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tigerf00d · 2 months ago

Text

Words Inside a Shell

Chapter 3: The Tide Always Moves Fast

Pairing: Spike x Reader

Other Characters: Buffy and Willow, Xander (mentioned), minor original characters

Tags: EXPLICIT! Smut ahead! You are responsible for your own consumption of media, but please don't interact if you're under 18. No use of Y/N. Afab but gender-neutral.

Word Count: 4.3k . I don't. I don't know what possessed me.

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Series masterlist

Summary: While trying to get over a crush on a certain crispy-haired vampire, you end up falling right back into his arms

Or, the one where a night out with the girls goes wrong.

A/N: So What if I said I split up the last chapter and the first 1k(ish) of this one so it wasn't a monster chapter. It's not my fault the spirit of the holidays possessed me, and now we have 4k of smut. Happy Holidays, ya filthy animals.

You sighed, turning to Spike and hanging your head slightly.

“Well, that was a bust.”

“Hoping to go home with him, were you?”

You looked up at Spike before answering in a small voice. “Not really.”

Not for the first time tonight, Spike’s gaze was intense. His bright eyes observed you, focusing on your expression as you did the same in turn.

Unlike earlier, him checking you out didn’t feel quite so cold. Where before you felt like you were stalked prey, you now felt relief at the familiarity of him watching over you.

Spike squinted and then nodded towards the toilets, breaking the spell the two of you were under.

“Yeah, you’re a mess, love. Better go get cleaned up.”

“Thanks, Spike.” you said sarcastically but began walking through the throng of other dancers regardless.

You stopped before entering. “Oh, I need to tell Buffy and Willow—”

“Go. I’ll alert the neighbourhood watch.”

“Thanks, Spike.” You answered, this time sincerely, smiling from the doorway as he fake gagged and turned away to tell the girls.

You ran the tap, splashing cool water on your face. Thankfully, even though it was to cut costs, the Bronze had two gender-neutral toilets, both their rooms and only slightly larger than the regular stalls in the women’s and men’s bathrooms.

You grabbed paper towels from above the thick counters— probably only there so that drunk patrons couldn’t rip the sink out of the wall— grimacing at their gritty fibrous surface, muttering “In for a penny, in for a pound…” and then patting against the wetter spots of skin.

Your reflection looked much calmer now, not necessarily neater, but you felt better either way. Two sharp knocks echoed across the small room.

“Um, occupied?”

“‘S me.” Spike said against the door.

You straighten your posture and crack open the door, wincing as it creaks.

“Did you tell them?”

“Yeah, they wanted to come see you but…” He shrugged, petering off.

“Y’know for all that talk of being an evil vampire you sure are helpful.”

“Take that back.” He said, evidently flustered.

“No I don’t think I will. Thanks for helping me with that jerk, by the way.”

“It’s no problem. I can eat him too, if you’d like.”

“I had considered it.”

He smiled at you and for a moment you forgot to breathe, the smile was small but earnest, an expression that he rarely had after years of guarding his intentions.

You unfroze, remembering yourself and smiled back, no doubt he had caught the moment of unintentional hesitation, but if he had he didn’t mention it.

“So, why are you here?”

“Oh, you know, T.V. stations went to sleep, only the shopping channel’s on this time of night. Or my favourite: static.”

“Enlightening. Now, why are you really here?”

He raised a brow at your repeated question, “I was bored. There’s barely anything to do in Sunnydale. Or anyone for that matter.”

You roll your eyes, and the thought, ‘don’t remind me,’ floats behind your eyes, but you don’t get the chance to voice it when Spike continues,

“And it’s a good thing I did too. That guy was too handsy.”

You hummed in agreement. “Yes. How could I ever repay you?”

“I can think of a couple of ways.” the vamp joked. You hummed, agreeing as you quietly made a decision.

You sank to your knees, not breaking eye contact when your knees landed on the cool tile of the stall's floor.

“Oh, no, love. You don't have to do that.”

“What? I can't thank my knight in shining leather?”

“Well, when you put it that way. Far be it from me to refuse your gratitude.” He brushed the hair off of your face, and you grasped the material of his pants near his hips, hands warmed by his duster.

“Unless you don’t want me to.” You clarified.

“I never said that.” He responded quickly.

“So, to be clear, you do want me to suck you off in this bathroom right now?”

He groaned, nodding as he widened his stance for you to better slot against him and said, “Of course I do.”

You leaned against him, your legs straddling one of his own as you rested your head against his groin, tent growing from his clothed member beginning to strain against the fabric, and peered up at him.

“Do you promise?” You asked, teasing him now.

“Yes, love, I promise.”

“It’s good to check.”

“Sure.” He mumbled absent-mindedly while fumbling with his belt buckle.

You took pity on him, nudging his hands out of the way and then undoing the button and zipper of his jeans while you were at it. Hooking your fingers into the waistband of his pants and the elastic of his briefs on either side of his hips and you gradually pull them halfway down his thighs, releasing him from the confines of his clothes.

Spike lets out a faint unbidden sigh of relief as his hard cock springs free, so quiet you're not certain he's even aware he made it.

You run your hands back up his thighs, fingertips lingering under his shirt, feeling the Adonis lines for yourself and emitting a soft, excited noise, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as your breath quickens.

He was long, slightly curved, and not skinny. The head was only slightly paler than you had expected, though in consideration of his supernatural nature, it wasn't anything that couldn't be explained.

From Spike's perspective, he watched as you placed a kiss to where his torso met his thigh. Heard your heart beat faster, blood rushing in excitement as you become more aroused. More aroused because you wanted to blow him, even in this dingy stall.

Your warm, soft hand gently gripped the base of him, tilting him slightly to give an open-mouthed kiss to the shaft. Even as you shifted away, he could feel your warm breath against his skin, only making him all the more desperate for you.

Fortunately for Spike, you weren't the most patient either. You briefly removed your hand and spat into your palm, returning it to his dick almost immediately after. You held him more firmly and began to stroke him. Pumping the wetness over him with your fist.

You sat back, letting out an almost silent gasp as you felt the hard material of his boot make contact through your clothes and Spike's lips parted as he fought the urge to buck into your hand at this reaction.

It was then that he felt your warm tongue swipe over the head of his cock, swirling around it a few times to get used to the taste of him. Without realising he had closed his eyes, Spike opened them and looked down to find you looking up at him, bright, eager, eyes shining as you licked up the length of him.

“Is this all you wanted? Someone's cock in your mouth, hm?” His voice cracked as you sucked the tip of him into your mouth and hummed an affirmative to his question before releasing with a salacious ‘pop’.

“Not just anyone.”

“Is that so?”

You hummed around him again, not removing him from your plush lips as you sucked him further into your mouth, already wanting to take more of him in. The vibrations sent a shock wave of pleasure through Spike’s whole body, and he was practically salivating, watching you try to stimulate yourself as a result of his shuddered reaction.

“Go on, pet. Y’ can hump my boot if you'd like.”

You whined around him, body gyrating as you manoeuvred your legs to do so less awkwardly.

What you couldn't reach with your mouth, you continued to stroke with your hands, twisting around him in time with the motions of your tongue.

Spike hadn't expected your eagerness, hand reaching out to comb through the hairs on the side of your head, clutching you tightly. He also didn't expect you to moan because of that, and in a moment of weakness fucked into your mouth a fraction more, the sensation overwhelming him and causing his head to tip back as the vibrations from the moan you released in his hold washed over his senses.

But then you pulled back, tongue flat against the slit as you sucked at the same time as you twisted your fist at the base of him, the side of your palm brushing against surprisingly soft stubble that let you know that he wasn't, in fact, naturally hairless.

He whined at the feeling of it; thick, hot pleasure coiled throughout him, building at the base of his spine. Stopping himself from pushing you any further proved to be a herculean effort, though Spike had never been very good at holding himself back.

You ground your sensitive clit against the leather of his boot rhythmically, sloppier now as you got closer to finishing. Spike was making the most delicious half-rocking aborted motions like he wanted nothing more than to let go but was doing his absolute best to restrain himself for you.

Moments later, he felt your mouth slip off of him, replaced by the mind-numbingly languid strokes of both your hands against him and when he opened his mouth to ask if you needed to stop, his thoughts scattered, words dissipating into nothingness at the feeling of your warm breath against him as you spoke.

“Spike, you don't have to hold back with me.”

He exhaled sharply. Blinking as he fought to form a coherent sentence, Spike's normally quick wit had turned into a blank nothingness for him to draw from.

Finally, he settled on “Are you sure?”

“I've always wanted to try it.” You ran a thumb over the very tip of him, causing him to shudder and blink rapidly as he tried to keep his composure.

“You've never done it, but you…” Spike groaned, grabbing your chin and swiping his own thumb over your slick lips, “Fuck me, pet. It's really what you want.”

“Please, Spike? Use me.”

“How can I deny such pretty words?”

At that, he grasped each side of your head, hair bunching around his fingers as you guided his dick back into your mouth excitedly.

How were you so good at this? You had to have been designed in a lab. You were turning him on so effortlessly. Not the weirdest way he's gotten a lay.

He cursed, abdominal muscles tightening in anticipation as you took him deeper now. Your hands removed from his shaft to hold his hips again for stability.

Slowly, he tested your limits, pushing himself further into you, stalling when you released a happy moan from your full mouth.

“You're really letting me do this?” He asked once more.

You hummed agreeably along Spike’s cock, himself moaning because of it.

Without meaning to, you had stalled your motions, reminded when your neglected clit once again made contact with the material of his shoe, and you whined, bearing down to grind against it and build yourself back up again, nearing your peak much quicker this time.

As though you had switched roles, words came much easier to Spike now.

“Fuck, look at you like that, pet. So eager.”

Your rocking against him, desperate to hit the perfect spot over and over and over again, only served to turn him on more. Your search for friction proved that you were getting turned on by servicing him.

When he rolled his hips forward again, less experimentally than the last time, Spike could feel your throat relaxing. Inviting him in deeper.

A low, enraptured groan escaped Spike as he relinquished control over his other senses, allowing the feeling of you together engulf him.

Your nails dug into the bare flesh of his hips, letting him know he could sink into you further, encouraging him to do so.

Spike hissed in pleasure as he rutted into your mouth.

“You're good like this. Not giving me attitude.”

You glanced up at him as though to say that it was rude to talk with your mouth full, but the effect was lost when he took in the thin mist of sweat settling on your skin and the glassy quality taking over your eyes.

Instead, you suck harshly in retaliation, tightening your throat suddenly to overwhelm him before relaxing again to allow him to continue to fuck into your waiting mouth.

The groan torn out of him borders on feral, hands moving to better push you down onto his cock. Your eyes water, your nose almost brushing the stubble you felt earlier, and Spike holds you there. Holds you so far onto himself you worry you're going to gag any moment as he pants above you. So far that you don't even realise that you’re still grinding slowly against him.

After what feels like forever, he releases you and allows you a moment to breathe before rhythmically pulling you down onto him again.

“‘M close, precious. You?”

You blink, teary-eyed and hum an affirmative.

“So pretty.” He murmurs, and you aren’t entirely certain that it was meant to be out loud.

You hum again, almost non-committally, as you feel the ache in your jaw.

Spike’s thrusting grew sloppy, “Where, love?”

You tapped his thigh with your right hand before gesturing to your mouth.

“Inside?”

“Mhmm.”

He pumped once, twice, three more times, a groaned warning leaving his mouth moments before you felt him spilling into you.

His hips had stalled, so you pulled back, holding only the tip between closed lips and clumsily stroked his cock to prolong his orgasm.

Spike was breathing heavily above you, removing himself from your mouth at the same time as hauling you up.

“Did you…?” His voice peters off as he focuses on fixing his clothes, glancing up in time to catch you shaking your head and massaging your jaw.

“Let’s rectify that immediately.”

He lifts you so suddenly that you don’t have time to disguise your squeak, placing you on the counter. Despite your most recent activities, you feel your face heat in embarrassment at his crooked smirk in response to your surprise.

As Spike begins to kneel, you stop him, opening your mouth to protest.

“Oh, Spike, it’s fine. Let’s just get out of here.”

“Part of the fun is the thrill, love. I want to.”

“Are you sure? I’ve never… There’s never been someone who wanted to do this for me.”

Spike scoffs, “Then you’ve been with losers.”

“Oh, and you know better, hm?”

“About this and many other things.” He says, voice low. “I want to give you pleasure.”

Your mouth goes dry, “Ok.”

“Since apparently, you’ve only ever been with idiots…” Spike mutters, definitely intending to keep the thought to himself.

“Ok.” You say louder this time, and he looks at you cheekily.

He pulls you to the edge of the counter first, slotting himself between your legs at the same time as he puts his hands on either side of you on the counter so that he can lean in, kissing you excruciatingly softly. You can’t believe it.

When he pulls back to leave hot, biting kisses at your throat, you can’t help but stare at him wide-eyed, feeling like your brain is leaking out of your ears.

You’re so preoccupied with your thoughts that you don’t even register that he’s stopped kissing marks around your collar and has begun removing your clothes.

Spike leaves your top half and shoes on, opting instead to only remove the clothing barriers necessary. He finally kneels, running his fingers over the line of your cunt through your underwear to feel the wetness.

Though you had agreed for him to pleasure you, you squirm under his touch, fidgeting to stop yourself from closing your thighs. As though sensing this, he uses one hand to push your left leg away, effectively allowing him to pull your underwear to the side and repeat the motion he had earlier.

“Oh fuck.” You gasp, arching into him and then lifting your hips slightly to help him in his quest to free you. You place your clothes beneath you so that your bare skin doesn’t have to come in contact with the freezing countertop.

Spike’s touches grow bolder, fingers moving purposefully against your swollen entrance.

As you watch him, you notice that while his breathing has calmed down, he now looks as though he’s just shy of hyperventilating in excitement. Ever the loverboy.

“Is this from riding my shoe?”

“And you face-fucking me.”

“Ah, yes. We mustn’t forget that…” Spike’s voice made you aware that he probably never would forget it, or at least not for a very long, long time.

Your clit is aching so hard you feel as though your entire body is pulsing in time with it. Honestly, when you had left tonight, you had expected to maybe pick up a guy and kiss for a while to sate the bone-deep desire to be touched before retiring to the safety of your abode, where you could rub yourself to completion while imagining the scenario in front of you.

This was much better.

Spike, oblivious to your musing, has spent this time mapping your body with his hands, with the hand bracing your leg open, his thumb runs distracted, almost soothing circles as he kisses the other thigh. His free hand has made its home underneath what little clothing you still have on, finding your nipple with practised ease as he teases the sensitive skin there.

You shiver under all the attention, spreading your legs wider in encouragement, earlier embarrassment totally forgotten with the notion of Spike touching you properly.

The feeling of his warm breath against your mound is all the warning you get before he finally licks into you, top to bottom, so eagerly that the immediate relief you feel against your neglected flesh is palpable.

Wheezing, you tip your head back much the same as he had earlier, bumping your head on the tiles of the bathroom wall.

“Relax, love. Don’t want to damage that pretty head of yours.”

You whine at the removal of his mouth, wriggling slightly to tell him to get a move on, and he can’t help but huff a laugh.

This isn’t your first time being eaten out, almost surprisingly from the horror stories you’d heard. But this is different. This is Spike; he had maybe a century under his belt at this point, and the experience showed. Where other partners had offered in the past, once they actually got down to it, it was obviously because they felt some sense of duty, as though your pleasure was nothing more than an obligation when it came to having you fulfil their own desires in turn. Their focus shifted as soon as they thought they’d done a sufficient job to whatever they deemed the next step was.

In comparison, Spike seemed to relish at the opportunity, borderline worshipful in his actions. It’s nearly mind-blowing.

As your body goes lax against the countertop, Spike positions your legs up over his shoulders now that you’re making a concentrated effort to remain available to him. No longer holding your thighs agape, his thumb instead refocuses that circular motion against your clit so that while he explores other aspects of your mound, your hips don’t jump, and your aching flesh doesn’t feel neglected.

You try not to thrash under the attention, the action of holding you down alone has your heart squeezing tight in your chest.

Spike continues to lave his tongue against you, tasting. His movements— the softness of his tongue against you— create such delicious friction that you can see your chest moving as you pant, feeling as though your head is spinning.

“Fuck.” You gasp when Spike drags the muscle over your sensitive clit, hips jerking despite your best efforts. “Fuck, please. Please, Spike.”

Spike somehow pays close attention to each of your body’s cues. Every breath, whimper, and sharp intake of air. His movements reveal his desire to find what makes you react the most as he tries to match the motions to your sounds.

Your knees, still over his shoulders, tilt outwards. Conscious to not dig the heel of your shoes into his back, your toes clench uselessly within their confines.

Your breath stutters when he bears down more intensely, seemingly finding a pattern that draws the most satisfactory rhythm out of you, though you’re certainly not complaining.

“I’m close.” You moan, arm thrown over your face to muffle your noises. Even though the Bronze plays it’s music unbearably loud at times, you couldn’t risk people loitering outside the bathroom hearing you, much to Spike’s chagrin.

He sucks your clit into his mouth harshly, and you shudder against his face, vision blanking as you feel your orgasm finally, finally, wash over you. You can’t hold back your whines as the hot static pleasure radiates from the apex of your thighs out through what feels like the fibre of your being, writhing as Spike draws every last drop of pleasure that he can from you until you’re shivering with oversensitive aftershocks.

You have every intention of speaking, but after that, you can barely get words out, let alone calm your racing heart.

“Better?” Spike asks.

“Much,” You manage to respond, voice wavering, and you begin to redress.

As though sent from the Hellmouth herself, three knocks ring from the door, swiftly followed by Willow’s anxious calling of your name. Feeling like you’ve been plunged into cold water, you freeze, wide eyes staring at Spike with urgency as though he could magically grant you the ability to speak.

“Spike? Are you guys still in there?”

Spike groans, hanging his head. Thankfully, you find your voice again in time to interrupt whatever the vamp may have said.

“Yeah, Will, we’re still in here.”

“Oh good, ‘cause you know, Buffy and I were thinking of getting out of here, but we didn’t want to ditch you. Are you feeling better?”

From this side of the door, you could just make out Buffy’s snort and casual “I bet they do.”

“I am, thanks. Um, just give me a second, ok. I’m… I got more upset than I thought I would at that guy. Spike’s been…” You scramble to find an excuse. “Spike’s been telling me embarrassing stories.”

“I have not!” He responds indignantly, then shrinking back under your glare. “They’re not embarrassing anyway.”

“We’ll be out in a second.” You finish.

“Ok. We’ll be at the car.” Buffy says.

You finish redressing and, with Spike’s outstretched hand as guidance, gracefully find your footing on solid ground once more. Assessment of your reflection leaves you reluctantly optimistic that you don’t look like you just experienced a defining sexual encounter for this lifetime, though your lips were swollen and you’d have to cover your neck somehow. You glanced wordlessly at Spike, who was already watching you with an unexpected fondness in his eye.

“Can I wear your duster?”

“What?” Obviously, this was not the question he had expected.

You tilted your neck to more effectively point out the purple lovebites forming, “You freaking lay into me like some sort of— well.” You gesture at him, causing Spike to roll his eyes as he mentally finishes the sentence.

“Fine.” He hands the large leather coat over to you, pulling it back slightly before you grab it to ask, “And how will I be getting this back?”

“You’re coming home with me?”

“Oh, am I now?” He passed the duster to you, watching as you put it on and manoeuvred the collar to better hide the marks on your neck. His already poorly disguised amusement was not helped by the smug grin he wore.

“Obviously.” You paused, walking to the bathroom’s wretched door, “Unless you’re not game.”

“No, I’m game—”

“Good, for a second there, I thought your refractory period might take forever, considering your age.”

Spike guffawed at you. “Yeah, right. I’ll have you know my ‘refractory period’ is perfectly fine, thank you. Perfect even.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Spike’s arm went beside your head as he opened the door for you, allowing you to keep your entirely too pleased smile to yourself as you excited and made your way out of the Bronze, feeling his presence close behind you the entire time.

As promised, Buffy and Willow stood steadfast around the car. Willow was already in her seat picking at something near the window, and Buffy outside of the driver’s side door, scanning the surroundings. Her expression was only slightly too stern, almost reminiscent of a bouncer or security guard off duty, ever the slayer.

You rubbed your eyes and yawned as you got closer, a perfect facsimile of exhaustion.

Which… Though you were tired, your body thrummed with the knowledge that your night was only just beginning.

“Hey guys.” Buffy smiled when she noticed your arrival, opening the door to let herself in.

“Hey Buff.”

Willow looked up from her seat in the Jeep, and you watched in real time as you noticed what you were wearing and tilted her head in silent question.

To answer, you hooked your hands under the flaps of the duster slightly, twirling as you walked so that the leather flared out around you.

