#especially one that they made with their own two hands

[em1i2a3]

When The Sun Hits

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are starting to test the waters among rampant growing suspicions from the rest of the team (This is a continuation of “Carry The Zero”)

Warnings: AHEM! 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts just because of Bob’s involvement (there’s no mentioning of the plot from Thunderbolts or anything just character involvement ex. Bucky, Yelena, Alexei, Walker etc.), Fluff, References to Sex and/or Sexual Acts, Bob…Is a warning lol. There’s a little bit of self-depreciation in this, talking bad about oneself, but nothing too extreme on that front.

Smut Warnings: Grinding, Teasing (kind of on the brink of edging?) Unprotected P in V Sex (Wrap it up y’all…Or Y’know…Take precautions at least lol), Oral Sex (fem receiving), Fingering, Spit Swallowing, Handjob, Praise/Worship Kink. Soft/Submissive Bob (if you squint) (Hopefully I didn’t miss anything),

Author’s Note: I got this out as soon as I possibly could, thank you so much for the activity on the last post :) y’all are frickin awesome. I hope you enjoy this new part of this story, because I’m going straight to horny jail *boink boink* lol (also whoever made this gif you deserve all the fucking flowers <3)

Word Count: 16,150

Two weeks later you found yourself on the training mat, slicked with sweat, and out of breath.

You wiped your forearms across your forehead, chest rising and falling as you rolled your shoulders to relieve some tension that seized up your back, steadying your stance again, angling yourself carefully so your sight was trained on both Yelena and Bucky.

“Ready?” Yelena asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, her curtain bangs bobbing with each movement, preparing herself to pounce.

“As I’ll ever be,” You muttered, exhaling hard through your nose, tasting the remnants of blood that you had spit out two rounds ago after taking a pretty hard slap to the face. You kept your mind clear though, because if you focused on anything else in that moment, you’d lose miserably, or get hurt again, which was something that you didn’t want at all, especially after you were benched for a week after you injured your shoulder.

It was two against one today, which was entirely unfair, but also part of the challenge. Bucky called it ‘awareness training.’ Yelena called it ‘fun.’

They flanked you like wolves attacking a wounded animal. Yelena moved first, sharp and precise, going for a low sweep with her leg. You jumped and dodged it easily, pivoting to avoid Bucky’s right hook. He was heavier on his feet, but that didn’t mean he was slower in any sense. You ducked beneath his next swing and caught Yelena’s wrist before she could even capitalize on your evasion, using her own momentum to send her stumbling back, giving you some space to breathe.

”Not bad,” She huffed.

”Not done yet,” Bucky growled, before charging at you again. You anticipated him this time, moving back just enough to throw him off rhythm. He came at you with a series of jabs, but you blocked them all, even the ones that were enhanced by his vibranium arm, which surprised you even. You parried with a side kick that landed square against his hip, catching him off balance. This granted you a window to turn back towards Yelena, who had just regained her footing.

She came in full force and you barely had time to register her moves. You raised your arm to shield your face from her fist, feeling the impact ripple along the muscle just below your biceps, before striking in the open space she left, right at her ribs, which made her take in a sharp gasp of air.

You didn’t mean to, but a little satisfied smirk played on your lips, like you had the upper hand, like you were finally going to win…Then Bucky swept your legs out from under you with a move so clean you barely noticed the impact.

You hit the mat with a hard exhale, the wind knocking out of your lungs as your back hit the floor. The fluorescent light shined down into your eyes, almost blinding you, and in a blink, Bucky was standing over you, looking down with his hands on his hip.

”You got cocky…And let your guard down for the third time.” He muttered, with a small grin plastered on his face.

”That…” You breathed, trying to recoup the air you lost from slamming into the mat, “Was a cheap shot,” You added, blinking up at him, seeing the way his hair framed his face as he shook his head at you. Without another word, he extended his hand out to you, and you took it, fingers gripping his forearm as he hoisted you to your feet in one swift movement. You staggered slightly when the room tilted for a split second, your balance thrown from the impact you took that still surged through you with little aftershocks. Bucky steadied you instantly with a firm hand on your elbow, eyes scanning over your face.

”You alright?” He asked, with concern lacing his voice, trying to determine whether or not you needed another med bay visit. You gave him a nod.

