as nothing stands in his way—but he can’t do anything about the mechanical eyes peering down at him. Riddle reckons it’ll only be a few minutes before the facility’s put on lockdown and Crewel gives the command to apprehend him and secure the hybrid subject.

To no one’s surprise, that’s exactly what happens minutes later. The intercom crackles to life and with it comes Crewel’s threat-tinged inflection: “I do hope this isn’t a blatant display of insubordination, Dr. Rosehearts. I’m willing to overlook this slight if you return the hybrid at once.”

So much for cryptic getaways… He’s almost certain Crewel suspected this from the beginning. Perceptive even in the midst of surgical chaos.

Riddle stops halfway down the hall, stares into the red eye of the CCTV, and raises his middle finger. The surgical mask conceals the nasty glower scrunching on his face.

And then the lights flick from blindingly white to deep, dangerous vermillion. The sirens come next, angry blares that nearly burst his eardrums. Riddle’s relieved you’re unconscious. The sounds and sights would have definitely startled you.

He sets off half-running, half-stumbling the rest of the way, narrowly ducking around the corner just as three guards rush past. For all of his adrenaline-laced courage, the thought of surrendering never crosses his mind.

Holding you close, Riddle takes a tentative step into the hall and yelps just as something zips past his face, nearly grazing his cheek. His arms wrap around you with a possessive firmness. A tranquilizer dart lies on the tile. Riddle’s certain it would have embedded itself in his neck had he been just a centimeter closer.

That can only mean one thing.

Rook Hunt missed on purpose.

“I must thank you for the glorious chase, Roi des Roses. It was as invigorating as it was enjoyable!” He beams and, rifling through the pockets of his lab coat, produces another dart to load into the barrel. One shot. This one, Riddle knows, will hit its mark. “I’m afraid this is where our paths must finally intersect.”

As a last-ditch effort to have some parody of the upper hand, Riddle draws the scalpel out and points it at Rook. “I’m not going to fight you,” he says, his tone a smidge louder than necessary. “I just want to make it to the exit.”

“You’re more than welcome to without the extra baggage. I’m sure you of all researchers should know how important the little trickster is.”

“And I’m sure Dr. Crewel’s told you to use any means necessary to subdue me.”

He smiles an odd, secretive smile, the type of which betrays any and all sentiment. “It truly pains me to turn my arrow on a fellow companion. What indescribable woe!”

Riddle stands unyielding, holding you as far from Rook as possible. He considers his options. Hand you over to Rook and face the severe consequences for equally severe actions, or attempt to escape even though it may be impossible by now. Any other researcher would have proven significantly less difficult, but this is Rook Hunt. He knows how to corner and capture his prey with unapologetic swiftness.

Riddle’s more miffed that he got so far and still failed. Was he doomed the minute he met you? Forever fated to never know another ounce of felicity ever again?

He looks down the hall, his hardened features set in grim determination. Even if failure looms on the horizon, he lives to beat the odds. He’s Riddle Rosehearts! It isn’t in his nature to fail. He always overcomes adversity. This is no different than a perplexing equation he studied to death in grad school.

“I understand it’s wrong,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I know what I’m doing and I’m content with my choice. I can’t let you take her from me.” He turns his fiery stare on the researcher, unaffected at being held at gunpoint. “I’m resigning, and she’s coming with me. I’m not going to compromise, so I’ll have to ask you to stop standing in my way.”

It’s as simple as that.

Rook’s sharp gaze softens into something sympathetic and, much to Riddle’s shock, he lowers the tranquilizer gun. “You love her, don’t you?”

Oh.

That’s the emotion he could never place. One he’s ignored for so long. All this time, Riddle Rosehearts, who thought himself incapable of it, is in love.

“I do,” he confesses, a strain in his voice. He holds your unconscious body close, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. “I love her, Rook. And I—there’s no way I can allow this. You have to let me go.”