“Pretty cool, right? I can see why he wears it. I feel like Dracula.” You paused, “Or maybe a leather princess.”

Buffy snorted, no doubt seeing the exasperated face Spike was making in reaction to your words.

“Hey, speaking of Dracula,” You leant against the open window into the car, “could we drop Spike off? I don’t wanna forget to give him the coat back and have to walk into the crypt at night.”

“Sure, that’s fine.” Buffy said, Willow nodding beside her, quiet now as the night caught up.

You whirled around to face Spike, recovering quickly as you startled at how close he was and gave him an exaggerated thumbs up before making your way to ‘your’ seat.

“Where to, Spike?” Buffy was watching him carefully through the rearview mirror. For his part, Spike was already looking out the window, watching the gradually moving night scenery through windows that weren’t blacked out for once.

“Oh, just their place is fine. I can walk back after there.”

Amusement coloured Buffy’s voice, “If you say so.”

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #Spike x reader #spike x you #spike btvs x reader #spike btvs x you #smut fic

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thatweeboverthereisthirsty · 2 years ago

Note

Can you please do a scenario on dorm leaders reacting to s/o having a nightmare? Like maybe they were having nightmares for some time and dorm leaders didn't realize until one night they find them tossing and turning and crying in their sleep?

Believe it or not I started this ask about 4-5 months ago XD anyways at least I completed it! I hope you enjoy! (Also I used headcanons bc I don't do request scenarios for all dorm leaders unless commissioned hope that's alright with you)

Warnings: minor angst, mostly fluff

Riddle is a light sleeper so it’s unlikely he won’t immediately notice your tossing and turning

After several minutes of sitting awake, waiting for you to settle down, he realizes something is wrong

He quickly gets up and turns on a light

Your skin is pale and sweat drips from your brow

Murmurs about something unintelligible escape from your mouth

Riddle quickly comes to the conclusion that you are having a nightmare

Gently but quickly he wakes you and you shoot up in bed, tangling yourself in the sheets

He eases you and untangles your legs before climbing in next to you

He holds you as you sob and shushes you quietly while pressing chaste kisses to your forehead

Soon you’ve calmed and he walks you to the kitchen so he can make you some tea

“Riddle? Aren’t there rules about being up after a certain time?”

He hands you your tea and sits next to you

“Sometimes you just have to break the rules. And for you? I’d break them all.”

Leona sleeps right through all of your disruption and squirming

It isn’t until his own dreams turn to you crying quietly that he slowly wakes in anxiety

He rapidly realizes he wasn’t completely dreaming

Your soft sobs tell him that you have been awake and crying for awhile but didn’t want to wake him by being loud

He wants to punch himself for sleeping soundly when you were having a hard time

Quietly, he wraps his arms around you and his tail strokes your lower thigh in comfort

“Was it a nightmare?”

You nod and he sighs, pressing a kiss into your hair

Leona mutters to you for the next half hour about how you are safe and loved

When silence finally falls he doesn’t try to go back to sleep until he’s sure you are ok

He won’t prompt you to tell him what it was about but if you wanted, he would listen all night if he had too

“I’m so sorry Herbivore. Next time promise me you will wake me. I want to be there to dry your tears.”

Azul sits up the instant he feels like something is wrong

He often cuddles you as strongly as an octopus usually does so he’s quick to notice you trying to pull out of his arms desperately

Are you too hot? Too cold? He can’t figure out what’s wrong and it bothers him a lot

Regardless he shakes you awake and holds your trembling form as you sob into his shoulders

He texts Jade briefly, knowing the eel-man would have his phone on, and requests some hot chocolate be brought up immediately

When you are finally settled down, Azul wraps you in his softest blanket and places a warm mug in your hands, warning you that it’s hot

Your breathing softens a bit and even after the sugary drink you’ve just had, your eyes droop

Azul whispers reassurances into your skin as he coaxes you to lie down again, still swathed in the fluffy blanket

His kind words don’t stop until long after you fall asleep

He runs his fingers through your hair, gentle not to wake you again

How could someone so sweet be plagued with dreams so painful?

Kalim notices you are distressed before you even start tossing and turning

He’s a light sleeper so he hears your whimpers and small noises of distress and wakes up right away

For a moment he isn’t sure what do do

Have you been poisoned? Are you hurt? Did someone do something to you?

Finally he calms down a bit after coming to the conclusion that you are in fact safe and just having a nightmare

Tentatively he wakes you and pulls you into a hug

With one hand he strokes your hair and whispers reassurance to you while he texts Jamil with the other hand to bring some sleepytime tea

“If you want to talk about it just let me know. If you need space or a bath or anything else…”

You cut him off with a quick kiss and smile at him through your tears

“Just hold me Kalim.”

He’d rather do nothing else than keep you swathed in blankets for cuddles and kisses

Jamil leaves the tea outside the room and Kalim briefly detaches from you to grab it

After sipping at your tea for a while your eyelids droop and Kalim tucks you back in with a peck to the forehead.

“I’m always here, my love.”

Vil is a surprisingly deep sleeper and doesn’t notice you waking up and sliding gently out of bed

You pad out of the room and sit in the hallway for a moment to clear your head without disturbing your boyfriend

You know how much he needs his beauty sleep after a long day of being gorgeous and badass

Unfortunately that meant you were left to sit in the hall by yourself and cry quietly into your arms

What you didn’t plan on was how tired you would be after the crying stopped

You must have fallen asleep in the hallway because you woke to Vil rocking you gently

“Sweet potato? Are you alright? Did you decide the floor would be better than an airfoam mattress with egyptian silk sheets?”

He quirked an eyebrow at you but frowned again when you didn’t smile back

“Why are you out here?” he asks

You hesitate before telling him about the nightmare and his eyes light up with concern

He gathers you into his arms and brings you back into the bedroom

“It’s a good thing I haven’t done my makeup yet or it would smudge on the pillowcase.”

He lies down next to you on the bed and kisses you gently on the lips

“Next time, Sweet Potato, wake me. I do not mind losing sleep over the one I love.”

You and Idia rarely sleep in the same bed together

Not because you don’t like it, you just both have very different sleep schedules

Idia is almost always up all night playing his games while you doze off under his covers

Tonight was no different

Except that when Idia pulled off his headset for a quick break, he noticed you were making some distressed noises

As a first class introvert, Idia has absolutely no idea what to do and immediately looks up online ‘how 2 comfort sleeping gf w/ nightmare?’

All of the results are pretty similar and all of them make him extremely nervous but it’s you and he loves you so he will suffer through

Not that comforting you is a suffer but the anxiety that he might mess up and do something wrong

Hesitantly he makes his way over to the bed and shakes you very gently

You don’t wake up at first so he whispers your name a few times and finally you wake up

You are very glad he has fire hair because the worst thing about waking up after a nightmare is waking up in total darkness

But here he is, your knight in flaming armor, lighting up the darkness, his hair like a halo around him as he gazes at you nervously with concern

You pull Idia into bed with you and sigh into his chest

Eventually he starts to relax and asks you if you’re ok

“I am now that you are here.”

Malleus has never felt so guilty in his entire long fae life

You are tossing fitfully and shivering beneath the sheets of his bed, making small panicked noises

He can hear your uneven breathing and rapid heartbeat as clear as if someone was playing the drums

He had been on a walk when it started and it was impossible for him to know how long it had been since the nightmare began

When he had returned, Malleus instantly panicked

What was happening to you? Were you hurt? Could he even heal your fragile human body?

His magic quickly roamed your body and he learned there was no outer physical injury but he was only slightly relieved

Once he realized it was just a nightmare he finally calmed down a bit

Malleus decided not to wake you from your sleep since you had already lost so much of it

His hand rested over your forehead and he watched as the soft green glow eased your brain and nerves

Your body relaxed and your breathing evened out

He still waited until your heartbeat slowed to a steady, healthy pace before relaxing himself

Climbing into bed beside you he promised himself that he would never take a night walk and leave you alone again

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sleepyspudbrainrot · 3 months ago

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Patience (Cody x OC x Jey)

Cody Rhodes x OC x Jey Uso | 18+, fluff, drug use | 1591 words

Had inspiration to write a bit of Cody Rhodes and Jey Uso fluff based on a prompt my friend had picked out for me ages ago. Hope y'all enjoy this little one shot !

“Everything looks so beautiful from up here…”

Calista sat on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling into the open air below. Normally, she was not one for heights, however the need to get away from the crowded rooms beneath had overridden her fears. She let herself focus on the horizon, the buildings that pierced the sky, the lights that shone from in between. It was quiet, peaceful, and she was completely alone with her thoughts. Which were much harder to get away from. She sighed softly, leaning back, hands scraping on the textured cement of the roof behind her. Her gaze trailed up and up, following the lines of the buildings around her until all she could see was the starry sky. Each star lead her to another. Each star a smaller piece of a larger constellation. She’d only seen two that she could name, the big dipper and orion’s belt. However, she was certain there were more to find than that.

“Is this seat taken?”

A rough, male voice broke through the dull hum of the streets beneath them. A voice that she didn’t quite recognize without a face. “Depends on who you are?” The only response she got from the unknown male behind her was a low chuckle, before he entered the periphery of her vision. Shocking blonde hair, the garish tattoo on the side of his neck. This unknown male was none other than Cody Rhodes. “How on earth did you sneak out of all of that?” She turned her head, an eyebrow raised. The party down below was for the man sitting to her left. He’d just won tag team gold with Jey Uso and had every reason to celebrate. And very few reason’s to hide away on the roof.

“Told them I was going for a smoke… or was it that I was looking for a bathroom… either way, I don’t think they’ll think too much of it?”

Calista smiled, shaking her head. “You’re one half of the main reason they’re celebrating… also is it really a good idea to leave Jey down there? He was…”

Cody interrupted her with a chuckle, “Already pretty far gone when we got here?” She nodded, turning to look at Cody as he spoke. “He was flirting with one of your friends I think… they’d been asking if he’d seen her and he was quick to distract. Almost like…”

“He knew that I’d needed some air?”

It was Cody’s turn to nod in agreement. “I might’ve passed him on the way out and let him know. He knows how I feel about crowds.” She shrugged, turning to look at the horizon once more. The buzz from beneath them had faded to a dull vibration that she could only really hear if she was listening for it. And even then, noise from the party had a tendency to drown anything else out as it filtered upwards from the floors below. “I don’t want you to miss out on the celebrations for me.”

Cody raised an eyebrow, shifting on the ledge, hip brushing against her own as he did so. “You’re the one who suggested we team up… if anyone should be celebrating with us, it’s you.” Her expression softened, cheeks glowing in the faint light of the moon. “Am I wrong?”

She shrugged, “You would’ve won regardless. Creative has been loving you lately. Whether you’d been paired with Jey or Kevin or… hell even if they’d dragged me out as a “special guest”, not that they would…” The idea is ludicrous, given that she has zero experience in the ring. She’s more of a glorified consultant for creative these days more than anything else. “Your win was practically guaranteed. Having Jey as your partner is just an added bonus. Which…” She glances over her shoulder, almost wonder if Jey is listening behind the door. “I really hope he’s not listening to this but… it’s a good look for you both. Makes the crowds love y’all even more.”

She had to force herself not to look at Cody for a reaction, to not overthink the expression of appreciation and the hint of surprise that seemed to settle over him. Silence claimed the space between them, punctuated with little more than the occasional cheer from the party beneath them or an occasional car horn that managed to make it’s way all the way up to them. She could’ve spent all night like this. In a comfortable silent understanding with the man beside her. At some point, he’d reached behind her, hand curling around her shoulder to pull her close. The gesture alone was enough to flood her cheeks with color that she could only pray that he didn’t see.

“Hope that’s alright…” Cody looked down at her, his freehand coming up to brush the hair from her face. “You looked… a little cold?” A flimsy excuse, that both of them could see right through. However, while the gesture was unexpected, she couldn’t say that she wasn’t enjoying the closeness.

“Jey told you to come find me didn’t he…”

The thought had been tugging at the back of her mind since he’d sat beside her. The knowledge that Jey knew of her admiration for the “American Nightmare” that she’d been content to keep to herself. At least, until he’d noticed it. He’d been teasing her for weeks, so it made sense that he’d finally decided to give them both the push that he felt she needed.

“He did, said something about making sure that girl doesn’t freeze to death, you feel me dawg.”

A loud thud from the rooftop door punctuated his statement as Jey Uso himself stumbled out from the stairwell. “Come on Uces! You’re missing out on - -” It was as if the closeness of the pair in front of him hadn’t registered, until it did. “Ah shit dawg, why didn’t you tell me you found her. I’m interrupting and everything…” A laugh escaped Calista, her free hand flying up to cover her mouth as her shoulders shook against Cody’s chest.

“What’s so funny Uces? We’re here to celebrate our man over here and he’s wrapped up in you… You havin’ your own private celebration? Without me?” It was as if the idea was so outlandish, Jey’s gaze flicking between the pair. “Alright, make some room you two. Can’t let y’all have all the fun… plus I grabbed some party favors!” He settled on the edge of the roof to Calista’s right, effectively wedging her between them both. The party favor’s in question were fished from his pockets, two joints and a flask of some unidentified liquor.

“I’ll pass on the flask but… pass one of those over here?”

The joints were passed to Calista first, allowing her to light one and take the first satisfying hit. The smoke filled her lungs with a comfortable burn that had her eyes fluttering closed. She then blew it out into the night, letting the tendrils float away on a breeze. The joint was passed to Cody now, leaving Calista to lean on Jey. Jey who’d thrown an arm around her waist to compliment the arm around her shoulder from Cody.

“I swear, you two…” She rested her head on Jey’s shoulder now. “You’ve been planning this. Getting me alone… keeping me all to yourselves…”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that ma.”

Calista glanced up at Jey who was grinning down at her. His grill glinting in the moonlight, as his gaze settled on hers. “Not our fault you’ve been ignorin’ the signs for the last month.”

She blinked at Jey, her gaze flitting between him and Cody as she sat up straight. “Signs…?”

It was Cody’s turn to grin at her now, smoke seeping from in between his teeth. “The compliments, the flirting, creative calling you in to work specifically with the two of us?”

“But I thought…?” If she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure what she thought. She’d just thought her input was needed, given how close she was to the storylines, to Jey. She’d begun to get close to Cody over the last week or so, but she’d thought that was normal. There was a certain level of trust and closeness expected when you were choreographing matches and spending late nights tweaking the individual pieces to make sure everything flowed the way it needed to.

“Told you Uce, I knew she wasn’t pickin’ up what we were puttin’ down.”

Cody shook his head, “Hate to admit man… guess we’re doing a shit job of showing her how we’ve been feeling.”

Once again Calista was speechless, blinking as she glanced at the men on either side of her. “I’m.. sorry? What have I --”

Cody leaned forward, grabbing her left hand and threading their fingers together. Jey was doing the same with her right hand. Both hands were calloused and held strength that she could feel despite the tender gesture. The gesture was enough to put together the puzzle pieces they’d been dropping for her. They had been flirting with her. Had been complimenting her. They’d asked her out to dinner and she’d invited others to join them thinking that they were friend dinners. The gears in her mind were moving, working and finally she got it.

“How on earth have you been this patient for so long…”

Both men laughed, their amusement shaking their shoulders, even as they held Calista close. “Because there’s a certain amount of patience involved for things that are worth it… isn’t that something you’ve always said?”

#sleepyspudbrainrotfic #one shot #cody x oc x jey #wwe #jey uso fanfiction #jey uso x oc #cody rhodes #cody rhodes fanfiction #cody rhodes x oc #jey uso

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lilmissnatcat24 · 1 month ago

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Electric Sheep Chapter Twelve- I See Dead People

Shepard and Cerberus descend into the Collector ship. Garrus doesn't quite feel like himself.

pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian

rating: Explicit

tags: Lovers to enemies to lovers, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Minor Character Death, ,Violence, Blood and Gore, Torture, Disturbing Themes, Dual POV, Earthborn (Mass Effect), Ruthless (Mass Effect), Mass Effect 2, Whump, Eventual Smut, Requited Unrequited Love, Mind Control, Pining, so much fucking pining that even i'm a little disturbed, Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, OC Central, a kid show called the electromenom that teaches shepard about basic physics, yet another cliffhanger ending (sorry), second in series

cover: done by the stunning @/milkywayes!!!!!

lil text blurb

Something was truly, honestly wrong.

Not-Garrus breathed in air in his not-nostrils so deeply it caused his not-lungs to strain. He did not let it worry him. He did not worry about a single thing.

“What the hell?” Joker mumbled under their breath. Not-Garrus’s mandibles fluttered out. He didn’t bother to hide it. Humans never bothered to learn about other races, they just bulldozed their way forward until they were at the top of the back. “What the hell?” Joker said, this time louder.

“What?” Jacob asked.

“We lost comms.”

“Like… they’re in a deadzone?” he said. Not-Garrus had to bite his tongue to stop a smile from creeping on his face. Again, the humans probably wouldn’t know what a turian smile looked like if one came up and bit them right through that soft, malleable flesh of theirs.

“No, deadzones have tells,” Joker said. “You know: static, crinkling, the whole can’t-hear-you-I’m-underwater thing. This is like… I dunno. They just all turned their comms and their GPSs off simultaneously?”

“ It does not appear to be a glitch in their omnitools, nor with their implants ,” EDI’s melodic voice rang from her blue interface. “ And if the Collector ship was powering back up, their systems would show activity much earlier. ”

“So there’s no way to reach them?” Jacob said, voice considerably louder than it was a few minutes ago. “We just send them into the belly of the ship, and sit with our thumbs up our asses waiting for them to come back?”

“Unless you want to go in after them, I don’t see what else we can do,” said Joker.

“You can’t get any sort of comms into their feeds?”

“Weren’t you just listening? No , they’re disabled. And I don’t think morse code will do me that much good, either.”

“There has to be some way--”

Not-Garrus watched as Joker and Jacob continued to bicker. Not-Garrus liked when the humans fought. It was all a part of his plan, wasn’t it? Destroy Cerberus from the inside? It was good to lay the foundations to that. “You would think a billion-dollar project like this would have certain safeguards against a situation like this,” not-Garrus said.

“ Thank you !” Jacob said, while Joker let out some aggravated growling sound as he mimed pulling his own hair out.

This was good. No, this was fantastic . The humans were fighting on the ship, the humans were trapped on some derelict ship down below, and not-Garrus didn’t even need to lift a finger. They’d destroy each other all by themselves.

Except-- well, this didn’t really bother not-Garrus all that much-- except-- strictly speaking, not-Garrus was in a constant state of being unbothered, so he didn’t care regardless-- except --

Shepard was down on that ship.

#mass effect #mass effect fanfiction #mass effect fanfic #garrus vakarian #shakarian #shepard x garrus #ao3 fanfic #femshep #electric sheep

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abitofboth · 10 months ago

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some more owen carvour hcs because I’m unwell about him

he's meticulous when it comes to cleaning his guns. almost every night on a mission he will sit within the twilight and carefully take them apart and clean every piece. the same goes for his knives, brass knuckles, and any other weapons he happens to use.

he’s pretty consistent with shaving and cutting his hair; keeps his usual length, and a clean shaven face. when he’s going through a rough patch his hair will grow a bit longer and he’ll turn up to work with stubble.

post fall, his hair is down to his shoulders and he has a permanent 5 o'clock shadow.

he doesn’t play games he knows he can’t win. he was so certain that he was going to be the one to kill curt, not the other way around.

he can do tricks with his switch blade and he DELIGHTS in showing off for curt.

big fat crush on brandon shaw from hitchcock’s film ‘rope’. fucked up spy obsessed with his very own fucked up blorbo.

takes the piss out of curt for having a thing for james bond (“the name’s carvour. owen carvour.” “shut UP.”)

connected to that, curt loves the bond novels but can’t concentrate long enough to actually get through them. owen reads them out to him and does voices for all the characters.

he tells curt that “that secret died the night you left me for dead”, but I don’t think that he stopped loving him as soon as he fell. he hated him, yes, but he still loved him. some small part of him was still desperately clinging onto the hope that curt would come back and 'rescue' him from chimera for at least a year or two.

somehow manages to be kinda toxic with his own masculinity but also (in the privacy of his and curt's relationship) fucks with gender a little. for example, he doesn't allow himself emotional relief because 'men don't cry', but on the other hand relishes in being called 'princess' and owns a few lipsticks. loves leaving lipstick kiss marks on curt.

curt is pretty big on cars. he likes tinkering with them, fixing them up, knows all you could need to know about them, and has strong opinions on which ones are good and which ones are shit. owen couldn't care less- as long as it moves and it's not an ugly colour, he's happy.

he has doubts about his job and the governments he serves. where some spies blindly follow, he reluctantly trails behind.

the black and red leather jacket used to be owen's, but curt borrowed it one day and conveniently 'forgot' to give it back. owen has no complaints- he likes curt wearing his clothes and he barely wore it himself anyway.

he stands by the notion that british words and phrases are gospel, and american words and phrases are stupid and wrong.

known for a bit of a resting bitch face. he always looks pissed off, but is probably only pissed off 50% of the time.

older than curt, but only by a year or two.

he is kind to those with less power, and directs his rage to those in charge instead.

has a tendency to pull at his hair when he's super freaked out.

he has panic attacks more often post-fall.

he knows he's hot shit. plays on the 'british charm' when he's flirting with marks and it works every single time.

he knows a decent amount of french. not quite fluent, but enough that he can easily navigate most conversations.

spicy, don't look too close

he likes to take charge most of the time because it's owen, he loves having power in all situations, but he has a submissive streak in him. he doesn't like to admit that it doesn't take much to get him whining and begging.

phone sex. it's risky, but he likes it. transatlantic jerk-offs are key when your partner is in another country.

tops more often than he bottoms, purely because he thinks curt prefers it that way.

pull his hair and watch him melt.

likes when curt manhandles him. he has muscles, and owen wants him to use them.

he'll whisper filthy things to curt on missions with the sole intention of riling him up at the worst possible time.

he enjoys bondage regardless of who is the one being tied up.