”Yeah, yeah, just a bit dizzy from that slam, but I’ll live.” Right before Bucky was going to respond, Yelena cut in.

”Alright you two. Water. Now. Before I pass out from sweating so much.” She didn’t wait for either of you to agree, she just turned toward the bench on the far side of the room, and snatched up three water bottles from the crate nearby, which were already chilled. She tossed one to you and to Bucky, beckoning the both of you to join her in a nice break.

The three of you dropped down onto the bench with soft grunts and groans harmonizing the air, as you dragged the back of your arm across your forehead to wipe the beads of sweat off it. You were beat, that was for certain. You could already feel a new set of bruises forming on your body, especially where you had landed on your ass just moments ago, and that was just another thing you were going to have to tend to for the next few days.

You twisted the cap off your bottle and took three large gulps from it, feeling your chest go cold from how quick you chugged. Your sweat-slicked shirt clung to your spine, but the introduction of the drink was finally managing your body temperature, as your pulse began to slow down, easing the rhythmic thumping that echoed through your ears. You put the cap back on, and placed the bottle against your forehead with a sigh, watching your teammates settle down–Yelena beside you, Bucky on the bench across the way. That’s when you felt it…The subtle tension in the air, the silence that lingered just long enough that it made you suspicious.

Bucky lifted his brows sharply at Yelena, like he was daring her to speak first, like they had been planning on asking you questions all day but didn’t know how to approach the subject. She shook her head just once, staring at him with pointed daggers, almost like she was saying that it was his idea so he should be the one to say it. He let out a defeated sigh.

“So…Uh…” He started, scrunching his nose like the words that were on the tip of his tongue tasted weird in his mouth, “How’s it going with Bob? Y’know…Rooming with him and all.” The question caught you off guard, but the awkwardness from Bucky gave off the sense that he was asking this more because everyone else around him was talking and making up their own theories, and he just wanted to get the answers once and for all.

That didn’t mean the question didn’t spike your heart rate again though. Just the mentioning of Bob made you immediately go on defence mode, not just because of what was going on between the both of you, but because you both wanted this to be private until further notice. Neither of you were prepared for the team to know about your late night rendezvous, or how deep the connection really went. It was your little secret and you preferred to keep it that way.

“It’s okay…” You answered, trying to cover up the stutter in your words, “He’s definitely one of the easier roommates I’ve had to be honest. Super quiet, keeps to himself. It’s great.” You avoided Bucky’s gaze, your eyes focusing on the water bottle in your hands before glancing over at Yelena, who was already squinting at you.

”Super quiet, huh?” She repeated, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards, like she didn’t quite buy what you were putting down. You looked over at Bucky too, now seeing that he was watching you as well with one elbow propped up on his knee so he could rest his chin on his fist.

“Yeah, super quiet, he just reads and sleeps basically, nothing more, nothing less. What’s with this line of questioning? You two roleplaying as detectives or something?” Bucky huffed through his nose, a mix between a laugh and a sigh.

”We wouldn’t have to be detectives if you weren’t so secretive…” You raised your eyebrows at Bucky, attempting to hold onto your fake innocence, trying to make it seem like they weren’t somehow onto you, even though there was no possible way they could know anything that was going on in your shared room…Not unless there were cameras, but that was definitely not the case…Because you looked for them.

“Me? Secretive? I don’t understand how I’m being secretive, I’m answering your questions, aren’t I?” Yelena made a small humming sound beside you, sipping from her water bottle, before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

”Okay then, Miss Transparency…” She started, setting the bottle on the bench gently, “What about the window?” You froze, and instantly your brain spiraled with questions on how the hell she found out about the window. You kept your cool on the outside, while the rest of your internal organs were twisting and malfunctioning on the inside trying to figure out how you were going to get yourself out of this one.

”What window?” You asked.

”The one in your room,” Yelena responded, leaning forward just a little bit to crowd your space, “Maintenance said you put in a request to fix it three days ago because there was a crack in the glass. He said it looked like someone took a sledge hammer to it. Kinda weird, yeah?” You blinked at Yelena, keeping your expression blank, like you were thinking.