“I intend to.” Rook tucks the gun in its holster and holds out a brass key and a folded slip of paper. “I only wanted to see what you’d do when faced with a challenge. As expected, you aren’t so easy to sway once your mind’s made up.”

Riddle peers at both, suspicious, and glances at the security camera mounted high in the corner. Rook follows his line of sight.

“It’s been disabled, courtesy of moi. I can’t say for how long it will remain so, but we’re free to talk at our leisure for now.”

Riddle wonders if he’s telling the truth. There’s no time for deliberating. The emergency lights fulgurate; sirens scream. He has no choice but to trust him.

“Why?”

“Love is a marvelous, mystical thing. To take that from another person—to bury it when it’s only just beginning to blossom—do you not find that unfair?”

“I… Yes, I suppose so. But—”

“I only wish to bear witness to the beauty of love in all its forms. Your love is a spectacle worthy of an audience.”

“But this is…” Riddle lowers his voice even though it’s drowned out in the wailing alarms. He’s not sure why he’s trying to get Rook to debate him on it. “This is illegal. I’m stealing.”

He laughs. “Aren’t we all? Whether stealing hearts or tangible materialism, we’re all thieves.”

That…is not how that works.

“You’re really going to let me go? You’re risking your job, Rook. Everything.”

“So be it. How else can I call myself le chasseur d’amour if I’m not willing to put everything on the line to do so? If I were to falter here just because of a little danger, I wouldn’t be able to observe your romance.”

“I…see. Well, thank you. Sincerely, thank you.” He swipes the key and paper from Rook. “And this is for…”

“An address to an unused residence.”

Riddle’s brow furrows.

“Vacation homes. We use them sometimes. This one hasn’t had company to fill its walls in a while. Perhaps you’d like to stay there with your amour?”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch at all! The house is small but secluded. No one will suspect a thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

“And you’re just…giving this to me?”

“I’m not using it, and you can’t return to your current residence. Where else are you to rendezvous if not the countryside?”

“I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do in return—”

“Oh, Roi des Roses, you’re much too formal! All I ask is that you live happily with her.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I will. That’s a guarantee.”

“Then please don’t let me stop you. Be on your way. I’ll buy you some time.”

He nods and pockets the items, keeping his eyes on Rook while he hobbles past with you at his side. The promising enchantment of a bright future looms distantly ahead.

If there’s one thing Riddle misses most about his old life, it’s the music. Late nights spent holed up in his study, relaxing to slow, soulful notes or tapping his foot to match the tempo of a fast, fluffy falsetto. Sometimes he wonders if the bushes out front are trimmed or if the flowers crawling up the trellis on the side of the house are getting enough sunlight and water. Sometimes, if he flicks through the people in his life like channels on TV, he wonders what they’re saying.

As far as anyone’s aware, Riddle Rosehearts is no more.

He’s since built himself up as a phony, bleached his hair a pale, cool-toned white-blond, and changed his identity. Rook helped where he was needed, a self-proclaimed master of disguises. Riddle doesn’t go out much, but when he does it’s in a small corner of the country—an area with sprawling farmlands, where neighbors are nonexistent for stretches. The town is tiny and quaint. It’s quiet here. The ideal getaway.

And it’s all his. A comfortable life filled with nonstop joy.

He really wishes he had his music, though. It’s just not the same turning the dial on the radio in hopes that one of the stations will reach and have a good queue.

It was difficult adjusting to the change, the scenery, the environment of a new house. You slapped him across the face when you woke up, called him a liar and hid from him. He deserved it. Mostly. It was with great patience that he explained the situation, insisting he never had any plans to hand you over to Crewel or the Felmiers. You came around after the third day, plodding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around him from behind. You made him promise a real promise, one sealed through hot, heady kisses. One that couldn’t be broken so easily.

For the hour the pasta bake sat in the oven, he vowed to never lie again. Over and over, a record on repeat, Riddle spoke those words with sincerity. They punctuated each thrust, pressed into your mouth like a delicate tongue tattoo.