#spies are forever #saf #owen carvour #curtwen #tin can bros #tcb #millie talks

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agentnico · 9 months ago

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Challengers (2024) review

That’s one way of engaging me in sport I guess.

Plot: Tashi, a tennis player turned coach, has transformed her husband from a mediocre player into a world-famous grand slam champion. To jolt him out of his recent losing streak, she makes him play a challenger event -- close to the lowest level of tournament on the pro tour. Tensions soon run high when he finds himself standing across the net from the once-promising, now burnt-out Patrick, his former best friend and Tashi's former boyfriend.

It’s safe to say this movie has blew up the internet. Zendaya with her major fan-base starring in a threesome tennis flick that’s brought to you by the director who revealed Timothee Chalamet to the world in that queer flick that featured the infamous peach scene? Now that’s quite the selling pitch. Naturally the result is a box office success and a movie that is already taking the top spot for the most memeable motion picture of the year. And I get it, this movie is definitely provocative enough and has enough sexual tension in it to excite any viewer. I’ll refer to my friend’s Letterboxd review for this movie with him saying the following: “I’ve found recently that hormones in films plays a factor in how much I like the film and this film is very horny”. Right, let’s not delve too deep into my friend’s evident sexual frustration, but he is not wrong that this movie reaches peak horny levels. Every scene is imbued with the steamy appetites of its central trio of characters. Like damn to these people want to f*ck hard big time! This should not come as a surprise though, as this follows a very similar formula to Luca Guadagnino’s other films, stoking the appetite of the youth to provide an open forum for unbridled desire to let loose. Call Me by Your Name, Suspiria, Bones and All, A Bigger Splash - every single one of these features tackles themes of sensuality and elegance. You know exactly what you’re getting into with a Guadagnino movie and Challengers is no exception.

That being said, with Challengers the actual narrative serves itself perfectly for a trashy B-movie experience, however it is thanks to Guadagnino’s directorial prowess that the film rises above that and becomes a truly cinematic experience. This thing looks great, and I don’t mean due to the lovely actors present, but the camerawork and the scene framework. The way the sweat drops off people’s faces in slow motion and the camera lingers on their stoic yet thoughtful facial expressions to the impressive tennis match scenes with a particular impressive sequence involving the scene being shown for, the perspective of the tennis ball which….I don’t know how the hell they managed it but that was awesome! Also need to mention the great techno score from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross that creates an unlikely pairing in electronic dance music and classical, with the result really amping up the energy of every moment. Honestly from a technical standpoint this movie is a marvel.

In regards to the narrative that is where we start running into some trouble. For starters this movie did not need to be over 2 hours. The story was simple enough to shrink down to a 100 min max run-time, but instead the film opts to really dial in on extended pointless shots that linger way too long, so much so that I noted multiple audience members looking at their mobile phones to check the time. Secondly those excessive time jumps. Telling a story in a non-linear fashion can be a useful story-telling device, but here it was used way too much that it became distracting. Like there was a time jump back and forth every 5 minutes, with some jumps sprawling 13 years, which made it really difficult to get engaged in certain moments. Speaking of the 13 years, bless Zendaya’s heart but as much as they tried to age and de-age her through hair and make-up, she never looked older than 19 years regardless of the time era. For all of the film’s technical achievements you’d think they’d put more effort in the make-up department.

As for the actors, whilst I admire Zendaya for tackling such a meaty and, dare I say, challenging role, I feel like she’s too young in her acting career to be able to fully perform a weathered, jaded, cynical, ruthless and calculating character like Tashi. It seemed for the most part she relied on having a resting scowl face, but otherwise I found it actually hard to believe any of her chemistry with her male co-stars. As for the male co-stars, out of this love triangle it was in fact the queer relationship that really popped. Props to Mike Faist (who was a highlight for me in the recent West Side Story remake) and Josh O’Connor whose chemistry was through the roof! The way they looked at one another, to the churros to the way O’Connor smoothly moved Faist’s stool closer to his with his foot…… they can say they are best friends all they want but we just know they are both aching for those benefits! Again it’s how strong of performances these two give that hinders Zendaya who is nowhere close to their level.

Challengers overall is an entertaining enough youthful erotic crowd -pleaser that from a filmmaking standpoint looks fantastic, however due to the narrative structure and Zendaya’s arguable miscast this movie falters. That being said to Tom Holland, dude, I’ve seen your social media posts about being excited to support your girlfriend and going to see this movie, but dude, I bet your cried your eyes out after. Spider-Man - she ain’t coming home!

Overall score: 6/10

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oatmealcrisp-freak · 1 month ago

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anyways hey hi wassap you come here often heres what i have written so far of the wip where yuuri actually kills himself oh look more about his ED okay anyways have fun

It had been a fraught and largely sleepless night.

“I just don’t know what to do, Chris,” Victor sighed, rummaging through the box that held his collection of skin creams and serums. That cooling eye mask was in here somewhere, he just knew it, and after last night’s crying jag he needed it. “I really did think there was something there but now it’s like he wants nothing to do with me! But what else would him skating Stammi Vicino be if not a call and answer?”

It had been such a lovely interpretation, bursting with such sweetness and warmth that the downgraded jumps didn’t make a lick of difference. That video had burrowed into his heart and refused to surrender the newly won territory, leaving Victor feeling claimed and spoken for. Certain it had been the sign he’d been waiting for he’d rushed to Hasetsu in response and then found himself firmly, and loudly, rejected.

Chris sighed. “You know my opinion already, mon cher. It would hardly be the first time someone used the avenue of the heart as a shortcut to gold.”

“But the video-” Victor sighed and scraped a hand through his hair, setting it on his hip as he straightened.

He frowned around. The eye mask was, in fact, not in that box. But he could have sworn…

Victor knew his memory was, perhaps, not the best, but he could even see it play out in his mind’s eye. He could remember putting the eye mask in that damned box, he was positive about it.

“Victor, my darling, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re looking for something that just isn’t there. Regardless of why he skated your routine - and I can see why anyone would, it’s beautiful choreography mon frere - we don’t even know if he was the one to upload it to his rink’s page, or if he signed off on it. I’ve checked for you, love, he hasn’t posted links to that video on any of his socials.”

“But he hardly posts anything to his socials to begin with,” Victor whined.

“If there’s any of the boy I remember remaining in the man, if it was to reach out to you? He would have.”

And wasn’t that a grimly effective rejoinder? Victor weighed that over as he continued to cast over the boxes but at this point, his heart almost wasn’t in it. He was just sad, and he was tired, and he was very painfully confused. He’d agreed to be Yuuri’s coach simply to get closer to the man and he’d still been rebuffed. And after having greeted him so beautifully in the bath, too. That had seemed to be very fortuitous timing, it allowed Victor to put the very best of himself on gleaming display and show just how fit a partner he could be, but what had worked on literally everybody else just hadn’t worked here.

He’d been yelled at.

He’d asked to sleep with Yuuri and Yuuri had yelled at him. Sure maybe it was a bit soon, maybe he’d been a little over enthusiastic, but he couldn’t get the way Yuuri had run away from him out of his head, the horrified warble in his tone. Maybe he was straight? A homophobe? Victor could have sworn there had been a beautiful chemistry between them, an erupting geyser that spoke to a connection a future could be built on, but though they’d exchanged phone numbers Yuuri had never called him. Never texted him. He’d never even messaged him on any of Victor’s socials the way a person might have if for whatever reason Victor’s number had been lost. He’d not heard hide nor hair from the man in months. He’d been ghosted.

He, Victor Nikiforov, had been GHOSTED. And ghosted by not just anyone, but by the last place finisher at the GPF. His pride was offended on that premise alone. Yuuri Katsuki should have been begging just to be on the same ice as him.

Victor was an adult however. He knew that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t exactly reasonable. He’d wanted Yuuri to reach out to him without saying so, had tried to play it coy, had tried to be cute, and it’d backfired to slap him in the face. The last few months had been a veritable rollercoaster of worrying, fretting, of heartsick sighing, of does he or doesn’t he, will he or won’t he, with Victor steadily driving himself to the wailing brink of insanity. He’d just decided to get over it and move on with his life when Yuuri’s interpretation of Stammi Vicino went viral.

“Maybe you’re right,” Victor murmured and sat on the bed next to Makkachin, reaching over to run his hand over the sleeping dog’s flank. “Maybe he’s just not that into me.”

Chris’s tone was sympathetic, but firm. “I do think that is the case, darling, yes. I’m sorry.”

Victor felt his chin wobble a bit but after last night there was just nothing left to cry. He dropped his face into his hand.

“Oh, you must think me so foolish, my friend.”

“Non, Victor, only a hopeful romantic yearning for connection. There is no shame in that, mon cher.”

“Well,” Victor gestured hopelessly at the room he sat in, small and piled high with the boxes that had been meant to declare how serious his intentions were. “I’m here. I even agreed to coach him, Chris. What do I do, I can’t just leave?”

“Why not?”

Victor stared, a bit flummoxed. “What do you mean?”

“Why can you not simply leave? Have you already signed a contract?”

“No,” Victor pouted. “I wasn’t planning on having one.”

“And that’s something we’ll come back to at a later date but for now, perfection. You can simply walk away. You do not have to give your time to a man who doesn’t want it, and you are allowed to change your mind. There is no obligation to Yuuri Katsuki here, except perhaps the sight of your award winning ass as you sashay out of his life and make him regret what a fool he was to play with your heart. You can take your vacation here in Geneva, I’m sure I can find a hot spring around here that’s just as fair, if not better, than Yu-topia.”

Chris sighed. “Laying your heart at the feet of a man who won’t appreciate it simply is not worth it, darling. Take it from me, it just isn’t. I know this is a first for you-”

Victor snorted and rubbed at his eyes. “I’ll say.”

“-but it happens to everyone at some point, cher, it is just an unfortunate part of being human.”

“Right…” Victor sighed and lowered his head, shutting his eyes with a grimace. “Right.”

“Tell you what. Stay a week, enjoy what Hasetsu has to offer, play the tourist, take your mind off things. Show him that you are strong and unaffected by his mind games! Then at Worlds, if he even makes it in, we’ll trounce him. Ca joue?”

Victor felt his lips twitch into a smile but his heart really wasn’t in it. “Da. Alright. You make good points, Chris.”

“I do, you were right to call me. Just imagine if you hadn’t? You would have been stuck out there wailing after a man who only seeks to use you! But seriously, mon frere, I’m glad you called me. I know things have been hard for you lately, but as far as seeking inspiration goes, this just isn’t it, darl.”

“You’re right,” Victor laughed. “You’re right. Okay. I’ll buy those tickets then I’ll text them to you. Thanks, Chris.”

“It is no problem at all, Victor. Call me back if you need anything at all, okay? And don’t be afraid to text me to vent either! We need receipts for the eventual call out post,” Chris said with a laugh.

Victor laughed again, a lightness beginning to trill through him. Chris was a good friend, for all that he was competition. He was glad to have him.

“I will do. Give my love to Masumi and Georgia, yes?”

“And you kiss Makka-dear for me. We’ll talk later, darling. Kisses.”

“Kisses,” Victor said.

He ended the call and looked around, allowing himself another sigh in the privacy of this small room. The boxes, a good portion of his life packed up and shipped to a country he’d only been to for competitions, were embarrassing to look upon. Humiliating, really. He’d been so desperate.

Victor looked down at his phone and navigated to his gallery the way he’d been doing for months, now. Yuuri Katsuki was devastatingly gorgeous once you got a good look at him, and that banquet had allowed Victor a very good look. A good look, and a good feel, too, of those broad and sturdy hands, masculine yet poised. They’d held Victor so readily, sweeping him into dance after intoxicating dance, Yuuri’s cheap oxfords elevated through the sheer power of his elegance and verve. They had laughed together, and sang together, and then at the end of it-

For all that Victor’s memory was shoddy it was impossible to get Yuuri’s slurred request out of his head, the vision of his shining eyes in the flowering flush of his face. It had felt as though, in that moment, Victor had been made human.

Not a picture, not a prop, not a manifestation of the ice - sleek and perfect and beautiful. No. Human.

Yuuri had seen a person in him that had the intelligence and the ability to guide him, had faith in Victor’s ability to be more than just a lonely gold toting figurehead.

At least, that is what it’d felt like at the time.

Looking through these pictures and videos, collected by both himself and others, it was hard to believe that Victor was seeing something that simply wasn’t there. It was the same in Yuuri’s performance of Stammi Vicino. To Victor it had been a dance of loneliness and yearning. He was old, and he was tired. He’d given everything to the ice and it had left his life devoid as a result. Victor craved the ability to be a person with someone who could love him. Yuuri’s rendition, though - it harkened to a heady affection, steeped too in yearning and readiness but so open and pleased that, where Victor cooled, Yuuri smouldered.

Victor had been so sure, and so had allowed himself to be played for a fool.

He threw his head back with another sigh, a longer one, and eyed the ceiling for a moment.

‘No, Chris is right.’ He shook his head and stood. ‘He’s pretty but he’s not that pretty. I won’t let myself be taken advantage of or used as a stepping stone just because a man is attractive.’

He’d enjoy Hasetsu for a week then he would go. There were eight billion people in this world - surely one of them could be a match for him, even if it wasn’t the man he’d thought it was.

‘Perhaps this is karma,’ Victor snorted to himself with a wry shake of his head as he started to shuffle through boxes again. That damn eye mask, where was it? ‘For breaking so many hearts in my you-’

“Ah HAH!” Victor yanked out the eye mask with a crow of victory, thrusting it toward the ceiling. “There you are, you tricky, blasted thing.”

If he even had a heart. Victor snorted, then paused and looked at the box behind him, the one he could have sworn he remembered putting it in. It should have been right next to the toner.

Strange. Oh well. Shaking his head, Victor stood and dismissed it. He had higher priorities - namely ensuring that he was so beautiful he both broke Yuuri Katsuki’s heart, while telling the man he’d never been worth Victor’s consideration to begin with.

~~~

Just looking at him, you wouldn’t expect that level of playboy maliciousness.

“Oh, Victor, good morning!”

Yuuri’s eyes were large beneath the flop of his fluffy black bedhead, the smile on his face glittering in warm and excited welcome. It made Victor’s own heart flutter and in response he firmed himself. This usually wasn’t something he had such difficulty in, typically Victor could spot these types from a thousand paces and treat them as they deserved, but Yuuri just seemed to have some sort of way about him, an innocence perhaps, or a welcomness that spoke to an instinct of safety.

‘He must use it with deadly precision,’ Victor thought with a nod and smile in answer, sitting next to him.

He would not let himself be fooled again.

“Did you and Makkachin sleep alright?” Yuuri asked. “She wasn’t too unsettled, was she?”

The man was even asking after the welfare of his dog. Victor forced his opinion of his own foolishness to gentle because anybody would get suckered in by this.

“We both slept just fine, thank you for asking,” Victor said and let his gaze drift about the table. Despite the soft sounds of dining in the background from the other customers, there was no food here as yet, only what looked like a cup of tea and a sheet of paper. It was that which caught Victor’s attention and he reached over to take it.

“What’s this?” He asked, though the moment he laid eyes on it he didn’t need to.

Ah. Meal plan.

“I was so excited I couldn’t sleep,” Yuuri admitted with a laugh and a scratch of his cheek. He straightened his glasses and leaned in closer, and Victor struggled not to be drawn in as though he’d been magnetized. “So I thought I’d draft up a meal plan!”

The man kneeled back, determination shining through his face. “I want you to know that I’m taking this very seriously and-and that I’m not going to take this chance you’re giving me for granted, Victor. I promise, I’ll do my best to be the best pupil you’ve ever had.”

‘With the exercise, it’s a bit low, isn’t it?’ Victor thought as he looked at the estimated calorie total for each of the meals, then shook himself of it. He wasn’t doing this. In fact, he’d be best off if he simply left right now before he could get swept up by Yuuri’s spell yet again for surely this must be witchcraft.

“Actually, about that,” Victor said and set the sheet down, turning to look at Yuuri.

He perked so obviously to attention that Victor’s words nearly stalled out. Months, Victor reminded himself, months of no contact only to be wailed at.

‘He’s hanging on my every word so attentively,’ Victor almost frowned. ‘It’s hard to believe, but that is the reality of the situation.’

He could change his mind again, Victor knew. He could become Yuuri’s coach and get to know this man, really properly know him, find out the long way what that lack of communication had been about, discover the mystery behind Yuuri’s interpretation of Stammi Vicino. Victor could do that.

He had to be strong.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Victor said with a smile. “I’m not going to be your coach after all, Yuuri.”

All that glittering enthusiasm drained out of Yuuri’s face, a sight so sore to see that Victor actually had to rip his eyes away from the pallid ghost it left behind. His heart was throbbing, baying even, with pain. The sensation grew to a scream as Yuuri said, oh so softly, “Oh.”

If there was anything that should have drawn out the entitled heartkiller that surely lay beneath, it should have been this. Instead, when Victor glanced at him from the corner of his eye, Yuuri still looked like he was trying to pick up the fragments of his thoughts as though they’d been scattered by a shotgun blast.

Months, Victor reminded himself, and drew in a deep breath, pasting the smile more firmly to his face.

“After last night I did a lot of thinking.” Victor tilted his head to look at Yuuri. He shrugged delicately. “And I’ve decided it’s just not worth it.”

What fragmented remains Yuuri had seemingly gathered fell away, again, dropping to leave the man paling and round eyed. Victor very nearly grimaced. Those eyes were the assassins of a guilty conscience, he swore. There was no pleasure in this. This just felt like kicking a puppy. He blew out a short sigh and stood.

“I just wanted to let you know that,” Victor said and turned to start walking away to his room.

~~~

It was seeing him walk away that jerked Yuuri’s mind back into motion.

“W-Wait,” He whispered and jerked, nails scraping the tatami as he forced his numb and clumsy body upward. “Wait!”

He caught up to Victor in the hallway leading to the man’s room, those otherwise painfully empty vacancies, and when he didn’t stop Yuuri put on a burst of speed. His hand careened outward and settled onto Victor’s wrist.

It was warm, in the brief space of time Yuuri got to feel it before Victor jerked away. But he’d stopped and even turned so Yuuri could see his face, meeting Yuuri’s gaze with expressionless eyes. The smile the man put on in response made Yuuri shiver.

“Yes?” Victor asked, tweaking at the sleeve Yuuri had touched.

Yuuri swallowed the shame and forced himself forward. How did he go about this? His entire future, his idol, this wonderful man - he was walking away from him without so much as an explanation. Yuuri had to at least try.

“I-I-,” Yuuri stammered, withdrawing his hand to his chest.

Victor quirked a beautiful slender eyebrow. “You?”

He restrained his flinch and took in a deep breath then swung into a deep bow, hands firm at his sides.

“Please, if I’ve already disappointed you, please give me another chance to make it up to you. I promise to be a diligent student and work hard, Victor, I won’t let you down.”

There was a long breathy sigh and Yuuri could see Victor’s feet shift. “Won’t let me down, he says. If I’ve disappointed you. Wow. This is impressive.”

Yuuri’s head lurched up even as his heart sank into his chest. So it was something that he’d done. It’d only been an afternoon and a night, what could he have already done to mess up so badly?

“I-If-If I’ve offended you in any way,” Yuuri said and forced his head down again. He could feel himself begin to shake. It was getting hard to breathe. To talk. He was already falling apart. “Please tell me so I can-”

Victor’s feet turned and walked away, and Yuuri’s heart stopped. He felt his head rock up, his breath petering out in his too dry mouth at the sight of Victor’s back. The sunlight glowed shimmering threads through his hair, his bearing as regal as he was beautiful, his motions the epitome of the grace and artistry that had captivated Yuuri for so long.