“Ohhhh…That window.” You said, as if you had just remembered what she was talking about. You waved your hand vaguely, letting out a shaky laugh, which did absolutely nothing to cover the tension that began to seep through your muscles, “Yeah, no, it’s not that weird. I, uh…Accidently pushed my dresser drawer closed a little too hard and the wood slammed into the glass, kind of a freak accident if you ask me.” Yelena stared at you flatly, watching you flail while trying to come up with something believable off the top of your head. If you had time to actually prepare for the grilling you would’ve at least thought of something as back up, but this was just totally unexpected.

It’s not like you could’ve told them the truth anyways, because it just wouldn’t have sounded good, and it would’ve just put Bob under the spotlight once again, and he didn’t deserve that at all. Not when he was trying so hard to get along with everyone, which he was doing very well at until this point at least.

So you just laughed it off again, muttering something about needing to be more careful, before tipping the bottle of water to your lips to shut yourself up.

But your mind was already drifting back to that night, and you couldn’t stop it.

——————

Four nights ago was movie night.

Alexei had insisted on it—insisted being the operative word, because no one had really agreed to it in the first place.

He said movie nights were a “sacred ritual” from his youth, a tradition that brought people together, made them stronger, and unified the soul. And when someone offhandedly mentioned that Bucky had never seen Rocky IV, that sealed everyone’s fate.

“It is masterpiece,” Alexei declared, standing in the center of the living room with the case held high like a relic. You were surprised that he even had a DVD of it, but then again he had mentioned in passing it was one of his favourite movies.

“American propaganda, yes, but still…Very good representation.” He exclaimed, moving around the living room to locate the video player, as you all watched him.

So Rocky IV became the night’s reluctant feature, and any protests were quickly steamrolled under his booming enthusiasm.

The lights were off, the curtains were drawn, and the only glow in the room came from the TV screen—icy blue and gunmetal gray as the film’s opening credits began to roll. Everyone had found their spots. Yelena curled into one corner of the sectional while Walker was on the other, Bucky sat low in a beanbag chair with his arms crossed, Alexei sat right in front of the television with the reverence of a man watching live theatre…

And then there was you.

You tucked yourself into the corner of the couch with a blanket draped on top of you, leaning against a pillow for support because your shoulder was still giving you a little bit of trouble. Bob was beside you, but he was not close enough to raise suspicion as the both of you had separate blankets and weren’t really touching at all…Not yet, at least.

Somewhere near the halfway point of the movie–just after Rocky’s training montage–Bob shifted slightly beside you, adjusting himself with a slight turn of his hips. It wasn’t a big move, but it was noticeable enough to draw your eyes to him, then you saw his hand sliding beneath his blanket ever so slowly, paying attention to the others in the room, hoping that none of them would turn around.

Even through the terrible lighting you could see him beginning to flush, his pale skin becoming a gentle hue of pink which spread all the way down to the collar of pale green sweater, and below it. You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight, seeing how he tried to keep his profile composed, as he moved his hand with quiet purpose, sliding beneath your blanket in one quick movement, knowing that once he was under there nobody would know any better what was happening.

His fingers found your thigh beneath the covering, completely bare for him because of the flannel shorts you were wearing. The first touch was delicate, almost like it wasn’t even there, though you could feel the heat radiating off his skin as the pads of his fingers ghosted over the wide plane of your flesh. He was waiting for you to pull away, to signal to him you didn’t want him to do this here, but when that moment didn’t come, his hand finally settled against you.

He took everything slow, and moved with such care and purpose that you felt like you were going to melt into the sofa . His palm molded gently to the outside of your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles, drawing goosebumps up to the surface of your skin. The touch wasn’t lewd, nor needy…It was intimate in one of the simplest ways possible. Just the grounding press of his hand against you, soaking up the heat of your body, letting it mingle with his own.

You felt your pulse begin to hammer in your ears, and your eyes flickered to the rest of the team, checking if they were still transfixed by whatever was happening in the movie, which they were. Nobody was looking. So you took this as an opportunity for yourself to make a move now too.

It was a gentle shift, just enough to let your blanket drape a little farther over the space between the both of you, until it overlapped with his. You ripped a page out of Bob’s book and slipped your hand beneath the threshold of the covering, before moving it towards him with the same stealthy patience he had just moments ago.