It’s been a year since then and Riddle, for whatever reason, has yet to confess to a very important truth. By this point, he assumes it’s evident. An unspoken understanding. But then you haven’t said it either. He wonders if you know how.

Does he know how?

“I was thinking,” you mumble, sitting pretty in your floral-print sundress. The window’s cracked slightly to let in a spring breeze. It brings with it thoughts of damp earth, fresh produce, and budding flowers. Backdropped by reflective glass, where a plot of empty garden waits just beyond, you’re a reverie taken and transplanted in reality. “We should plant something in there.”

Riddle sets his cup on its accompanying saucer, following your gaze to the soil outside. “What would you like to grow?”

“Strawberries. Definitely strawberries.”

Briefly, he imagines picking a basket’s worth of strawberries with you. Standing side by side in the kitchen, mashing them into paste to make marmalade or syrup. Baking dozens of tarts with them. Dipping them in chocolate. Eating them as they are. Truly, strawberries are one of the best fruits.

“We can do that.”

“Wouldn’t that be so cool? We could have an entire backyard of strawberries! You’d never have to worry about going to the market again. Not for strawberries, at least.”

He chuckles. “I like the sound of that.”

Humming your agreement, you lift an apple slice to your mouth. Riddle watches you nibble with a smile. Whenever he looks at you he feels weak and wordless, dumbly entranced. An infatuated fool.

You lick your fingers clean next, seeming quite pleased with yourself. Riddle moves thoughtlessly, leaning over the tea table and taking your hand in his. You blink up at him once and then his shadow is eclipsing you. The gap closes; mouths press together. A wind chime sighs, caught up in a breeze. Riddle moves around the table to get closer to you, resting his hand on your thigh. You grab at every part of him—his shoulders, his arms, his back. Fingers creep along your leg, brushing your dress up higher and higher. You hum against him, your body warm even though the house is relatively cool.

In the crisp, sunny afternoon, you taste like apples and green tea. He savors it with every kiss, chasing after it like it’s to be his final meal.

As if unwrapping a gift, he slides your dress from your shoulders. Bare skin winks back at him, a soft, unmarked landscape begging to be tilled and filled with love. He’ll never get over the sight. It always leaves him breathless. You respond in kind, tugging at his clothes and whining impatiently.

He nudges at your clit, rubbing you through your panties. You slacken against him, gasping around the tongue tangled with yours. He’s not sure how much time the both of you spend kissing and fondling, but you’re perfectly dazed when he tugs your underwear down. It’s soaked through with your slick. He marvels at you—beautiful, blissful you. Sweat sticks to your body, but with the sun pooling in through the parted curtains it looks more like a delicious glaze. 

He’s hurrying to pull himself from his pants when he stops. “I shouldn’t. Your heat’s scheduled to start any day now. I really shouldn’t…” Foolishly, he attempts an escape, but you grab his face and hold him still. Looking at you now, Riddle realizes he doesn’t want to leave your embrace.

“It’s okay. Don’t hold back for my sake.”

“Are you sure? What if you—”

“That’s the whole point of why I go into heat, right?” you murmur against his mouth. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were in heat now with how you burn holes into his eyes. “Why wait until then when we could do it now?”

“But do you—” He frowns, suddenly self-conscious. Life has been too comfortable lately. Surely he’s in for something terrible… “Do you want this?”

You give him a strange look. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Your thumbs brush along his cheeks. An affectionate giggle falls from your lips. “I love you.”

“Yes, I’m aware, but even so I worry. Without proper planning… Not that it’s risky or anything… I just want to be prepared for when—” The rest of that sentence cuts off abruptly. He stares at you, dumbfounded.

Your laughter is musical. “I love you, Riddle.”

A wide, toothy smile claws at his face, lifting it with a boyish jubilation. He feels silly, but he’s happy. So overwhelmingly happy.