And he was walking away.

Yuuri’s body was moving before he’d even realized it and the next thing he knew he was staring up into Victor’s incalculably cool face. His breath was moving in and out in mighty rasps, and Yuuri watched as the man’s features became watery and indistinct. Yuuri’s body felt numb with panic as he dropped down onto his knees, set his hands upon the floor, and bowed his head overtop of them - the only thing he could think of to express his ultimate contrition.

“Ou,” Victor cooed above him and clapped. “Japanese dogeza!”

Yuuri clenched his teeth then let it go. He surely deserved this. “Whatever it is that I’ve done, I apologize. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. P-Please tell me so I can make it up to you, I promise, whatever it is I’ll-”

A pair of fingers slid beneath his chin just the way they had last night, lifting his head. Yuuri felt his tongue grow wooden and thick, and his clumsy words trailed off. “-do…it…”

Victor was still smiling, but this was not the rich and syrupy expression of last night, the one Victor had given him while Yuuri tried so desperately to keep his eyes from sliding down below so inappropriately to that glorious revelation of skin. No, this was cool. This was exactly the kind of smile that Victor seemed so prone to performing as late, the one that had stoked the fires of Yuuri’s concern because for so long now it’d just not seemed happy.

Yuuri swallowed deeply, aware that he was crying and hoping he wasn’t too much more of a disgusting mess because of it.

“You just graduated university, didn’t you?” Victor asked, his voice soft as that warm and elegant hand trailed up his jaw to his cheek, and swept some hair behind his ear. The gesture was affectionate but something in it made Yuuri want to flinch and shy away as though it were a threat.

He forced himself to nod. “Y-Yes.”

“Double major? Suma cum laude even.”

Somehow feeling as though he was being insulted, Yuuri felt his face grow very hot and he swallowed back the shame again. He nodded.

“Then I think you’re plenty intelligent enough to know exactly what you’ve done, little piggy,” Victor said and tapped his nose. This time Yuuri couldn’t restrain his jump back, even as the cold of Victor’s words settled into him and made themselves deeply at home.

Aghast, Yuuri watched the smiling man as he drew upwards and walked away again with a clipped, “Goodness knows our cultures can’t be so different that kind of behaviour is acceptable here.”

This time, Yuuri couldn’t make himself go after him. He felt as though he had grown thick roots and they’d lashed him to the hardwood, his body no longer flesh and bone but instead gone to cypress.

‘What did I do?’ He could barely feel the tears as he watched Victor open the door to his room, the largest they had, and slowly dropped his eyes. The thought was so intense it must have blared through his senses. Even the sunlight seemed to grow dim. ‘I-I don’t know. What did I do? What did I do?’

He didn’t see Victor turn to look at him, and hesitate, his feet twitching back before he grimaced and shouldered through the door. He only heard it slam behind him. It was that which broke Yuuri out of his stupor, his whole body jerking at the sound. He bolted for his room.

There, he scrubbed his face and paced, one hand firm on his mouth to restrain any ugly bawling and the other clutching tightly at his stomach. Back and forth, back and forth he went, his mind racing, turning over possibilities. Victor had asked to sleep with him last night and horrified at the thought of the man seeing what was essentially the shrine Yuuri had built to him in all his fanboy fervor, he’d yelled. Had that been it? Or had it been because he’d said no?

That thought actually dragged his feet to a stop.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

‘Victor’s never struck me as that type of man, though,’ Yuuri thought and resumed his pacing, chewing hard at a hangnail. ‘Not to mention he’s Victor, people would be lining up. The casting couch is the last thing he needs. No, that can’t be it. Fuck. This is just typical of me. It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours and I’ve already ruined this practically beyond the point of repair. Typical Yuuri Fucking Katsuki.’

Victor wasn’t going to tell him, though, that much was clear. Somehow, Yuuri was supposed to figure this out for himself. He whisked his glasses off and drew to a stop again, palming his face and trying to breathe through the panic.

His eyes opened. ‘Chris.’

Since Chris had moved up to Seniors, the friendliness between them had shallowed significantly into a yesteryear style twilight. Yuuri wouldn’t really consider them friends anymore, if they’d ever been to begin with, and wary of being intrusive he’d taken the distance for what it was and not tried to push his luck. He no longer had the man’s phone number, but they were still mutuals on a few socials. Yuuri lunged for his phone and swiped through the lockscreen, ignoring the misery that made his heart thud at the photo of Vicchan he still had as his wallpaper, and made his way over to Instagram. His eyes swivelled through any recent posts there just in case, his first, then Victor’s, then Chris’s. He couldn’t see anything that might have some sort of-of clue, of hint. He threw himself into Chris’s DMs, noticing the last messages there had been years ago, then paused.

He had to be, Yuuri knew and bit his lip, very, very careful in how he worded this.

Chris was Victor’s competition, yes, but Chris was also Victor’s friend, their friendship so genuine seeming that Yuuri deeply doubted it was some sort of press-thing the way some conspiracy theorists believed.

He was happy for Chris in that, even though he’d also admit to a little bit of jealousy. Yuuri had hardly been the only skater of today who Victor had inspired.

Chris’s loyalty had always been to Victor first - to the one who had believed in him.

Yuuri blew out a hard breath. Just sitting here and staring at the screen wasn’t going to do anything, and if anyone knew what the hell Yuuri had done to fuck up so badly it surely had to be Chris. He chewed on his lip for a moment longer then shook his head and started to type.

‘Hi Chris, long time no chat. I hope you’re doing well, congratulations again on your silver at Sochi. This might seem strange, and I apologize for that, but Victor is currently staying here at Yu-topia and I’

Yuuri’s thumbs crawled to a stop. A string of flesh began to fray from his lip. His teeth worried at it. Another deep breath. ‘C’mon Katsuki, man up.’

‘I fear I’ve already managed to deeply offend him and I’m sorry and ashamed to say that I don’t know how. I know you two are friends. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something, anything, so I can understand what I’ve done wrong and make up for my-’ What was the fancy English word for ‘fuck up’? English had its own rules of formality, which this type of request certainly required, and ten-dollar words were a part of it. Swearing was most certainly not. Yuuri cast for it then nodded. ‘-gaffe. I would be in your debt. Thank you.’

There. Yuuri read it over once, twice, ten times, then after the fifteenth he took in a shivering breath and sent it before he could chicken out. Then Yuuri dropped onto his bed, abruptly exhausted, and looked around his room.

‘Maybe he got a look in here and realized I’m nothing but a creep,’ Yuuri snorted bitterly, then jumped as his phone buzzed. He blinked and looked down at it. He hadn’t actually been expecting such a quick reply, maybe Chris had actually-

‘you know exactly what youve done 😂’

‘🐷🐷🕺’

Yuuri almost growled with frustration and quickly typed back that he was clearly an idiot who really didn’t, but the message wouldn’t send. He tried it again.

‘He blocked me,’ Yuuri realized with a sinking feeling of dread. ‘He actually-’

He quickly checked the other socials they shared and found himself blocked on them as well. He was too stunned to even cry about it. Cold, Yuuri set the phone to the side, clasping his face and staring into nothing.

Eventually the wordless shock began to churn over into thoughts, into ideas. Yuuri looked at the phone screen again then took a screenshot in a flash of paranoia.

He read and reread long enough to have the short exchange memorized.

‘Two pig emojis and a dancing man,’ Yuuri thought, feeling like he was trying to interpret hieroglyphs. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

He scrubbed his face with a sigh then looked up into the face of one of his posters, searching the planes of Victor’s exquisite features and lines as though they could give him some sort of clue. He, of course, came away with no new ideas.

The only thing Yuuri could think of was to wait for the emotions to cool then try again.

He got his opportunity come lunch, which Victor had asked to be delivered to his room. Yuuri tried not to breathe in the delicious scent but it still made his stomach growl, reminding him that he’d yet to eat today. He hadn’t wanted to until Victor, as his coach, gave his approval or disapproval of the meal plan Yuuri had drawn up.

Last night, the bounding happiness and excitement that had glittered through him and stolen his sleep until he’d finally crashed at just after three, already felt like a dream, a distant memory. With things as they were now, the thought of asking Victor to be Yuuri’s coach was the last thing on his mind, he just wanted to-to fix this somehow, to make it up to him.

The thought of Victor being mad at him curdled any stirrings of an appetite Yuuri had right to rot. He shuddered as he came to stand outside of Victor’s door, then took a deep breath in and knocked.

“Come in.”

Bracing the tray against his hip, Yuuri did so, refusing the urge to look at Victor and instead keeping his eyes down.

“I’ve brought your lunch. You ordered the squid tempura set with green tea?”

“Ah, perfect! Yes I did, thank you very much. Just on the table is fine,” Victor said from his seat on the couch, barely looking up from his phone.

Yuuri nodded and, doing his best to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, made his way to the table and kneeled at its side, divesting upon it the contents of his tray.

“It looks delicious,” Victor said, and Yuuri was helpless but to look up and see the delighted glimmer in his eyes. Makkachin’s nose was really going too, her head lifting from Victor’s lap.

He smiled a bit. “I think mom’s cooking is the main reason we’re still open. I hope you enjoy.”

“I’m sure I will. It’s no wonder you’re such a little piggy, surrounded by such delicious food,” Victor laughed.

Yuuri made himself laugh too, though he was certain it was quite weak. He murmured an agreement then, unable to help himself, poured Victor a cup of tea. He should leave. He typically would. Instead Yuuri stayed right where he was, clutching the serving tray to his chest between his arms and gripping onto it tightly.

He almost felt it when Victor looked at him, and held onto the tray all the tighter at the next soft chuckle.

“Does the staff dine with the customers in Hasetsu? How interesting!”

Yuuri looked up. “No! No. Uhm.” He lowered his head again. “No. I’m. Sorry for intruding on your meal. I-I was just.”

He swallowed deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. “I wanted to ask for you to please take pity on me and tell me what I’ve done so I can apologize to you properly, Victor. Please.”

Yuuri laughed and was a little horrified at how wet it sounded. “I’m an idiot, and I can’t figure it out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I see. Hm.”

Yuuri opened his eyes and peered through his frames upwards at the man, thumbnail scraping the tray back and forth. Victor was looking at the spread of food before him, seemingly more interested in his meal than in Yuuri himself, which honestly wasn’t unfair. He still didn’t look about to answer. Yuuri hugged the tray tighter to his body and forged ahead. He really didn’t think this was it, but just in case it was-

“If-If this is about your…request last night, I-”

“When I asked to sleep with you?”

Yuuri hesitated then nodded. Victor hummed and reached forward to gather up his chopsticks and the small dish of rice.

“Maybe a little bit,” Victor said.

Yuuri felt his shoulders hunch in deeply. This was so terrible to even say, but, well. If it was Victor, then-

“I would be willing to, if that’s what you’d like,” Yuuri pushed his voice out but it still came out not much above a whisper. Whether it was simply sharing a bed, or if it was sharing a bed intimately, if it was with Victor, then, at least it was Victor.

Victor just laughed, louder this time, and the humiliation turned Yuuri’s ears red, welled deep in his throat until he was forced to swallow or risk choking on it.

“I’m hardly the kind of man to go where he isn’t wanted, Yuuri, your chastity is safe with me,” Victor said, his tone hair-sizzling with its contempt. “No need to look so afraid. So. You really don’t know, hm?”

Mute, a little worried he might break the tray with how hard he was clinging to it, Yuuri shook his head.

“I see. Alright. Well, I’ll be sticking around for a week to take in the sights and enjoy your family’s hospitality. If you can figure it out before then, let me know. Until then,” The levity dropped out of Victor’s voice. “Don’t talk to me unless you know exactly what you’re apologizing for. Now please leave. You’re ruining my appetite.”

It was difficult to move through the weight dragging his limbs down but Yuuri nodded and quietly left, closing the door behind him. He returned the tray to the kitchen, washed it, dried it, left it with the others. His mom asked if Vicchan had liked his lunch and Yuuri said yes, he had. Then he left and went back up to his room, where he silently shut the door. There, he took his phone out of his pocket and navigated back into his and Chris’s conversation. Two pigs, and a dancing man. He backed out, sliding to the floor and curling up as he went again through Victor’s socials, through Plisetsky’s, Babicheva’s, every skater in the senior division who he followed. There was nothing. Thinking himself insane, Yuuri popped into his own camera roll, scrolling, scrolling. It was all the same as it ever was. The same was true of his files, of his notes, his emails. Yuuri scoured his text messages, then his call history, then his contacts, thinking maybe he’d somehow managed to get a hold of Victor’s phone number and drunk texted him something abhorrent, or maybe he had said something inflammatory to someone else and it had gotten back to him, or something but.

There was still nothing. Nothing. There was NOTHING.

Yuuri buried his hands into his hair, the panic making him shake, turn cold. He’d done something wrong, something horribly wrong, to VICTOR. To not just Victor, but to Victor Nikiforov at that. If this got out somehow, if the world knew just how badly Yuuri had offended him, it wasn’t just Yuuri’s dreams that would be over but his family’s too. Yuuri had seen first hand the wars Victor’s fandom had launched in defence of their sacred icon over any slight. These days it was common behaviour. The last restaurant to come under fire had closed within three months. The harassment campaigns had always made Yuuri sick to watch. Victor had never okayed them, never asked for them, had always tried to call them off whenever they happened, but the information still always somehow managed to get out, and left businesses and people to crumble under the weight of Victor’s empire.

‘I’ve brought us to ruin,’ Yuuri shook, doing his best not to hyperventilate as he clutched at his mouth. ‘Bad enough that I’ve squandered away all our money with my degree and shitty skating, but now this? I have to figure it out. I have to!’

If they lost Yu-topia, their family would have nothing left. They were just hanging on by a thread as it was, supported via the dregs of Yuuri’s waning sponsorships which after his performance at the GPF, he just knew would shortly be called off. He jumped to his feet and began to pace furiously, wracking his brain for anything, anything at all.

‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’ Yuuri bit deep into his knuckle. ‘There has to be something. Think, Katsuki, you fucking idiot. THINK.’

Two pigs and a dancing man. It was something Yuuri should know and, more, it was something that was seemingly so painfully obvious that it was apparently laughable that he didn’t realize it. Something so big that even Victor’s patience snapped under the weight of it. Something he should know. What had he done? What had he done?

‘Two pigs and a dancing man.’ Victor had called him a pig several times since he’d been here. It had to be a clue. Chris had done what Yuuri had asked for and then cut him off. He would be getting no more assistance there, and Yuuri was too afraid of this getting out even faster to ask anyone else. He had a week. One week. Seven days. This must be what Sadako’s victims had felt like. ‘Two pigs and a dancing man. Two pigs and a dancing man.’

The dancing man had been yellow. Yuuri was Japane-He shook his head. Neither Chris nor Victor were racist, yellow was just the default skin tone for emojis, it wasn’t that. Two pigs and a dancing man. He tore apart the drawers of his memory, clawing through their innards. Two pigs and a dancing man. Two pigs and a dancing-

From the corner of his eye Yuuri caught sight of his reflection in the mirror next to his closet and stopped.

-man.

Wrapping his arms tightly around his middle, Yuuri approached the mirror, taking himself in from his harried expression and the way his hair relentlessly stuck up, to the fat leaking out of the waistband of his jeans.

Two pigs, Yuuri thought, recalling Victor’s comments the night before about his body, and a dancing man.

The most in his face obvious thing Yuuri could think of, if it wasn’t sleeping together in whatever way Victor had meant the words, the biggest thing that had happened recently was Yuuri’s viral interpretation of Victor’s Stammi Vicino.

‘Two pigs,’ Yuuri turned to study his body in the mirror from all angles, stepped into profile and lifted his shirt. When his palm touched the swell of his soft stomach, it was ice cold. ‘And a dancing man.’

He’d really thought to make an attempt at Victor’s incredible choreography… while looking like this?

Yuuri dropped his shirt, feeling like he’d just been gut-punched, and looked at his reflection in the mirror one more time. Then he reached forward and set his hands upon it, stood there, and gripped the sides to rotate it until it faced the wall instead of his horrible self.

Two pigs and a dancing man. That had to be it. Yuuri had his answer. He picked up his phone from the floor and navigated into Youtube, finding he was still trending with a grimace. He muted his phone and tapped into the video, sitting down on his bed, and watched it play. There, Yuuri scrutinized every contortion of his body, every roll, every lash of skin when his clothes could no longer contain his girth. It made him sick to his stomach. The shame was unreal.

Not only was he so hideous to look at that Minako had screamed at the sight of him, but Yuuri had made a mockery of that sweet and sensitive dance and then it’d gone up on the internet for everyone to see. Victor must have felt humiliated at seeing all the feelings he’d put into Stammi Vicino disgraced like that. Disgusted, Yuuri turned off the phone and set it down next to him, dropping to hang his head into his hands.

‘Victor said that I needed to get down to my weight at the GPF before he’d even consider teaching me,’ Yuuri recalled. ‘At a minimum. This…pig’s body meant lessons would be useless until I did. He’s not going to be my coach anymore, but losing this weight could go a long way to demonstrating how sorry I am and how seriously I take his opinions and feelings. That, and maybe promising to never skate his routines again…’

That just on its own was a painful thought for how much comfort Yuuri had found flowing through those impeccable and inspiring motions, but he swallowed it back. If it meant Victor was willing to let things lie, even if he couldn’t forgive him, Yuuri was willing to do it.

However.

Yuuri’s one and only special talent was dieting, but even with that being the case Yuuri didn’t know how he could drop this much weight in one week.

His eyes flashed up into the emptiness of his room. ‘I have to try.’

He snapped up his phone then grabbed his wallet, his mask, a couple of jackets and a toque that he could use to cover himself so the sight of him might at least not offend anyone else. There was only one thing for it in times like these, Yuuri thought with Minako’s lessons ringing loudly in his ears. Twenty five pounds in one week was going to be tough, probably downright impossible. Without the ability to ease into it, it wasn’t going to be super healthy, either, but fuck it, who cared. He was a disgraced athlete and set to retire before he made things even worse. He had no coach, he had no dog, he had no career, and with Victor’s antipathy on the table his entire family’s livelihood was at stake. Yuuri had to make this right, no matter the cost. He dropped down the stairs and called out that he was going out and borrowing the car. His dad laughed and asked him to get more eggs in that case.

Yuuri smiled at him and pulled up his mask. “Sure thing.”

He stepped into his shoes and walked out the door, keys painful in the clutch of his fist, his teeth ground down tight.

‘I’ll make this right,’ Yuuri unlocked the car and got in, jamming the keys into the ignition even as he shut the door behind him. ‘Even if it kills me.’

Once he got home he carried each tray of eggs, thirty each, carefully into the kitchen, then he went back into the car and unloaded his own groceries. He paused by his dad at reception.

“Hey, uh,” Yuuri rubbed the back of his neck, glad for his mask because he couldn’t lie to save his life. “I know it’s bad timing but I think I’m coming down with something, I’m feeling pretty gross.”

His dad blinked and looked down into the bags Yuuri was carrying, no doubt taking in the mound of water and tea bottles.

“Ah,” Toshiya gave him a sympathetic smile. “That is too bad. But you go and get better.” He laughed, chuffed. “After all, you’ve got a handsome new coach to impress!”

Yuuri winced at that. Best to just get this out of the way before he got their hopes up even further. He backed away slowly. “Uhm. About that. He changed his mind. Victor isn’t going to be my coach. Uhm. I’m gonna. Go to my room. Remember I’m sick so don’t come in, okay? Bye!”

“Wh-Yuuri?!”

Clutching his groceries to his chest, Yuuri raced to his room and slammed the door shut, panting softly. He took off his mask and sniffled hard, wiping at his eyes beneath his frames and shifting to walk over to his bed. Several bottles of unsweetened tea, several bottles of water, and a bottle of electrolyte tablets were what he unloaded onto the floor. Tying up the plastic bags automatically, Yuuri eyed the assemblage of his fast, then nodded. That done, he looked around his room where he’d be spending most of his time for the upcoming week, not wanting to offend Victor with his presence even more than he already had. The blue eyes that he’d so admired seem to glare down at him from their posterly berths in accusation. Yuuri grimaced.

Victor Nikiforov. He was a beautiful man to look at, one who Yuuri was painfully attracted to in all honesty, and a goal to aspire towards. He was an inspiration and a wonder. He was a man. Yuuri had been long aware of how closely he’d skirted toward parasocialism when it came to him and he’d tried hard to avoid it the moment he’d learned the definition of that word. Victor was, before he was Yuuri’s idol, a person deserving of respect. He had his own thoughts and feelings just as Yuuri did, and though he’d often been concerned for what he thought he’d seen in those feelings, Yuuri’s obsession was not Victor’s responsibility.