You found his thigh easily, resting your hand against the soft checker-patterned sleep pants he wore. The fabric was light and thin enough to allow you to feel every flex and shift of muscle beneath your touch, the way it twitched at first contact and relaxed when you dragged your palm against it. He cleared his throat gently, trying to mask the noise that was about to slip out of his throat unwillingly.

His thumb on your thigh had stilled completely in those moments, like you had pulled the plug on all his motor functions by just settling your hand on him in the most gentle way possible. Over the past week of being holed up together during your Bucky mandated break from training, you had learned that gentleness was the key thing that unraveled Bob faster than anything else ever could.

Your fingers slowly dragged upward with the lightest graze over the thin fabric, tracing the line of muscle you could feel there. You didn’t press hard, there was no need to, because you could already feel that he was burning under your palm, coming undone, shifting in his seat, like he wanted to get closer to you but couldn’t.

He was trying so hard not to breathe loudly, or to draw attention to himself by making an unnatural noise. His hand tightened on your thigh, giving it a small squeeze, like he was pleading for you to continue, but for you to also take it easy on him because he didn’t know how much he was going to be able to handle. He felt like he was going to turn into a puddle on the sofa, and the sweating and flushing that he was doing was only a prelude to that. You could feel the tension in his body, the way it practically vibrated through him, and it only made you want to touch him more.

You smoothed your thumb over the inside of his thigh, just above the knee, where he flinched. He sucked in a breath and immediately turned it into a cough, low and forced, like he was trying to dislodge something that was stuck in his throat–even though you knew it was just him trying to stifle a sound that he didn’t dare let out–squeezing your thigh again like it was anchoring him to whatever stability he had left.

You didn’t need more than this. You just enjoyed every morsel of connection you got from him, and revelled in the excitement that coursed through your veins from the small things you learned about him, like how easy he was to read, or how flustered he got from such little contact. Or how touch-starved he was despite all the late nights and quiet mornings you two were sharing up until this point. He was learning how to let himself go, but that didn’t mean he was used to it just yet.

By the time the end credits rolled and Alexei stood to stretch with a complaint about how Americans don’t know when to end a movie, Bob was already clawing at the opportunity to make his grand escape. His hand left your thigh, and reached for his blanket–not to fold it, not to hold it when he stood–but to clutch it, to replicate the grip he had on your skin moments before. You slowly removed your hand from him as well, making sure you discreetly brought it back into your area without anyone noticing.

Every motion he did was methodical, almost exaggerated in its effort to present itself as casual, like the both of you weren’t just touching each other's thighs beneath your communal blankets. You watched from the corner of your eye as Bob adjusted the covering over his lip, gripping the hem carefully as he shifted on the couch, leaning slightly forward.

He was shielding himself.

You could tell by the blush that began to deepen around his neck, and the way he couldn’t seem to look at anyone in the room–not even you–that he was trying very hard not to be obvious about the problem that was currently occurring below his waist. The one you had caused with just the gentle stroking of his thigh.

The realization made you heat up, but also smirk.

”I’m gonna…Uh…” Bob cleared his throat, attempting to cover up the way his words buckled under his voice “Head to my room…Start getting ready for bed and stuff, I had a good book I was getting into before…C-Coming to watch the movie.” He added, standing from the couch, keeping the blanket bunched in front of him with a practiced sort of shuffle that only he could execute with pure awkwardness. He said a vague goodnight and everyone responded in their own little way, as he moved towards the corridor that led to the makeshift bedrooms.

Your eyes followed his movements, watching when he made it out of everyone’s line of sight. He turned around, knowing that your eyes were already on him and mouthed a very light “please hurry,” before rushing down the hallway to seek refuge in the privacy of your room.

You waited exactly thirty seconds, which was long enough for the heat in your limbs to settle so when you stood up you didn’t have shaky legs, or draw attention to any of your actions, even though nobody was really paying attention in general.

Yelena was half-sleep, eyes barely open while she nursed what was left of her electrolytes. Walker had his head tilted back, and was snoring loudly. Bucky was sprawled out in the beanbag chair, and Alexei was still rambling, only now it was about how Ivan Drago’s story in Rocky is just misunderstood. So you took the opportunity to stand, and let out an exaggerated yawn, rubbing your eyes for added effect.