Riddle wraps you up in a hug. “So do I! I love you—so, so much.”

You match his enthusiasm with celebratory laughter, drunk on abundant emotion. He said it and it came easy. He said it and he means it.

He said it and you reciprocated.

Oh, what a magical thing love is! To be wrapped up in it as if it’s a blanket fresh from the dryer—it’s refreshing and joyful. Warming his soul, melting the ice in his heart. He’s smiling so much it hurts, but he can’t help it. He’s in love and it’s so freeing. So weightless and wonderful. Like floating down the sweetest stream, living the love from his dreams. It’s everything he’s never known, and it feels good.

What comes next is a rush of wandering hands and never-ending kisses all over, stamped into each other’s skin. He doesn’t bother to strip you completely, and you’re much too desperate to pull him out of his clothes. Everything’s messy, a theatre for the half-dressed.

It’s to a relieved sigh when he finally enters you from behind. Relief trickles into tears, and the both of you are crying through your moans. He plasters you to the windowpane, unbothered by the noisy debauchery of it all. Soft breezes filter in and mingle with the scent of salt and sex.

“I love you,” Riddle confesses again, leaning over you to grab your chin and turn you towards him. You kiss him desperately, clawing at the windowpane for support. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

It’s an addictive, spirituous phrase.

“M-Me too—ooh! So much! I—mmh!—love you so much!” you babble, ears pricked forward. A delirious smile curls on your lips.

He peers at your reflection in the window, admiring the bunched ruffles in your sundress and the way your palms press against the glass. He wonders what he’d be doing if he hadn’t met you. Perhaps he’d still be the same Riddle Rosehearts, enduring lonely, cyclical days. Working for a purpose he thought he’d lost. Bent over a metal table, dissecting all kinds of stuff for his research. Feeling the empty void grow larger and larger with every passing year.

There’s no need to entertain those dismal recollections any longer, though. He has a purpose now. He’s fulfilled.

Riddle doesn’t need to look too far into the future to know he’ll be content. Whether it’s tomorrow, next week, or years from now, he will always know happiness when he’s with the one he treasures most.

Pinned to the window, you’re falling first. Riddle runs his fingers through the soft strands of your tail, cooing at you like one might a pet: “That’s it. Go ahead and cum for me, my dear.”

Obedient thing that you are, you heed his command.

He rubs your hip encouragingly. You’re on the verge of collapsing, so he grabs your wrists and yanks you back up against him. He ruts into you with more force, knocking you against the window like you’re nothing more than a boneless doll. And then he’s driving home in a final thrust to flood your gummy walls with his spend.

Blinking through your tears and panting heavily, you float back to reality. He steadies you when you stagger on wobbling hooves, feeling only slightly bad that he’s to blame for that. But the prideful part of him relishes in having fucked you so good that you can hardly stand.

He kisses your cheek. “You did so well.”

“I wanna go again…”

He slides out, much to your displeasure, and helps you sit down. “Let’s take a break. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Another cup of tea?”

Stubborn to a fault, you pout at him. Sitting grumpy in that chair with your ears flat on your head, looking a right mess, you’re the cutest, most darling sweetheart he’s ever seen. It almost convinces him.

“Come now. We have all afternoon to waste away.” Riddle cups your cheek. You turn from him with a huff. He watches you scowl at nothing in particular. “Don’t look so glum. I never said we couldn’t go again.”

“But I can go again now! I don’t need a break.”

“You almost fell over. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You cross your arms over your chest, refusing to dignify that with a retort. He takes your chin in a gentle grasp and guides your head towards him. You hold his stare with unwavering resolve.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, leaning down to close the space. “That dress suits you.”

“It’ll look better on the floor.”

“Will it?” he asks, playing along with a raised brow.

“It will and you know it.” You throw your arms around his neck, your voice tickling his ear. “So take it off properly this time, okay?”

Riddle intends to do just that.