The man disdained him, now that he knew who Yuuri was beyond a fan and an offer of a commemorative photo. It was quite obvious.

Yuuri got to his feet and began to remove the posters from his walls. They weren’t anything he deserved, and were no longer appropriate to have.

He couldn’t find it in himself to throw them away, though. Looking at the bundle in his hands, Yuuri flipped through them. He’d not framed them, wary of putting holes in the walls, but he had laminated them to protect their edges then hung them with small applications of adhesive putty. Those he did throw away, leaving him with just the sheets bearing Victor’s countenance.

Yuuri looked into those beautiful blue eyes, and bit his lip.

‘I know it’s selfish to hang onto these, but…’ Yuuri turned and put them away in his closet where they would remain, a shameful secret, until he could muster the courage to do anything else with them.

If anything, Yuuri thought as he traced his fingers down the smooth plastic then shifted the door shut, they would serve as a reminder to Yuuri of what happened when he reached beyond his ability.

‘I was foolish,’ Yuuri hiccupped and cupped his hands over his mouth to muffle his whines. Nobody needed to hear this. ‘I was such a fool.’

Last night he had been so happy. He should have known better than to think Victor would ever be truly interested in him of all people. Who was Yuuri Katsuki, after all, if not a fat and ugly failure. A dime-a-dozen dead last. He was a fuck up. Just a fuck up. Victor had said Yuuri wasn’t worth it, and he was right.

He bent over his knees, trying to ignore the gorging width of his thighs. He should have known better.

‘I’m sorry,’ Yuuri shuddered and shook his head, pressing it into his knees. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

He cried for a while, then when he got tired of that he changed into some exercise clothes.

‘Mountain climbers to start,’ Yuuri thought with a grimace and dropped to the floor. He hated mountain climbers, but desperate times called for desperate action.

~~~

The food was delicious but Victor still felt, honestly, like a huge jerk. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said Yuuri was ruining his appetite. Victor didn’t know how one could avoid such a thing in the face of a begging man whose pleas seemed so earnest on the surface.

It was that which was fucking with him the most, Victor thought. Every sense Victor had told him that Yuuri’s responses were honest and, further, uncalculated. He’d even cried, he told Chris. Yuuri that is, not Victor. And he’d done it a lot too.

Yuuri had worn the face of a man whose world was ending, and it just wasn’t fair.

‘i threw him a bone for you, don’t you dare give in under those puppy dog eyes Victor Nikiforov,’ Chris said then shortly after sent a screenshot.

Victor had to admit, that little string of emojis should do the trick. It could only get more obvious if Chris had thrown a ghost in there, but just this should do.

‘he will hardly be the first or the last person to cry on command, you know this’

But with that being the case, why had Yuuri not yet skidded into his room to wail his defeat and apologize for ghosting him so boorishly after the banquet? If the timestamp was to be believed and the time conversion correct, the conversation they’d had over Victor’s lunch took place after this exchange, and Yuuri still claimed to have no idea. His confusion then defeat had been painful and irritating both to behold. Yuuri’s misery was palpable and made Victor feel like a monster when really it should be the other way around. Victor had hardly seduced Yuuri then left without a word! This whole situation was baffling.

Victor had asked the internet, through the guise of anonymity and typing a query into the search bar, if that was acceptable behaviour in Japan and Google said yes, ghosting actually was a common way to end relationships and mitigate conflict. Foreign responses seemed to be just as irritated as Victor was to this, at least. However, though that may be the case, Yuuri had been Stateside for years and ghosting, though Victor was sure it wasn’t uncommon there, wasn’t exactly seen as kind there either. He’d dealt with enough Americans to know this. Surely Yuuri would have picked up on that nuance? And either way Victor couched it, a refusal was still a refusal. No, it was only because Victor had changed his mind about being Yuuri’s coach that the man was reacting like this. Right?

Victor was useless at handling other people’s tears, he’d be the first to admit it. He wasn’t always the best at decoding other people’s emotions either - this had led to a lot of conflict in his past relationships.

For all of that, though, Victor was fairly certain he could tell when he was being lied to, either by a body or with words, and he just didn’t get the sense that Yuuri was lying to him in any capacity here. If he was, Victor thought as he recalled the redness of the man’s ears, the hunch in his posture, the way he’d looked kneeling in that hallway, he was an exceptional actor and his next career should absolutely capitalize on that. It sang through in his skating, and that was still the case now. A man like that, he seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve. You’d expect therefore that he’d be a terrible liar. Victor supposed his expectations were wrong.

When Victor realized he was watching Yuuri skate Stammi Vicino yet again, he shook his head and stood. He had to get out of here, get some air, maybe make use of that rink and just get his mind off things.

He still found his way back into that screenshot, reading it yet again.

‘All the words seem correct,’ Victor thought. ‘He seems genuinely remorseful.’

He had in every interaction they’d had, but he certainly hadn’t been last night. No, Victor shook his head again and stood to find his skate bag. Yuuri Katsuki was just another athlete hungry for gold and went the route of mindgames to get there. Victor was no stranger to this. Hell, Victor had himself participated in such in his youth, when his reputation had yet to grow to the point his very existence played the game for him. That was just the world of professional figure skating. It was cut-throat, and it was messy, and it was oftentimes painful but it was also deeply rewarding.

Or it had been.

Such had not been the case more and more as of the past few years, leaving Victor feeling as though his well had run dry. Even thinking of choreography had grown substantially more difficult. His mind was quite nearly a placid lake, unstirred and unemotional. Void. He’d dragged the thoughts for last season’s choreography from the mire of past routines, by and large, and the depths of that lake, and it had of course won him gold but it had felt a rather hollow experience. It always did these days.

And then, of course, Yuuri happened. Who Victor was getting pretty sick of thinking of.

He’d expected some respite from that at the Ice Castle, as it seemed to be called. Victor didn’t know why that was, but he had, and he was proven shortly wrong.

There was a woman manning the front desk, pretty, busty, with brown hair tied up in a tail. She was pouting at her phone for some reason but when the bell rang to announce Victor’s presence, her head swung up with a cheerful smile.

Then she saw him and promptly screamed. This drew the sound of running footsteps and a bark of Japanese as a widthy man burst out of the back, who also looked at him, and said something that was probably a cuss word. Entertained at the show, Victor settled his hand on his hip as he watched the man tend to, if the rings were anything to go by, probably his wife who was presently suffering from a catastrophic nosebleed.

She looked at him again, screeched his name, and immediately passed out.

These screams? Much, much better.

“Here,” Victor said and strode forward, settling his bag on the counter. He was hardly unfamiliar with this sort of fan response. “Let me help.”

“Hi,” The woman said in warbling, accented English when she’d woken up, mopping her face with a damp towel and still looking very star struck. “I’m Yuuko Nishigori, and this is my husband Takeshi. Minako told us you were here but we didn’t believe her!”

Minako… Ah, right, that was the name of Yuuri’s ballet instructor, the shrewdly smiling one who seemed to take Yuuri’s weight as a personal insult, if the way she’d dropped him in it with Victor and just watched him tear into Yuuri with a smile was any indication. Victor put on one of his prettiest smiles.

“She’s right, I am indeed here! Hallo. It’s very nice to meet you both.”

“I can’t believe Yuuri didn’t say anything,” Takeshi snorted.

Victor felt his smile strain just a smidge.

Yuuko giggled. “Maybe he’s just overwhelmed. Anyways, I take it you’d like to skate? There’s nobody in there right now and we don’t have any bookings so please, feel free! But. Uhm.”

She poked her fingers together and gave him a hopeful look. “Would you mind if I watched?”

“Not at all!” Victor turned around and dug out his phone. “In fact, if you could help me out and film me so I can send it back to Yakov, I would be very grateful.”

The resulting squeal was rather ear splitting. Victor was always so glad to be able to please his fans.

“So are you staying at Yu-topia, then?” Yuuko asked a few minutes later as she watched Victor get into his skates.

Victor looked up with a smile. “Da. They’ve been very welcoming, and I’ve been enjoying the, ah, the onsens?” Yuuko nodded rapidly and Victor beamed, finding her enjoyable and sweet. “And the food very much.”

Yuuko’s smile gentled. “That’s wonderful, I’m so glad to hear it. I have no doubts they’ll take very good care of you while you’re here.”

She turned and looked around as Victor stood. “Will Yuuri be joining you?”

Victor had been at this game too long for his wince to come through thankfully. “No, I don’t expect so.”

Yuuko turned back with a sad little frown, looking down at Victor’s phone and swiping into his camera. “So even with you here, he’s still retiring, huh?”

This time Victor’s startle did make it through. “What?”

That had not been his impression.

Yuuko looked up with a nod. “He didn’t take his results at the GPF very well. Honestly, he’s too hard on himself.”

If Victor had skated that poorly, he’d be hard on himself too. He said as much, and was not expecting the way Yuuko instantly puffed up with righteous indignation.

“And how well do you think you would have done if you’d found out right before your SP that Makkachin got hit by a car and died?!”

“What?!” Victor couldn’t help his squeak. But wait, what did that have to do with anythi-

It clicked.

Oh. Yes, Victor thought back to the recordings he’d seen of those very dismal performances, rife with falls and a stiff demeanour that was entirely unlike Yuuri’s usual fluid musicality, insofar as Youtube had shown him since he’d never paid much attention prior. That would do it. He briefly licked his lips, very uncomfortable with this conversation now.

“I told them to wait to call him,” Yuuko sighed. “But they all loved Vicchan so much and. …Yeah. I’m sorry for snapping at you like that. It’s just that Yuuri’s like a little brother to me.”

Victor rubbed his arm, casting his eyes to the side. “Uhm. It’s fine. Only. Why are you telling me this?”

That caught Yuuko’s attention, making her glance up then take him in with widening eyes.

“I just-” Yuuko started, stopped, her brows drawing inwards with confusion. “Are you… not here to see Yuuri, then?”

Well. Yes. He was. Had been, rather. He wasn’t going to tell her that, though. Victor shook his head and mustered a weak smile.

“He told me about the family business at the banquet, yes, and I wanted to try it. I’ve never been to an onsen before! That is as far as that goes though.”

“Oh. Oh no,” Yuuko flushed deeply. “I’m really sorry, I must have made this so awkward for you! I just thought that you might have come here after seeing his interpretation of Stammi Vicino. The-the timing and all…”

He had to give her that, the timing was certainly suspicious and difficult to wiggle out of.

“It did serve to remind me that Yu-topia existed,” Victor laughed.

“So you saw it?” Yuuko’s eyes hesitantly lifted back up, a restrained sort of excitement leaking through there. She definitely had the ‘proud big sister who wants to brag about her brother’ look down pat. “It was just beautiful, wasn’t it? He performed it for me, you know. I was,” She turned and pointed. “Right there!”

Victor blinked.

“Oh, I see. He’s in love with you.”

The words were out of his mouth before he had the time to realize he’d even spoken, but it wasn’t untrue. That, he thought with a sinking feeling, did go very far in explaining the vivid warmth in Yuuri’s eyes, the-the everything, really. Yuuri had been skating his love just as Victor thought he’d been. It was simply that Yuuri’s love wasn’t for him, but for the beautiful and married woman beside him.

Chris was right. The entire time he’d been looking for signs that, simply put, just didn’t exist.

Yuuko raised an eyebrow at him. Squinted. “He was. I’m pretty sure his heart has belonged to someone else for a while now, though, even if he doesn’t really know him very well.”

The way Yuuri had skated the routine really said otherwise, but who was Victor to point out a stranger’s naivety? The massive hint toward bisexuality was at least a little comforting, he probably hadn’t been imagining the chemistry between them then that he’d feared. Victor had yet to misinterpret a straight man as interested in him, that was not a humiliation he ever, EVER wanted to endure.

“That must have been awkward,” Victor said with another smile. “With you being in a relationship and all.”

He was frankly surprised the man was even allowed to practice here, that being the case, with the way Yuuri seemingly strummed hearts as though they were strings to be played. If he was Takeshi, Victor would be feeling very insecure right now.

Yuuko narrowed her eyes. “Why would it be? Yuuri may have had romantic feelings for me in the past, but he’s always known I’ve never felt that way for him without my even saying so. We’re family to each other and he’s never pushed his feelings on me! He’s a good guy!”

Tilting his head, Victor asked, “He is?”

Yuuko huffed, her cheeks inflating with ire. Haha, whoopsies. “YES.”

“Hm,” Victor said and unzipped his jacket, leaving it on the bench and making his way to the entrance of the rink. “I guess a lot can change in four years. Sorry, we’ve gotten rather off track.”

He turned around and blew her a winning smile and a wink. “You still don’t mind filming me, do you?”

Yuuko seemed to grind her teeth for a moment, then she huffed again and lifted the phone. “No. But only because Yuuri would kill me for refusing, though.”

Victor shrugged and took off his guards. Whatever worked, he supposed. “Spasibo! I appreciate it very much, Yuuko.”

“Please,” Yuuko said with burning eyes. “Just Nishigori is fine, Mr. Nikiforov.”

And thanks to Yuuri Katsuki, it seemed as though Victor had lost a beloved fan. Oh well. You win some you lose some, Victor tried to reassure himself through the irritation he wouldn’t let show.

“Would you mind playing the second song in the 2016 playlist? The one called ‘eros’,” Victor called back with a wave of his hand.

Yuuri, that goddamned Yuuri, had inspired a lot of feelings within him after that banquet, rejuvenating him and making the ideas burst forth into colourful, vivid paintings of watercolour. Eros was just one of the routines Victor had created as a result, albeit this one came largely from a place of spite, and disappointment, and yes, more yearning. He hadn’t managed to escape Yuuri by coming here after all, Victor thought as the opening guitar chords played and he flowed through the movements on center ice. But he could at least use the fuel of his irritation to smooth out the problem areas in the choreography.

Something about it just never felt right.

Victor was gratified, at least, that upon coming out of the routine, Yuuko’s eyes had regained a hint of that sparkling shine she’d had the moment she registered him walking in.

When she looked up from the screen at him, though, Victor felt with a jolt that she was looking right through him and wasn’t buying what she was seeing.

‘She knows,’ Came the immediate paranoid thought, but Victor knew it to be the truth. ‘Somehow, she knows exactly why I’m here.’

“It’s beautiful, Mr. Nikiforov.” Her smile grew teeth. “Not to worry. Yuuri will definitely do your hard work justice.”

Victor managed to swallow and smiled widely himself as he skated over to the wall.

“I really don’t know what you mean,” He said even though he knew her meaning exactly.

That couldn’t be true though, right? Victor took the water bottle as Yuuko passed it to him, paying a somewhat disturbed glance at the ice behind him as he wondered. These were routines he’d created with the full intention of skating them himself come Worlds, he hadn’t made them for anyone else.

Eros had not been created for Yuuri Katsuki.

‘And yet I can’t deny,’ He lifted the nozzle to his lips, shaken and cooled right down to his core. ‘How well it fits.’

It had been a flamenco, hadn’t it, that Yuuri had used to draw Victor in and invite him to dance? Improper as the footwear might have been, the man’s shifting hips, whirlwind feet, and the flirt of his snapping fingers as his arms led the eye up and down the showcase of his splendid form had pulled Victor in as surely as gravity.

God. All he’d done for the last few months had been obsess over that damned man and it seemed as though his brain, mighty coward and rebel that it was, had no intentions of doing anything else, even through the avenues Victor hadn’t foreseen. Maybe he should cancel those tickets and head to Geneva even sooner than he and Chris had planned.

He turned back to the wall and set down the bottle, combing his hair out of his eyes and giving Yuuko a sparkling smile. “May I see?”

“Of course, it’s your phone,” Yuuko said and handed it over, but then leaned in to watch as Viktor played the video.

His instincts continued to itch that this was a dance suited for somebody else, injected with his feelings and his angst though it might be, and Victor wondered if the woman next to him might actually be right. He pushed it away and brought forth the mind to critique instead, noting where he was less than perfect, where a transition could be smoothed over even further, or where a different step might suit a space in the step sequence better. It was riveting, visceral, sexy, and powerful. These were things that suited Victor very well. So why, Victor thought with frustration, did it look like a poorly fitted coat on him?

“You know,” Yuuko said about three quarters through, her eyes lidded, no doubt doing the same thing he was even though he’d never seen her on the circuit. “Whatever it is that’s going on between you and Yuuri, if you just talk about it with him, I’m sure he’ll listen. He is sometimes self-centered. He doesn’t understand the effect he has on people, and that can lead to him being accidentally hurtful.”

Victor found himself meeting her eyes despite himself.

“But it is accidental, Mr. Nikiforov. Yuuri cares. In fact sometimes I think he cares too much.”

Victor smiled. “I really don’t think this is an appropriate conversation, Mrs. Nishigori.”

To his horror he found frustrated tears shortly blooming on the woman’s lashline.

“For all that we looked up to you-” Yuuko shook her head and slapped the phone down on the wall, turning to stalk away. “Please forgive me, Mr. Nikiforov, I thought I was talking to a person. I’ll send Takeshi to film you, don’t hesitate to continue using the rink as much as you like.”

Victor watched as she left, finding himself of the opinion that, perhaps, Hasetsu just wasn’t for him.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever made people cry out of misery,’ Victor thought, turning to take up his phone again and finding with relief that it was intact. ‘As much as I have today.’

It was not a good feeling. Victor refused to feel guilty for having boundaries, though, and continued to watch himself on the little screen. It was a few minutes later when Mr. Nishigori swept in through the doors with a cheerful looking smile. He also looked a little relieved to see Victor still there.

“Ah, sorry about that! Yuuko might not look it, but she can be feisty when she wants to be.”

Victor made himself laugh and it came as easily as breathing. “It’s not a worry at all, Mr. Nishigori! I’m sorry that I seemed to have upset her. A little firecracker, is she?”

Mr. Nishigori, too, laughed, and it seemed genuine. “It’s a big reason why I fell for her, yes. Loyal, beautiful, passionate, what’s not to love? Now, would you still like someone to film for you, Mr. Nikiforov?”

“Da, I would, if I’m not taking you away from your work?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” Mr. Nishigori’s smile fell a bit. “We’re hardly busy, after all. Alright. Anything special I need to know about this phone?”

#freaks fics #tw suicide #tw ed not ed sheeren #wait thats a tag #thats actually kinda funny #now what on god was i doing before i pissed myself off #plus side - if im getting sidetracked that hard this long after ive taken my meds For Sure This Time i probs havent double dosed myself

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a-cacophony-of-silent-words · 1 year ago

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Still Breathing Part One: Into The Tiger's Den

Chapter 1: Sacrifices

How could things go so bad so quickly?

Twenty-four hours ago everything was business as usual. Twenty-four hours ago, everyone was alive. Now? Now, Tim and Jason are the only ones left. The last of their family hiding out in a derelict building from a Joker who’s somehow become a nearly omnipotent monster. Everyone’s dead. All of them. A thought that’s bringing Tim closer and closer to a complete breakdown with every second that passes. He’s trying to fight it, he doesn’t want to do that to Jason, who’s already at his wits’ end, but…

Dammit, this can’t be happening. Why is this happening?

Tim runs a hand through his hair as he sits down on a crate and just breathes. Forcing down the hysterical sobs that want to rip apart his composure. God, he was just sitting on the couch in the manor with all of them two days ago. He can’t remember what the last thing he said to any of them was. Can’t remember if he gave them a hug before he left. When was the last time he’d told them he loved them? Fuck.

He curls in on himself pulling the jacket Jason had given him that morning closer around his shoulders. How can this be happening? How can they all be… How can he be losing another family like this? It’s all so fucking wrong. This is--

A rustle of fabric and the rattle of a gun makes Tim look up quick and he can only stare in surprise at the sight before him. Jason has one of his guns pointed directly at Klarion’s head. All things considered, Klarion doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by this situation. He just places a finger on the muzzle of the gun and turns it away from his face. “Honestly, I would appreciate you not attempting to shoot at me. After all, I didn’t come here to injure you with your own damned weaponry.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Jason snaps, irritable and tired. So tired. Still he does lower the gun without arguing.

Klarion smirks as Teekl jumps down from his shoulders and slinks over to Tim. “I didn’t come here for you at all. Teekl has something of a fondness for Tim, so we decided to come to the rescue. Think of me as your chaotic savior, here to do all I can to rid us of our mutual problem.”

“Great. Then why don’t you just zap the motherfucker into space and let him die, already?” Jason grumbles, holstering is gun and leaning, sullenly, against the nearest wall.

That only gets him a deeply unimpressed look from Klarion, who responds, “If I could have done that I would have already. You severely overestimate the capabilities of magic and underestimate the power of our foe. Not surprising honestly, he has been taking his sweet time. If anyone else had found that damned thing we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“What do you mean?” Tim finally finds his voice, hollow and strained as it sounds to his own ear. “Do you know what happened to to Joker?”

With a sharp laugh, Klarion nods. “Oh yes. You would too, but for the nature of the beast.”

“Just cut the cagey shit and fill us in already,” Jason growls, obviously growing short on patience. Tim can’t really blame him. Klarion can be a pain in the ass to deal with on the best of days.

Klarion raises an eyebrow slightly, but deigns to explain nonetheless. “It doesn’t have a name, but it is an immensely powerful and ancient, magic weapon. Supposedly it was created to destroy what it deems to be redundant universes by granting godlike powers to those who meet certain qualifications.”

“And Joker meets those qualifications?” Tim asks.

“Probably.” Klarion shrugs. “I never bothered to learn them for myself. A dead universe wouldn’t be much fun to play in after all. Regardless, thanks to its power, I can’t even begin to use my magic against Joker. That’s why I’m here. To offer my assistance to you.”

“Sounds like there’s not much you can do, blue boy.” Jason pauses, turns to look at Tim with a look on his face that Tim’s not real sure about. “Unless I’m missing something?”

Tim grimaces, allowing himself to absently scratch Teekl behind the ears, which feels a little weird knowing they’re not a real cat, but it’s comforting nonetheless. “There might be one way, but… it’s not exactly a good one.”

“Good isn’t what I do anyhow, so do tell.” The grin that spreads across Klarion’s face is more than a little unnerving.

“We need…” Tim hesitates, glancing at Jason. “We need to go back in time… and kill the Joker.”

“Delightful!” Klarion croons and Teekl lets out a purr that makes Tim’s stomach turn.

Jason is already shaking his head though. “Baby bird, you know I’m always down for killing Joker, but… messing with fucking time travel? That shit never goes the way you want it to.”

“I know.” Tim agrees. He’s well aware of the risks, having met two future versions of himself who were both murderous assholes despite his vows to change that future. “But as it stands I can’t think of any other way to stop this. If Klarion’s right--”

“I am.”

“-- then what are we supposed to do on our own, Jay? Even Clark couldn’t stand up to that monster! He’s just going to keep hunting us down like it’s some sick game until he gets bored and finishes us off. It’s hopeless right now, but… two months ago? When we know where Joker would be? Where we know what to do? We can stop all of this from ever happening.”

“And then what?” Jason gestures, angrily, with on hand. “Bam! Kill the Joker. Then what, kid?”

Tim stares back at Jason, levelly, because they both know what would need to happen after that, but neither of them really want to voice it.

“Besides—” Jason avoids Tim’s gaze. “—Isn’t the universe fucked anyway? Even if we kill Joker, some other fucker will just grab the artifact and that’s it for the universe. If we’re so determined to go back and bust something, why not the damn thing itself? I mean if it’s not even supposed to exist in the world it shouldn’t cause a problem, right? So why don’t we do that?”

That’s Jason for you always asking the exact right questions, but any hope Tim had that Jason could be right disappears when Klarion giggles. “Are you serious? Honestly, don’t make me laugh. It has the power to grant someone all the abilities of a god and you think you can destroy it? You’d never even find it. You already forgot it existed, even though you knew all about it two weeks ago. It doesn’t want you to stop it, as much as an object ‘wants’ anything. It’s a machine that will keep repeating this process until the universe is either destroyed or changed enough to sate it.”

That’s what Tim was afraid of. Klarion had said that the nature of the beast was that people who should know about it, didn’t. Something powerful enough to rewrite the memories of an entire universe wasn’t something easy to destroy or defeat.

“Jesus.” Jason hisses, low and with feeling. “Just how powerful is this thing?”

“Apparently its creation devoured an entire universe of magic users… but that might just be a legend.” Klarion hums as he studies his fingernails. “Sufficed to say, destroying the artifact is not an option. Killing Joker, though, that has distinct possibilities. If nothing else it might make this universe unique and not worth erasing.”

“How the fuck do you even know any of this?” Jason obviously isn’t liking being outnumbered here.

Klarion rolls his eyes. “I do read books after all. Now that that’s solved! Shall we put this plan in motion? Your universe destroyer might be taking his time playing his cat and mouse game, but I don’t fancy a battle with someone who makes my magic look like parlor tricks.”

A shudder runs through Tim’s body as he breathes in. “July twenty-fifth is the last time we knew where Joker was before all this. He was in--”

“You don’t need to tell me all that.” Klarion waves off Tim’s explanation as he walks by on his way to the other side of the room. Teekl leaps up, joining their witch. “Only whichever of you is going needs to know where. I just need to know when.”

Jason scowls. “You can only send one of us?”

“You’re lucky I can do that much.” Klarion kicks a few things out of the way and begins setting up his circle. “That choice is for the two of you to make, but it’s not as if it really matters. Once your mission is complete this instance will cease to be. Probably. Time isn’t really my forte. Chaos is.”

“We know,” Tim mutters, then turns to Jason. “Jay, you should go.”

“Why?” Jason gives him the most incredulous glare Tim has ever gotten in his life.

“Haven’t you always wanted to kill Joker? Here’s your chance. Besides you’re just the better person for the job.” Tim lies. Mostly lies. It’s true Jason, who’s killed before, is more prepared to deal with this job, but that’s not why Tim wants him to go. He’s being selfish. He’s… “It’s just better if it’s you.”

Jason narrows his eyes, like he’s seen straight through Tim’s bullshit and opens his mouth to probably say so, when there’s a loud crash from somewhere else in the building. An eerie giggle echoes through the hallway beyond the room they’re hiding in.

Klarion, now hunched over the circle with his eyes closed, lifts his head slightly and opens one eye. “No more time for chatter, birdies. Let’s go.”

Tim stands up, ignoring the incredibly disturbing sight of Teekl transforming into their more humanoid form. He fishes in the pocket of the jacket for his collapsed bo staff as he starts for the door. “Go, Jay, I’ll hold him off until--”

Jason grabs Tim before he can walk passed him and pulls him into a tight hug. For a moment Tim is half crushed against his brother’s chest and everything is still. Then Jason whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m sorry, Li’l Red.”

In that second, Tim feels his heart sink into his stomach, but he can’t even speak before the wall of the room comes crashing down, debris falling like a curtain to the floor revealing the figure of Joker grinning at them more wild-eyed than ever before. Jason shoves Tim away and immediately Tim feels something with fur and claws grab him by the arms from behind. Heedless of Teekl’s warning growl, Tim struggles against their grip. “Wait! Jason! Please! Please don’t!”

He doesn’t listen. He never listens. Please this can’t be happening!

Jason pulls his guns out and shots ring out. Bullets stop, seconds before hitting Joker’s head, falling harmlessly to the floor. Jason keeps shooting.

Joker laughs with hysterical glee as a crowbar appears in his hand. “Oh! I nearly forgot that I’d get to kill you all over again! This is going to be such a joy for me, you don't even know!”

“Jason!” Tim screeches as Teekl drags him backwards, their claws digging in deeper and deeper as he struggles to get free.

Vaguely he hears Klarion say something that might be, “Oh that does sound much more interesting!”

But he’s not paying attention, because at that moment Jason runs out of bullets and Joker’s grin widens impossibly. “All done now? Is it my turn already?”

“Fuck you!” Defiant to the end, Jason chucks both guns at Joker’s head. It only buys him a second more. Joker shrugs them off and lunges forward. He grabs Jason’s face and drives him down into the tiled floor. The crowbar falls towards Jason’s skull and Tim wails for his brother. He can’t save him. He can’t save anyone. Angry at the world, at Jason, at himself, Tim screams his throat raw as time slows down.

Abruptly Teekl’s gone. Nothing’s holding Tim in place any longer, but the world around him is rushing by in a blur of color and movement like a video rewinding. Then everything stops so suddenly that Tim’s caught off balance and falls against a crate. Bewildered, he looks around and realization sets in alongside a building dread. He’s nowhere near Gotham. There’s a steady beeping sound coming from a small device in the middle of a dirt floor. A woman sobbing as she fights with a padlock on a pair of iron doors. And a badly beaten teen in the old Robin suit laying on the floor by her feet.

Klarion severely overshot.

Tim breathes. He needs to get out of here right now. Break a window above him and crawl out. Just go. He can still accomplish his goal in this time period, he shouldn’t screw up the timeline any more than he absolutely has to. He can’t know what that will cause.

But… Jason’s right there. He couldn’t save his brother in the future. Couldn’t stop him from dying. Again. But here…

Shaking himself into action, Tim stands upright. He doesn’t have time for this. This building is going to go up in less than two minutes. He needs to act now. Without giving it anymore thought, Tim steps out from behind the stack of crates and heads for the doors.

Sheila jumps at his sudden appearance, looking at him with fear and hope in her eyes, pleading, “Please, help us. Please…”

Tim spares her a brief glance, but doesn’t speak. He ignores the bomb, he knows he can’t disarm it in time, it’s a Joker special. Too convoluted to solve. Instead he takes a lock pick set from his boot – Always, always be prepared – and goes to work on the padlock. It takes longer than he’d like and by the time he finishes the annoying beeping that’s counting down to their doom is getting louder. They don’t have much more time. He looks up at Sheila as he pulls the chain away from the doors. “Get them open, I’ve got Jason.”

Sheila nods, unquestioning, not even seeming to register that this complete stranger knows Robin’s identity. Well so much the better for him. As she pushes the doors open as wide as possible, Tim lifts Jason gently by his less damaged arm, hooking an arm around his back. Jason groans, weakly. “B?”

“No,” Tim answers, softly. “But I’ve got you, Jay. It’ll be okay.”

Sheila returns and supports Jason’s other side. Between the two of them, they manage to put some distance between them and the building. Tim pushes them down behind a rock seconds before the blast sends red hot shrapnel flying past their hiding spot. Holding Sheila’s head down, Tim silently laments that the rock is really too small of a shield, but it does it’s job well enough.

Slowly, the commotion dies down and Sheila, shaking like a leaf, her arms wrapped tight around Jason, looks up at Tim. “I-is it over? Are we really still alive?”

“Yeah.” For better or worse. Tim shakes off the wave of anxieties rising in his chest as he stands up. “Yeah, we’re alive.”

She turns her attention to Jason. “…He tried to save me. Even after…”

“… That’s what Robin does.” Tim coughs to try and hide the sadness in his voice.

There’s a silence between them as Sheila starts patching up Jason’s injuries. Then she glances at Tim again, stops, and stares at him. “Who-Who are you?”

“I’m…” He trails off, uncertain, and just then he hears the sound of a jeep growing closer. He sighs. “Nobody important. Stay here.”

She nods, hesitantly, and Tim steps away from the rock heading back towards the smoldering remains pile of rubble that was once a warehouse. He watches as the jeep slides to a halt and Batman jumps out and runs to the wreckage. Everything about this is a goddamn mess.

“Batman!” Tim yells as he gets close enough to be heard.

Bruce doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Over here! Hey!” Tim tries again, but that doesn’t work either. Dammit. “Bruce!”

That does it. Probably because no one in the area but Jason should know to call him that when he’s in the Batsuit. Bruce whips around and looks straight down at Tim panic turning to suspicion. Looks like he’s about to demand Tim’s identity immediately, Tim ignores it and jerks his head towards Jason and Sheila. The tension bleeds out of Bruce just a bit as he spots the pair. In the end he doesn’t speak to Tim, just rushes past him to where Sheila and Jason are.

Sheila looks up at Bruce as he approaches, saying, with some trepidation, “He needs some serious treatment, but… I-I think he’ll be okay. I hope he will. We can take back to the camp and I’ll treat him there.”

Without really responding, Bruce gathers Jason into his arms with intense care. Tim watches in silence as Sheila runs ahead to the jeep with Robin’s cape spreading it out in the back and climbing in, waiting for Bruce to lay Jason there. His job here is done. It’s time to leave. Jason will be okay. It will all--

“Come on.” Bruce’s voice rumbles beside him.

“I—” Tim starts to shy away, but Bruce, dexterous as ever, manages to grab him by the elbow while still holding Jason firmly.

“You need treatment too.” Bruce indicates Tim’s left arm with a tilt of his head.

Tim looks down and frowns at the blood soaking into his sleeve. Teekl had really dug their claws in it seems. “…Okay.”

Meekly, he follows Bruce back to the jeep, jumping into the passenger seat while Sheila and Bruce situate Jason in the back. Some part of Tim is screaming that he should run. Now. While they’re distracted. Leave. Don’t give Bruce anymore chances to figure him out.

He doesn’t.

He’s tired, drained beyond even his normal capacity, and, Bruce is right, he needs his injuries treated. So he just closes his eyes and leans back as the car starts and they speed away to save the boy who should have died.

Next Chapter

First Chapter (You Are Here)

#argothia's writing #argothia's fanfiction #story: still breathing part one: into the tiger's den #series: still breathing #fandom: bat family

3 notes · View notes

bioticlaw · 9 months ago

Text

Can You Tell Me Who I Am?

You wonder if zealots ever find themselves in the same position as you: lost in a paradox without a clear path. When you look at him, you see salvation, but in that salvation, you also see ruin. The Doctor gives, and the Doctor takes away. You picture yourself kneeling before his feet and feel nothing, yet you can’t see yourself following anyone else but him. Then what are you supposed to be?

PAIRING: Dottore x Reader, minor Scaramouche & Reader

CONTENT: yandere Dottore | gender-neutral reader | human experimentation, unhealthy relationships, master/pet, emotional/psychological manipulation, conditioning, religious themes, implied sexual content, dom/sub undertones, canon divergent but spoilers for sumeru archon quest! Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. ( ~10k words )

NOTES: finally, after nearly two months, I can finally share what I've been brainrotting over :')))) is there a plot?? not really tbh the demons just won. this is disgustingly self-indulgent but I'd still like to dedicate this to @eanul-rambul and @hiperacid2 for sitting through my madman ramblings and making this story possible!! this can be read by itself, but if you'd like, the prequel/first part can be found here! much love, enjoy :3c // @houseofsolisoccasum

DARK CONTENT UNDER THE CUT | READ ON AO3

The people of Sumeru do not dream.

The Akasha terminals harvest it all from them to create a singular massive brain for the collective to take knowledge from. That was what the Doctor told you on your journey from Snezhnaya to the land of wisdom. As expected of him, he figures everything out without batting an eye. He never makes mistakes and he is never wrong, so what he told you can’t possibly be a lie.

A walk through the Akademiya confirms his initial findings as well. The people of Sumeru do not dream. They live in ambition and convenient, unlimited knowledge, far more valuable than a mere dream can be. It’s not your first time meeting such personalities. The longer you work with the Doctor, the more people you meet, including some of the Harbingers he doesn’t seem too particularly fond of. He seems to have a fondness for relying on your ability to judge a person. From their strengths to their weaknesses, he has you remember all of them should they decide to turn against him later.

Even if you don’t understand why he wants your insight (human emotions aren’t your area of expertise—very far from it, in fact), you have no reason not to trust him. It will become useful in the future, he said. You can do that for me, can’t you?

You can, and you will.

They say that dreaming is when the human mind becomes the most vivid. It’s where Sumeru’s knowledge all stems from: a collective mind of sorts, bountiful sciences for the academic mind to pursue. The Doctor was particularly interested in this system, so he’d taken the Akasha terminal you were given to study more closely. It wasn’t a request.

It also wasn’t something you were going to decline. It wouldn’t have made a difference regardless. With or without the terminal, just like the people of Sumeru, you do not dream. Your day ends with a period of nothingness before the new one begins and gives you a mission to complete, as per routine.

Still, you believe it is quite inconsistent with typical human behaviours you’ve observed. Every person has a dream, don’t they? Some dream of travelling the world and getting to adventure much like the golden-haired traveller and their flying companion. Some dream of a happy life for their families, and some dream of exacting revenge on certain people.

But you don’t. You don’t have a dream, though you suppose if you were ever asked about it, you’d say that it’s to serve the Doctor. It’s what you’re made for. You kill anyone he tells you to kill. You guard him from the shadows, ready to slit the throat of whoever dares lie to him. You follow every order and every whim because it is your duty—your ‘happiness,’ you think—to do so.

You always have, and you always will.

Your gaze flits over to the Doctor who stands before the giant automaton, the Shouki no Kami, that looms over him. Thanks to his insistence, the project has been progressing just as he’d like. You remember his crazed words when the idea came to him, his words an epiphany and almost choir-like among the dullness of machinery. Warmth rises to your cheeks as you watch him engrossed in his work, lost in his own world. It’s a sight that’s familiar to you, a constant in each day you spend with him.

How strange, you think. This must be the sensitivity implant he’d put in you. Not too long ago, he had expressed his interest in your responses to foreign stimuli. You weren’t made aware of when he would put it into motion, so this is entirely new. Is this what people refer to as fondness? To feel nothing but a semblance of joy when you watch someone close to you?

You try not to dwell on it and return to the task at hand. The Doctor had stationed you by the entrance to the workshop, close enough to reach when needed and not too close to disturb him. Ready to be at his beck and call, just where he likes you.

It’s quiet in the workshop save for the dull whirring of the cogs and wheels overhead. It almost fascinates you how such dreariness can exist in a lush and vibrant place like Sumeru City. The workshop, despite its hollow grandness, doesn’t seem like an optimal place to be productive. You find that it’s not that different from his laboratory back at Zapolyarny Palace. There, the windows show you nothing but snow and frost. Here, all you see is metal on every corner, drab and colourless unlike the city and its lush outskirts.

You suppose the Doctor is simply not like other people. He doesn’t need to feel the sunlight to have a change of mood. He doesn’t share their composition, either; this much you know thanks to the nights where he’d lay himself bare for your recalibration. It’s one of many secrets you keep for him.

Something hits the floor with a loud clang, making you snap out of your reverie. Right, you have a job to do. He hates it when people zone out. His patience has been running thin to begin with thanks to the ‘tedious and menial’ conversations he’s had to have with other researchers. Aggravating him further is nowhere near the decision you must choose to make.

While you always do as he says without question, doing nothing proves to be possibly the most arduous task you’ve done. You don’t feel anxious or afraid—you can hardly feel anything at all, but you’re lost, so to speak. It’s out of routine and order to only be on standby.

“—Why don’t you escort the grand sage to safety?” His voice breaks the silence and echoes in the chamber, bringing you back to the present. “I unfortunately have my hands full and can’t see to it myself. Could you do that for me?”

There’s a lighthearted tone to his words. He must be excited to finally make use of the puppet he’s been working so hard on. In just a matter of a few seconds, the long-awaited plan is going to come to fruition and as always, you will be there to witness it.

“Of course, Doctor.”

(Anything.)

“Come back to me when you’re done. I’d like you to stay close in case any… complications occur.”

When you return, a couple of mechanics are tinkering away at the automaton. Finishing touches, you assume. You’re not entirely sure what the process entails. The Doctor hasn’t told you much about this project. All you’ve had so far is bits and pieces of information, namely how this is meant to be all for who the Doctor and his fellow Harbingers refer to as Scaramouche.

They’re a total anomaly, nonexistent in your memory, never seen and never known. You wonder if there’s a reason why you’ve never come face-to-face with it. He tends to tell you whatever’s on his mind, not seeking for you to be a conversationalist, but as an echo chamber. Maybe it’s his segments that know of this Scaramouche character.

While it’s not unusual for the Doctor to keep certain things from you, it raises questions that will go unanswered. Trust has always been an unspoken agreement between you and him. As his servant and his guard, his creation, there is nothing you won’t do for him. You’ll figure out a way to cut down every Archon alive if he so wishes it. But does he not share the same sentiment? Are you, ultimately, just another one of his disposables? Does he not trust you after all this time?

(After all the steps he’d taken to keep your lips sealed and you completely, utterly his?)

“I’ve called for the subject,” he says with a chuckle. “He’ll be arriving any moment now—”

“Let’s just get this over with,” comes a new voice you don’t recognise.

“Heh. You’re right on time.”

When you turn, you see a young man dressed in Inazuman clothes and a large hat adorned with gold and red threads. His face is twisted into a scowl that contradicts the softness of his features. His brows are furrowed as he glares at the Doctor in visible disdain. Nevertheless, he reminds you of ice and porcelain statues in Snezhnaya, carved for everlasting beauty and grandeur.

It is now that you realise that he is here—the new god himself in the flesh.

The missing puzzle piece, the sign of a new beginning. If that is who he’s meant to be, you believe that he will be fully revered without fail. If this is the one to worship at the altar, sacred offerings and prayers would be made day and night, pleading for their god’s wisdom.

With your constitution, your priorities do not lie in faith, but elsewhere: in recalibration and maintenance, in servitude and protection. There is much you don’t understand about religion, but is he not the very image of a being worthy of worship? An inexplicably beautiful, powerful being who holds the honour of succeeding their Greater Lord Rukkhadevata? A replacement for the Lesser Lord Kusanali, who is deemed beyond lesser in researchers’ eyes?

Scaramouche is cold and callous, but is that not how gods should be? Domineering, easily able to strike fear into their subjects? The fact holds as he stops beside you and gives you an irritated glance. Already is he regarding you, a stranger, with so much disdain, or something more malicious. You’re suddenly overly aware of your talons—sleek, black metallic, lethal—and the alarms ringing in your head. Accordingly, you deem him a threat to be kept under surveillance.

“This is your new pet project?” Scaramouche scoffs. “You’re declining, Dottore.”

As if he can feel you ready to act, the Doctor dissuades you by blocking you with his arm. A wordless warning. Despite finding it an unwise decision, you let your hands hang limply by your sides and return to your normal posture.

He’s right. He always is. Only he gets to decide who the enemy is. This Scaramouche is not an enemy, but evolution itself; something that transcends science and the mortal realm. You cannot ruin something he worked so hard for.

“I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“Perhaps you should wait for me to give you a command,” he says dryly. Though he appears to be smiling, you know better than to trust that his ire has fully dissipated. Clasping his hand on your shoulder, he nods at the other Harbinger. “This is my assistant, but let’s save the pleasantries for later, shall we? Go on, now.”

Steam rises from the surface as the metal plates of the automaton’s mask slide open. Although the automaton is only at half of its height, it encompasses nearly half of the room and casts a shadow in its wake. Scaramouche climbs into the cockpit with grace and agility, evidently familiar with the standard procedures.

You watch as the mask closes, sealing the sixth Harbinger inside. The Doctor patiently makes his way to the automaton with the Electro Gnosis held between his fingers. You hear chatter from the crowd behind you and murmurs that echo throughout the workshop, all in anticipation of what will take place soon. Not long after, he inserts the Gnosis in its rightful compartment and steps back.

Soon enough, Shouki no Kami comes to life. Electricity bursts in hues of amethyst and violet and sparks run across its surface. The insignia at its centre glows far brighter than anything you’d ever seen. You feel its strength with your eyes alone, as do your fellow witnesses. You realise now that you behold the birth of an almighty being, one ready to take fate into his own hands and overthrow the false god.

(You’ve never seen anything more beautiful.)

—

Dottore doesn’t play favourites, but if he were asked to pick a favourite thing about you, he would say without a doubt that it is your unquestioning compliance.

He’s fully aware that it’s how he encouraged you to be, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t acknowledge it. Trust is not earned so easily, even if years pass and one hasn’t wronged the other yet. Despite having sworn loyalty to the Tsaritsa and by extension Pierro, there isn’t a single member of the Fatui he’d trust with his projects.

But you, the one he made, the one he changed; you stand above them all.

It’s an entertaining sight indeed to see you fall and get back up time and time again with a new life, a new memory and the same ever-present constant: him. No matter what he puts you through, on the operating table or on dangerous missions, you trust him with your being. Your faith and loyalty are in his hands, binding you to him for as long as he’ll need you. Perhaps, in some way, you see him as more than your master. Feelings are fickle things and unimportant to him. Inquisitiveness and uncovering the world’s secrets are all he needs, but you—

You are a different variable.

You put your fragile life in his hands and let him keep you in his possession. You guard him like a loyal hound to the leader of its pack. Even if he can simply use his segments or remake you, it’s quite hard to imagine a life without you behind him. You’ve become a long-withstanding presence he can continue to study and rely on under the guise of diagnostics. No longer are you the meek little thing shyly watching him from the sidelines. No longer are you his benefactor who naïvely believed his lies about medical research and evolution. You’re an entirely new person, but one fact remains true all the same.

You are his, before and after ‘death.’

With you constantly dutifully close by, it hadn’t taken long for some of his fellow Harbingers to take an interest in you. It infuriates him to remember the wicked smile on Pantalone’s lips as he mentioned how much he was willing to spend on you. It’s worse to remember how Childe would tell you anecdotes of his travels in an attempt to convince you to join him. The memory never fails to make him huff in irritation every time it comes up.

How absolutely imbecilic. Is it not clear enough that you cannot be taken from him?

Dottore wasn’t always one to make rash decisions. He’s meticulous and calculated, sharp and precise. But to hear those idiots imply their desire for you made his blood boil for reasons unclear to him. There was no other way he could have dealt with the inexplicable rage surging in his veins or the warmth that bloomed in his chest. As long as you need him to live, and as long as your heart is locked behind a code only he knows, no one can take you away from him.

Since then, he’d given you another strict order. It was admittedly a selfish and conceivably unreasonable one that he made clear. You are not to interact with any of the Harbingers unless he is also present. It seems to have worked well for the most part. They don’t ask about you as much as they used to, as much as they are dying to know of your whereabouts.

It’s satisfactory enough. He can’t have you falling into less-than-capable hands. After tearing you down and putting you back together, there is zero chance he’s letting it all slip away. You know it fully well, too, that there is no other place for you to go except with him.

Unlike the average person, you lack innate desires and greed. With or without an incentive, you’d never leave him in favour of something or someone else. What reason would there be for you to do such a thing?

None.

You have never failed him. You can’t fail him, regardless of if the probability of success is slightly above zero. If you somehow deviate from your chosen path and escape him, finding you won’t be difficult. He has the agents to subdue you if necessary and the concoction to keep you pliant. While he’d prefer not to have a single blemish on you, it may be just the right choice with the right intention.

But there won’t come a day when he’d have to make that decision. You won’t fail him. As long as he has you in his grasp, you will never leave him. As long as he stays the subject of your fealty and the cause of your existence, you will never leave him. The reassurance alone is enough to ground him once again, his anger dissipating out of his mind like smoke in the wind.

Bringing you along to Sumeru was just another part of his routine. As far as he knows, you’ve never stepped foot outside Snezhnaya both in your past and present. He could practically see the cogs and wheels in your mind turning as you observed the horizon for reconnaissance. He wasn’t very keen on letting you become too curious, but for once, he’ll consider allowing it. It was fascinating, he thought, to see you try to mask your awe with apathy.

For the first time in years, you were human, and just a naïve little thing eager for adventure.

Dottore isn’t quite one for the arts. He can appreciate beauty where it’s done, even if the words of an artist matter very little to him. It’s too abstract, he finds. There is freedom in knowledge, but there is also discipline—something that artists lack in his eyes. Yet he wonders if the poets were right to liken their subject to a warm summer day. If seeing the glimmer in your eyes and your parted lips is how his mind interprets art to be.

(Are those worshippers right, in the end, when they swear ‘til death do us part’ to their lovers?)

He saw that wondrous expression again in the Joururi Workshop.

There was a lot to behold in those chambers: Shouki no Kami lighting up to life, the purple lightning streaks running across the surface. In the midst of it, all he could focus on was not the result of his success, but you. The face of an awed spectator, the face he’d see in the devout. He didn’t think too long about it, however. A sudden wave of annoyance crashed over him and so he took his eyes off you and back to his creation. He didn’t care how long you were in that flabbergasted state. He didn’t care for trivial things, he thought, albeit more bitterly than he’d anticipated.

There are a lot of things he could (and has) stripped you of. Your innate curiosity is not one of them. It’s not as if he could’ve stopped the questions in your mind from rising. He didn’t tell you much about the collaboration with the Akademiya. It wasn’t necessarily his intention to leave you in the dark about it, but when he thinks of your reverie again, he decides it was for the best.

Scaramouche is considerably more… sentient than you are, and Dottore is a careful man. The way you stared at that puppet was telling enough. The fewer interactions you have with him, the better. You picking up his opinions and attitude certainly isn’t ideal. Of course, he has a plan in case something like that were to happen, though he’d prefer not to use it.

He’s grown fond of the current you, after all.

Though a natural sceptic of fate and divine intervention, today the heavens have taken the victory. They mock him and laugh in his face, at his expense, as his beloved pet project grows fascinated with something else before his very eyes. As much as he hated to think of it, it was inevitable that you’d meet Scaramouche one day. Despite the other Harbinger having acknowledged you once (just to insult you, he thought indignantly), the more pressing matter at hand isn’t Scaramouche.

It is you.

He figures he’ll have to get you under control soon, if not now. Yet at the same time, the scholar in him questions. What would you think of the new ‘god’ from what you already know of devotion? What would you pray for at the altar in the throes of desperation?

Would you still look at him with the same loyalty and—dare he say it—love if your ‘heart’ lies in someone else’s hands?

He’s never been one to let his emotions take the reins. He leads himself with rationality and logic. Reason is a bigger priority than sentiment, he finds. And yet, he fully resents the implication of you finding someone else to belong to other than him. It is irrational to think of it. Keeping you in his clutches comes as easy as breathing does. With your body inside and out under his control, it leaves little to no reason for you to need somebody else.

As fun as it is to nudge you back in the right direction, he isn’t always as cruel as he seems. You’ve always been an inquisitive thing, which is why he has you record all of his musings and disorganised thoughts. You care about his work and you guard his laboratory in his absence like the perfect guard dog. Letting you wander about is relatively harmless, but he’d prefer to be able to keep his eyes on you.

The snowy mountains and frosted ground of Snezhnaya are all you know. In Sumeru, there is fauna and flora that you’ve never seen. Scaramouche is one of them. With him being a deviation from what little you truly know, it definitely wouldn’t take very long for you to develop some sort of fascination for him.

Were it someone he knew who wasn’t at all a threat, Dottore would’ve let it slide. He doesn’t find Scaramouche a threat per se, but the situation raises concerns regardless. As apathetic as you are to most occurrences, you won’t stay that way for long. What he saw on the journey to Sumeru is proof enough. After so many years, you could feel once more the wind in your hair as you breathed in the scent of the ocean. You could feel the sun’s rays warming your skin in ways Snezhnayan skies never have.

Contrary to what he’d initially told you, he never ‘took away’ your sensitivity or implanted a new one. All it took was small doses of anaesthesia and a new command—subdue anyone who lets their touch linger on you for too long. It worked for a while, but he decided to slowly lessen and eventually stop those doses. That was for your benefit as well. A new research question, one could say. How would someone unfeeling handle new sensations all at once? How touch-starved would you become?

Would you seek him out just like you used to?

Unfamiliar sensations inadvertently affect your mind, and you’ll learn once again what you crave more or desire less. He remembers the night you fully became his, all in mind, body and soul. How pliant you were and how you never ran away even when things became too much. How the most featherlight of touches would have you caving in, melting in his hold. He knows you like the back of his hand. He made sure that he would be the sole one who gets to be this close.

Yet for reasons he just can’t fathom, his plans of keeping you all to himself had gone awry.

Months have passed since the incident, and he finds himself equally infuriated thinking about how flustered you were when Childe dared to touch you. It was a minuscule gesture, not one you were unfamiliar with—a hand on the small of your back gently urging you in the direction you were supposed to go. For some reason unknown to him, it managed to fluster you somehow. Your eyes widened and you stumbled over your words, much to the younger Harbinger’s delight.

Incredibly irksome was what it was.

Dottore never denies that he is a selfish man. He won’t deny that he missed seeing your expressions from torture to bliss, either. Your reactivity was what he liked most about you. Here, he contemplates whether to put you under that treatment again. He doesn’t want to do it so soon, not when he wants to see it all coming back to you. Robotic and unfeeling is what people expect you to be, but what he misses is the vividness of your emotions—your fear, anger, sorrow, and joy.

“Isn’t it fascinating to discover something new? To feel something new?”

Yes, this is for your benefit and his. You’ll get to learn what it’s like to be a being of science, someone who dares to challenge the divine with pure knowledge. You’ll get to feel what you have lost, and he’ll get to watch as it changes you for the worse or the better. It doesn’t matter what the outcome is; you are ultimately his to own, his to toy with. This is just like any other experiment. It should be.

Regardless, it is hard to keep the annoyance at bay. It’s unclear how Scaramouche is going to interact with you. Between your endless patience (sometimes he wishes you’d just snap and show him what he’d missed these past years) and Scaramouche’s lack thereof, there is no clear vision of what will happen. It wouldn’t make sense to send you back to Snezhnaya so hastily, either. As far as he’s concerned, your presence is imperative, and who knows what’ll happen if he isn’t there to watch over you?

“Troublesome little pet,” he mutters. You’ve distracted him from his work again.

—

Pardis Dhyai tends to be a lively place. Scholars walk past each other at the plaza, some sit together on the grass and chat about what is on their minds. Crowds are hardly foreign to the Doctor, but he prefers to have his privacy. The more you visit here, the more you begin to think that you are the same way.

Today, however, the crowd is nowhere to be seen.

The indoor gardens are barren with only you as its visitor. No conversations can be heard in the background. Birds chirp a cheery tune beyond the forest and the running water flows in the fountain endlessly. You barely make a sound as you continue your exploration, observing the flowers you’ve never seen back in Snezhnaya. Hills of ice and snow hardly make a suitable environment for these florae, so it comes as no surprise that botany here surpasses home. It’s pleasing to the eyes, far more colourful than the glow of blue lights and drab walls you typically see.

The Doctor is busy in a meeting back at the Akademiya with the Grand Sage and a couple of other scholars. With the reasoning that it wasn’t something that required your attention, he’d given you permission to wander about as long as you returned before the meeting ended. It wasn’t an unreasonable request. Some of his matters are confidential, even to you who tend to be a witness to most. It doesn’t happen often, and when it does, you don’t find it an abnormality.

Still, much like that day in the workshop, doing nothing proves to be a most difficult task.

Despite the idyllic scenery that surrounds you, you feel hollow. Quite the oddity—you’ve always presumed that this is what romantics seek and what artists hope to immortalise on their canvases. Yet with the unfamiliar things spread throughout the room, nothing particularly strikes your fascination. Flowers are delicate little things and your fingers are razor sharp—you can’t touch them if you wanted to. A part of you is curious about what soft touches to the skin would feel like, touches that aren’t inspection or painful.

You stop yourself before you can reach out for one of the roses. You’d prefer not to end a life without reason. You solely harm and kill those who try to harm the Doctor in one way or another. Sometimes you’d bring them to him yourself and give him a new subject to test on. It depends on what he asks of you.

The bells above the door chime. You rise on alert, razors extending from your fingertips and ready to strike. As you whip your head around, you find that it’s not an assassin, but a subject you had met days prior.

Scaramouche stares at you with an unimpressed look that borders on disgust. “What trash heap did he pick you out of?”

“He did not pick me out of a trash heap,” you reply, suddenly irrationally irked. “I don’t have memories of when we met. All I know is that he saved my life.”

“And you believe him?” His brows knit together in visible annoyance. “The second of the Harbingers, spending his valuable resources on you? Don’t make me laugh.”

“I have no reason to doubt the Doctor.”

He scoffs. “You’re hopeless.”

After deciding that he doesn’t harbour any intention of hurting you, for now, your claws retract on their own. Not a word is spoken as you keep your gaze trained on him. He walks around the garden, seemingly deep in thought and regards you no more than a handful of times. He’s much different up close than he was back in the giant machine. Without the armour, he reminds you of the Doctor’s other segments; built flawlessly with a life to him that you can’t fathom yet.

“Dottore. Is he your god?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re kissing the ground he walks on. Is that how he trained you?”

It’s not something you’ve questioned a lot in your years of servitude. A master is a master and you are his pawn. What is there to be curious about?

“It’s the least I can do for him,” you answer after a pause. “Forgive my rudeness. I don’t see how this is any of your concern.”

His hostility raises your caution and you watch warily as he approaches you. You don’t break eye contact either, blankly staring at him until he speaks up again.

“Don’t you think?”

“I still fail to see why you’re asking me such trivialities.”

Though Scaramouche likely meant the question rhetorically, your curiosity is piqued nonetheless. You are capable of thought. You are capable of judgement, and you can see how someone is feeling just by observing them. What else could you possibly ‘think’ of?

You’ve always followed orders without hesitation. The Doctor’s time is valuable; if there’s anything you wish to know, you learn of it when you’re off duty. It isn’t a regular occurrence. He has you by his side at all times and gets irritable when you wander off. You aim to please him. You aim to be the best weapon in his arsenal, so you’ll follow him for as long as he’ll let you.

(Is that what ████ would have wanted?)

“Hey,” Scaramouche snaps. “I’m talking to you.”

You return the unimpressed look. “I was contemplating your question.”

“So?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you an answer.”

“Figures.” He rolls his eyes, dropping the issue. “What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be his favourite pet?”

Pretending the jabs were never said, you decide that he’s at least harmless enough for you to be honest. “I’ve been dismissed for the time being.”

It’s hard to predict what he’s thinking. The expression on his features is unreadable and leaves a strange sensation trickling down the length of your spine. Heaviness tugs at where your heart should be. You remember now—this is what you felt when the Doctor expressed his disappointment in you. Scaramouche glowers at you for reasons unknown, arms crossed over his chest much like the petulant children you see on some journeys.

“Is there a problem?”

“A problem?” He huffs a sardonic laugh. “It’s right in front of me.”

This is irregular. You’ve been trained to handle every situation possible, but for the first time in a while, you’re at a standstill. Thousands of possibilities can come from this encounter. Violence is a part of them, but considering Scaramouche’s status, it is the very last on the list.

“I don’t understand you,” he says, exasperated. |You have your own life ahead of you, but you choose to serve someone who doesn’t bat an eye at you. And you can’t tell me why you do it.”

“It’s my purpose.”

“Is it really?” He gives you a once-over head to toe then clicks his tongue, deciding that he’d gotten what he wanted out of you. “Whatever. Don’t tell him you saw me.”

Scaramouche’s words shouldn’t matter. He doesn’t know you inside and out like the Doctor does. He hasn’t repaired you with his own hands. But his questioning continues to leave you unsettled, mind wandering in directions it hasn’t been before.

You’ve never thought much about life without the Doctor. Your soul already lies within him, found itself a home within his ribcage. Your subservience is voluntary. Even if the Doctor wasn’t your saviour, you would still see him as one. Even if you didn’t owe him your submission, you would still give it to him.

He is your saving grace, your maker, your one true companion. He’s all you have. For as long as he’ll allow it, you belong to him. You are his weapon. You are his subject. You are his toy. You are his, just as you’ve always been.

Scaramouche must be doing this to get under your skin, and you are but a fool who’s allowed it to happen. You keep your glare trained on him as he eventually fades into the distance, leaving you with more thoughts than ever.

Several hours pass before you’re back in the Akademiya. The hallways are crowded, much to your dismay, but you dutifully wait at the end for your Doctor to arrive. You’re unnoticed for the most part. Frantic mutterings and crazed discussions become white noise as you lean against the wall. Your eyelids flutter shut and a quiet sigh leaves your nose while restlessness slowly brews within your chest.

“Ah, there you are. Tired?”

You straighten up. “Doctor! I… I’m sorry.”

“Poor thing.” He smiles wryly. “Seems I’ve overworked you.”

“No, I’m alright, I was…”

“I jest,” he chuckles. “Well? Shall we go?”

The walk back to the laboratory is quiet. Your sharp glare scares off curious passers-by and scholars looking for small talk with the Doctor. Meetings with the sages always leave him in a sour mood; it’s for their benefit as much as it is for him, you think.

The lights turn on one by one and machines whir to life, filling the room with low buzzing sounds. You shift your weight from one foot to another, brows furrowing in thought. Your mind tells you to talk to him about Scaramouche, but is it the right time? It’s difficult to gauge his current mood. All you know is that the unease is similar to the last time he’d been in a meeting with the other Harbingers.

“I can hear you fidgeting,” he snaps. “Spit it out.”

As suspected, nothing ever gets past him. You heave out a sigh and regain your composure, not wanting to worsen his disposition. While he’s never had an explicit rule that forbade you from interacting with the other experiments, you wonder if your interaction with Scaramouche would be considered overstepping. The uncertainty of the consequences dawns on you, sending you into a state of inquietude.

“I met Scaramouche again today,” you admit, relenting. If this is forbidden, the Doctor may have mercy on you for the first offence you were unaware of.

Attempting to gauge his mood doesn’t yield much of a result, but there’s something in the air that borders on impatience and anger. His posture, however, is relaxed as he assesses the situation on his own. The atmosphere feels tense—as tense as those pesky Harbinger meetings he’s always complained about. You can’t read him like you can the others. He never lets any vulnerability show, not the smallest tell or twitch.

“I assume he had some things to say.”

You hesitate. “He asked if I had a god.”

The noises from whatever he’s tinkering with abruptly stop.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I couldn’t give him an answer.”

He exhales through his nose, his shoulders rising and falling with the heavy breath. “I see. Don’t indulge him next time… I’d prefer it if you stayed close to me or in the laboratory.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“One last thing, my dearest hound. You don’t need a god.” He peers over his shoulder, glancing through you from the corner of his eye. “You need me.”

—

Is he your god?

The question echoes in your head for days. It demands an answer each time the mysterious Balladeer crosses your mind. The books you read in your leisure hold no answer for you, either. Theories upon theories and centuries’ worth of history could not prepare you for the inquiry. As much information as you’ve gained, not a sliver of it helps you. If anything, more questions are raised—those of the mind and soul.

You’re well cognisant of the fact that you’re no longer human by definition, with some of your organs being synthetic. Your arms are not flesh but obsidian and the rarest metals, sharper than blades crafted by the best smiths. Cybernetics have been implanted into your eyes and your ears, enhancing your abilities as a living weapon.

But are you truly living? You follow the Doctor and sing his praises, but do you do it because you want to, or because he trained you to?

Is he your god?

The breathtaking view of the Shouki no Kami flashes before your eyes again. Everything spoken and written by the Doctor about the upcoming project echoes in your mind. Then, the image changes to those with the Doctor—him in your view as you lay pliant on the operating table, him inspecting your hands with a relaxed expression. You hear voices of the past. Voices that belong to him as they say how you were on the brink of death when he’d graciously saved you. You don’t remember anything before your ‘reawakening,’ so you trust him—they must be true.

You think again of the grandeur that resonated as Shouki no Kami stood tall in the chambers of the workshop. The violet sparks and the overwhelming awe you felt upon seeing it. He who wields the Electro Gnosis shall become stronger than anyone, strong enough to replace the previous god, and you may very well understand what the choir sings of.

If this is what Scaramouche can become—the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom himself—he falls under the definition of a god. At the same time, so does your Doctor. His infinite knowledge, his ability to create life, and his outstanding achievements that put him on a pedestal higher than everyone else all make him perfect.

Archons and the Adepti have hymns and ceremonies dedicated to their sanctity. Statues built in their likeness stand tall throughout the lands of Teyvat. Art and literature are made of them and their legendary exploits. You believe Scaramouche will have poems and symphonies in his honour one day, but is the Doctor not worthy of the same? Is the man who bestowed upon you a new life, a new identity, not as great as the divines, if not better?

You stare ahead at the blueprints pinned on the corkboard. Scrawled notes and rough sketches of current and upcoming projects are scattered throughout the surface. If all goes well, he will allow you to witness their creation at his hands and his segments’. Anything he does is always a sight to behold.

You don’t need a god. You need me.

Your loyalty doesn’t lie with the Tsaritsa. It lies with the Doctor himself. Archons don’t have any meaning to you, and thus, they do not have your trust. The one altar you will offer yourself to is not any of theirs; it’s the table where the Doctor fixes you. You need me, he had said. He is right and he never lies—gods are nothing, but he is everything. You believe him wholeheartedly.

“Zoning out? Great job, you just got him killed.”

In a flash, your claws dig into the skin of Scaramouche’s throat as you move to pin him against your chest. He scoffs sarcastically but makes no move to wrangle free, going so far as to lay his head against your shoulder with a smirk.

“That’s better.”

“How did you get in here?” Your voice is stern, levelled. If this was any other person, their throat would already be slit without a second thought, but Scaramouche is important. An essential piece to the puzzle that will be the domination of Sumeru, living evidence that not only Archons can wield a Gnosis. Your jaw clenches. “The Doctor won’t be pleased about this. You need to leave.”

“There it is. The Doctor this, the Doctor that,” he sighs, “I can’t understand you at all.”

“You need to leave,” you repeat. “Or I will cut you down where you stand.”

“You won’t.” Scaramouche chuckles. “You can’t.”

Your hands are trembling and a burning sensation crawls up your neck, engulfing you in the flames of rage. You can feel it—the lightning and the storms, all brewing within the confines of your chest. Irritated, you loosen your grip and shove him away, making it a point to keep your blades unsheathed and pointed at his throat.

“Hm. Are you always this rude?”

“I almost believe you want me to hurt you,” you hiss.

He grins impishly. “Really?”

“Talk.”

“Fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “Tell me, hound, have you ever experienced betrayal?”

Your brows furrow. “I don’t see how this is important.”

He shrugs. The gesture, albeit minuscule, makes visions of violence run through your mind, visions of bloodshed and mercilessness. Your hand does not waver from where it points at his jugular. Unfazed, he continues, “Don’t you think he’ll betray you one day?”

“I trust him,” you cut in. “Without question.”

With a bored expression, one akin to an impatient teacher, he softly swats your hand away from him. You don’t push back, though you stand guarded—using force remains an option.

“Dottore doesn’t need you. He already has his segments,” he drawls, pretending to check the dirt under his nails. “You’re only there as a toy.”

As irritated as you feel, something in the back of your mind tells you to listen to him.

It’s not that you’re unaware that you are a test subject. Because of your enhanced durability and patience, he often seeks you out for his experiments. You’ve had plenty of substances and chemicals injected into your bloodstream. You’ve been pushed to your limits until he deems it satisfactory. You bear all the pain he inflicts on you and you melt under his touch when he repairs you himself.

Your existence revolves around him. Your body does not belong to you—it belongs to him, and he shall do whatever he pleases with it. This is the life you’ve accepted. This is your pride. This is your ‘dream.’

But it doesn’t explain the weight upon your shoulders. The anxiety lodged in your throat, the numbness spreading across your skin, the chill trickling down your spine. The sense that there is something wrong, very wrong, but nothing points to anything. All the paths ahead of you lead to him. Where are the ones without him?

No matter. You don’t exist to think.

“I’m doing my role,” you say with finality.

It’s a response you have said many times, whether to attempted assassins or lesser agents, yet somehow, the words don’t feel like they’re yours. They’re automated, rehearsed. You shake it off. Routines aren’t out of the ordinary. Following a pattern is merely a part of what you do.

He scoffs. “Fool. You just don’t get it.”

You feel like you should. You feel that there is more weight to his words than he’s letting on, but you simply can’t see this from a new perspective. What you’re doing—how you live now—is enough, and the fulfilment that comes after the Doctor’s praise is something you always aim for.

They can call you whatever they want. His pet, his guard dog, his toy, none of it matters. The only person you listen to is the Doctor. Without him, you are nothing. Without him, you have no purpose.

Then what will you do without him? When he inevitably decides that you are no longer needed, that a replacement would suffice? Every image that comes after is out of your control. The Doctor isn’t afraid of discarding things he deems useless. Would he dismantle you, hide you away until he needs you again? Would he throw you into the same pile as all of his broken segments? Would he decide to dispose of you entirely, shutting down all of your systems and turning your world into a void?

An invisible knot lodges within your throat and your mouth goes dry, uncomfortably so. Sweat beads at the crown of your head and the tremors in your hands are becoming harder to hide. The room spins and renders your vision distorted. You purse your lips, doing your best to keep the instabilities in check. You cannot show weakness. Anyone can turn against you in the blink of an eye.

“Is that all?” you speak up after a beat of silence. The shakiness in your words is more audible than you anticipated. “I will ask you one more time. Leave.”

Scaramouche watches you with an unreadable expression before he thankfully does as demanded without further argument. Your chest feels tight as you glare daggers at the door, keeping your ears trained to hear if the footsteps are going quiet as they should be. The razors on your fingertips retract. It is over.

Shaking your head, you return to the task at hand, unaware of the blinking light in the corner of the room monitoring your every move.

—

The laboratory becomes less of a frequent sight as you are given more tasks to do.

No longer are you needed to wait on the Doctor hand and foot outside the conference room. No longer are you needed to guard him in the workshop. Your time is spent lurking in the shadows, waiting for the opportune time to strike. He has you stay so close yet so far away, demanding your presence one moment then dismissing you the next.

The aberration in routine is too drastic to ignore. You’ve begun to analyse him the same way you do with your kill targets, mentally cataloguing his every action in an attempt to discover a common factor. You broke down everything he said, trying to find any hidden meanings behind them, to see if he speaks to you in riddles. Just like the attempt to search for who you were, you found nothing.

Naturally, you concluded that he is hiding something from you. He’s more adamant about being left alone while he works on a little project. His segments are the ones carrying out the tasks you are usually assigned to. When you’re not on reconnaissance, you’re left with the chores. It’s not entirely unusual for him to command you without further explanation. The tasks are simple enough, but the sudden shift brings forth unwanted anxieties.

You wonder if this is a gateway to something worse. The dismissals and growing lack of conversation remind you of someone no longer interested in what they used to love. With the Doctor’s eccentricities to begin with, nothing aids the formation of a relevant hypothesis or predicts a pattern. Some nights you’d find yourself trying to pick out past mistakes, any errors you might’ve missed, only to be met with nothing. You’d feel strangely heated—upset—being reminded of the possibility that he has simply tired of you.

You’ve always given your all in what he asks of you. If he needs someone killed, you do it clean, untraceable and unsuspecting. If he needs you to retrieve something, you make it seem like what you’ve stolen has never left. You lay yourself on the operating table when he demands it, let him inject toxin upon toxin into your vessels. You’ve been the perfect puppet for as long as you can remember, but is it not enough for him? Does he want more from you?

Maybe it’s his current collaboration with the sages of the Akademiya that is making him neglect you. Shouki no Kami is no small feat and the Doctor is meticulous. He could be devoting more of his time to perfecting the project. A burst of jealousy clouds your mind at the thought. Surely a project he’s had for centuries will be more interesting and resourceful than what you can offer him.

And yet, his demeanour every time you come across him contradicts everything you’ve suspected. He hasn’t been behaving particularly strangely. His mood is still quick to change and his temperance with the other scholars is as turbulent as ever. He still wordlessly watches you complete his orders, fingers drumming against his arm as he’s deep in contemplation. There shouldn’t be room for suspicions, but there is, and the lingering unease has started to hinder your progress.

You come to realise that perhaps this is what he’s called you here for.

The room is eerily quiet as the Doctor leers at you from where he leans against the workbench. You’re kneeling before him, eyes cast on the ground while you wait for him to speak. You don’t remember the last time you failed him, much less trigger a change in his temper. Your mind races with possible punishments he could inflict on you. Would he isolate you from the rest of the world? Would he shut you down for days on end, waking you when he decides you’ve learnt your lesson?

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. You don’t have to see it to know his features are marred with ire, his lips pressed in a taut frown. The impatient tapping of his foot seems to accelerate your train of thought, sending tremors to your frame. His glare burns into you and suddenly you feel all too exposed, vulnerable, and it is here that you realise that you are afraid.

But the scolding you were preparing yourself for never happens.

Instead, you feel a cold and heavy object wrapping around your neck and locking with an audible click. With a gloved hand, he takes hold of your chin with a disturbingly gentle touch, tilting your head up to meet his. You feel his breaths quickening against your cheeks, excitement bubbling in his blood at the confused expression on your face.

“Just as I suspected,” he whispers, voice tinged in manic delight. “It suits you. But…”

Searing heat rushes around your neck and tears spring forth as you look up at him wide-eyed, lips parted in shock. Words die at the tip of your tongue, dissolving into nothing. Still, you don’t move or ask. You aren’t supposed to. Much like an obedient child, you sit and wait, even as you feel as though you’re going to collapse. The burn on your neck gradually wanes with time, the pain fading away but leaving behind a red trail in its wake.

He crouches down beside you and grazes his fingertips over the fresh wound, causing you to involuntarily wince. His glee is more than evident with how he holds your face in his hands and inspects you with pride.

“Why…”

“Why?” The mirth on his features immediately twists into a scowl. “Are you questioning me, pet?”

Your reply is instant and without a second thought, your mind unable to register the underlying threat in his question. “Is… Is that what I am, Doctor?”

“You are whatever I want you to be. Does that not suffice?” He presses against the wound, visibly overjoyed by the choked noise you let out. “Have you forgotten your place, pet?”

“No!” you gasp, tears streaming down your cheeks in rivulets. You don’t remember the last time you cried—you thought you couldn’t—but they flow on their own, uncontrollable and never-ending. “I’m sorry!”

It hurts. You feel as though you’re being torn apart by the neck, skin burnt and blistered at the Doctor’s will. Is this what he had wanted? Is this the foreign stimulus he needed to see your reaction to? Your pain tolerance was high and allowed you to withstand any trial he put you through. Did he take that away just to see you squirm? Just so he could hurt you himself?

For someone so unfamiliar with feelings now, everything comes back to you in full force. While you knew that the Doctor never saw anyone as his equal, the degrading act hits you harder than anything could ever do. You were proud of your duty of serving him, of being the subject he always looked for, but you are now lost in a void.

“I asked for one simple thing.” Whatever joy he previously had is all gone. The gentleness in his touch becomes harsh, fingers pressing against the collar again to rub your wound. “And my dearest little hound ignores it.”

“It hurts, Doctor, please—”

“Have I not been clear enough?” he continues, ignoring your cries. “Must I spell it out myself?”

The pedestal you put him on crumbles into pieces, surrounded by a cloud of dust and smoke. The holy light is replaced with unbounded darkness and the marble flooring is splattered with blood and broken parts. In the destruction, you see your lifeless body lying among the faceless, and all he does is watch as you wither away with his old selves.

“You treat this as a punishment,” he says with disappointment, breaking you out of the dreamscape you’d found yourself in. “But I implore you to consider it a gift.”

Not waiting for your reply, he continues. “A reminder of sorts. For you and for anyone who looks at you. It was quite the hassle deciding between this or reworking you entirely.” He shoves you away and gets back on his feet, slowly pacing around the room as he speaks. “I’d have to start over from zero again.”

You don’t understand. You don’t know what reworking entails, and you don’t know what he means by starting over. All you can do is stare blankly at the tear-stained ground as your body becomes static and shuts out everything around you. Only he and you exist in this void. Only he is in control.

“I made you myself. Gave you a body when you had nothing.” He stops in his tracks, hands behind his back. “And you repay me with disloyalty.”

It’s been days since you last spoke to Scaramouche. You haven’t seen him since, and here the Doctor is, punishing you for something that was out of your control. A part of you screams at you to fight back, to tell him that he was the one who sought after you, but all you can do is tremble where you stand. You want to apologise, despite your instincts telling you not to. That the Doctor is lying to you, just as he likely did before.

“Please,” is all that leaves you in a broken whisper. Defiance brings nothing. You’ve learnt it the hard way, you know you have, even if you can’t remember what it was. Briefly, you question if he’s ever taken control of your memories, forming a faux story for you to remember. The dreadfulness is enough to answer the question.

He sighs, disinterested. “As thrilling as this is, you are wasting my time. I have duties to attend to.”

“Doctor…”

“Stay here and wait for my return. Do not leave our quarters. Am I clear?”

You feel as though you’ve been through this before. Visions come to mind, but none of the vignettes play; only a sense of familiarity and hurt remain. There is something about his effortless cruelty that hovers just out of your reach and keeps you in a perpetual state of insecurity. Are you not enough? Haven’t you done enough?

Hasn’t he had enough?

Numbly, you nod, your voice wavering as you finally manage to speak, “Yes, Doctor.”

—

As time passes, you come to realise that your punishment was only an interlude for something worse.

The Traveller’s arrival in Sumeru and the failure of the Sabzeruz festival had thrown a wrench into the Doctor’s plans. More disagreements between him and the sages occurred, none of which you knew of, but his mood grew more dour with each passing moment. You haven’t seen Scaramouche since he’d broken into the laboratory that night, and there’s a nagging thought telling you that you won’t see him again, either.

He’d been defeated at the hands of the Traveller with the aid of the Dendro Archon and disappeared, presumably under their custody. Years worth of work had fallen apart in a blink of an eye. The Grand Sage and his underlings were swift to surrender to the Mahamatra himself, forcing the operation to a halt. The people of Sumeru were freed from the influence of the corrupted Akasha terminals, and ‘the good’ began to rebuild what they had lost.

Meanwhile, the ones who had been on the verge of victory were left with the scraps.

The Doctor had returned from his negotiation with the Dendro Archon with more irritation than when he’d left. As per agreement with her, he’d destroyed his remaining segments stationed throughout Sumeru. In return, she gave him her Gnosis. Though it seemed like a fair deal, it did nothing to lift his spirits. He didn’t believe in wasted effort—how could he, when it’s in everything he does?—but there was not a moment of hesitation when he decided to abandon the project entirely.

It was a clear enough sign: he saw it as an utter failure.

A part of you is curious (or worried?) about what will become of Scaramouche now that he’s no longer needed. The Doctor either completely abandons his projects or destroys them. With Scaramouche missing, will he be hunted or presumed dead? Will you come across him again one day? He’d left behind only a husk of what he could’ve been, a being at heights you don’t know he can reach again.

And now, all that is left to do is to salvage what you can from the disaster.

What used to be filled with sounds of whirring cogs and wheels is now completely silent as the machines are no longer in motion. The metallic walls haven’t changed in their dreariness and the lights flicker on and off overhead. The centrepiece lies in ruins, smothered by dust and rubble as the last of its vibrancy begins to dull completely. You can see broken concrete and shards of glass everywhere, a visible mark of what had woefully transpired in the last twenty-four hours.

It’s a stark difference from the first time you’d been here. The chambers are devoid of people and it’s daunting, more so with what remains of Shouki no Kami. The god has died before it can bless its people, leaving behind remnants of its power and godless land. What was meant to be a hall of worship had become a battlefield, a site of devastation and loss. Your gaze drifts back to the Doctor standing before the disaster.

If you had a heart, it would ache for him and weep.

You know he’d chide you for the sympathy you have for him. He’d make you remember that your ‘emotions’ are his, that he’s the sole person who gets to break you and build you back together. Still, you can’t help but feel sorrowful on his behalf. He’ll get back up and come up with a better plan; he’ll never crawl or bow in the face of an obstacle. He will move forward and you will continue to trail behind him, just like the loyal dog he wants you to be.

You’re reminded of the question Scaramouche had posed to you before—the question of whether the Doctor is your god. As it stands, you find that you still don’t have an answer for him. You don’t know what a god is supposed to be. You don’t know how close you can be to a god. You don’t know what makes the perfect god, if it’s benevolence or evil that constitutes their power.

You’ve heard stories of cruel gods: the fall of Khaenri’ah, the Raiden Shogun’s tyranny; stories about Rex Lapis at the height of his time as a warrior and those punished by Celestia. You’ve heard of the kind ones, those who created life and allowed them happiness beyond the waters. The Archons are all worshipped for different reasons: the grant of freedom, the discipline of contracts, the pursuit of wisdom and the like.

Then what are you supposed to be?

Your existence relies on him. Your life belongs to him. Your purpose is to be at his beck and call, by his side, beneath him, anywhere he needs you. A life without him would lead to nothing—or would it? Would you break free and find a life of your own like Scaramouche has? Your heart sinks into your bowels at the fogged outcome. You don’t know if it’s fear or ‘love’ that holds you back from thinking of freedom. You don’t know if you need it or if you don’t.

Were you to ask him what you are, he’d let the question linger and let it go forgotten. Were you to ask him who you were, he’d tell you a different story from the last, and there’d be no way of finding out what is the truth.

(Do you need to?)

“It’s about time we returned.”

The Doctor stops just by your side and faintly tilts his head towards you. He seems to be staring at something on your face but says nothing. Without another word, he marches forward and you dutifully follow him until you reach the same port you’d first arrived in.

The ship was docked and already filled with the other agents who’d gotten it ready for the long voyage back to Snezhnaya. It softly bobs in the waves as the Doctor boards, ignoring the salutes and greetings he is given. With your head down, you take post on the deck of the ship.

You feel gazes burning on your back. Behind masks, the surrounding agents are undoubtedly staring at the burns around your neck and the collar that lays atop it. A sense of shame washes over you and you instinctively bring your hand up to cover it, your eyes cast on the wooden floors beneath. It makes you overly aware of the collar’s presence, bringing back the tingles on your skin and memories of the pain inflicted by the Doctor.

He may take the collar off of you when his whims call for it in the future, but the scar burnt into your skin will still be visible. Owning you alone wasn’t enough of a tangible claim over you. Keeping your heart locked away in his quarters wasn’t enough proof of his ownership. Breaking you apart and putting you back together wasn’t enough reassurance that he was in total control.

It should all hurt you—it does—but a voice in your head tells you that the Doctor is not an unreasonable man. It’s soft, timid, and nostalgic in a way that makes you think of summer days and toothy smiles. It’s doused in affection akin to a king’s loyal servant feeling for their master. The voice belongs to a person unknown, though you feel that they’re closer to you than you think. Conflicted, you shakily exhale, the sea breeze turning your skin cold and your eyes dry.

Is he your god?

The question sounds once more, and you find that you have an answer this time—the Doctor is not your god, but if he were, then he is one who has forsaken you.

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