”Think I’m also going to head to bed too. I’m exhausted.” You murmured, which earned a small wave from Yelena, a grunt of acknowledgment from Bucky, and a pause from Alexei.

”Did you not like the movie?” He asked, and you smirked.

”Yes of course I liked it, I’ve just seen it a few too many times, but tomorrow you can give me the footnotes on how misunderstood Drago’s story is, for now though I’m off to bed.” He gave you a wide smile, and as you moved away from the living room you could hear him mumble something about you actually being interested in what he had to say.

You quickly made your way down the hall, feeling your heart racing as you made your way towards the room. You tried your best to not make yourself look suspicious but the anticipation was eating you up on the inside.

The second you entered your shared quarters and closed the door behind you, you felt it–that shift in the air, like the moment right before lightning strikes a tree, the static that ebbs and flows through the atmosphere, like a warning to those who are around. The only light that glowed in the space was the desk lamp, which casted golden shapes across the walls, and once you locked the door and turned around, your eyes fell on him.

Bob stood by his bed, the blanket was long discarded, and his sweater was removed, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt. His hands were fidgeting uselessly with the tie of his sleep pants, and when his eyes fell on you it was like he lost all the thoughts that were running through his head. The flush of pink on his cheeks hadn’t faded, if anything it had gotten worse between the time he left the couch and now, like the warmth had fully rooted inside him.

He didn’t say anything right away, he just opened his arms slightly, silently offering himself to you.

In a few quick steps, you crossed the room, taking up the space between his arms, pressing your hands gently to his chest, feeling the way his heart galloped beneath your palm. He cupped your elbows first, tentative and shy, looking down at you with those shimmering blue eyes that you had come to fawn over in secret, before letting his hands slide down to your wrists. You gave him a soft smile, tilting your head back a bit so he could lean forward to kiss you.

His mouth brushed yours once–tentative and silent, like he was asking a question–then again, with more confidence when you didn’t pull away, before fully pressing his mouth to yours. He kissed you like he thought he would never get the chance to do it again. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips, or the way you sighed into him like you’d been holding your breath for hours while waiting for this moment to come. His hands left your wrists, you slid up to your jaw, the tips of his thumbs barely grazing the corners of your mouth

And you melted into him.

You’d been doing this dance for the past few nights now–experiencing these careful, burning moments together that never quite tipped over the edge–and neither of you seemed to mind. You didn’t need the act of sex to feel intimate with him, even though you still had those thoughts that raced through you from time to time.

Every night you got to learn something new about him–how his breathing changed when you kissed his throat, how the muscles in his stomach twitched when you trailed your fingers ever so slowly under the hem of his shirt, and how he arched subtly into your touch like he was too afraid to vocalize that he wanted more.

It was explorative, patient, and gentle, and that’s all the both of you needed to have a good time.

The kiss continued to deepen, as his lips parted for you, letting your tongue through the threshold. He tasted like fresh breath mints, like he had swallowed a few before you came into the room, which wasn’t an out of place thought at all–he typically did small things like that.

His hands skimmed down your neck, and over your shoulders, travelling down to your hips to anchor himself against you. He put a little more pressure into the kiss, feeling your body press flush into his, causing a small gasp to escape and vibrate against your lips from him. He pulled back for a moment, as your arms slid around his neck, guiding him down even more so he could bury his face briefly into your shoulder. He breathed in deeply, letting his lungs fill with the various scents that radiated off of you– the vanilla from your shampoo, the lavender from your perfume, and the sage that constantly stayed on all of your clothes in general–before exhaling shakily, tugging you closer to him.

He guided you backward with a quiet sort of urgency.

”Come here,” He whispered, the words came out so softly it barely made it past his lips.

He led you to his bed, with his hand pressed low at your back, fingers splayed out like it was steadying the both of you. When the backs of your legs met the edge of the mattress you let yourself sit, eyes still locked on his. He was still watching you closely, like you were ethereal, something that shouldn’t exist for him.

You bit your bottom lip, feeling how swollen it was just from the one kiss that you got, and brought your fingers to the hem of your shirt, slipping them under. Bob felt his chest heave for a moment, the beating of his heart only becoming more frantic, as he hung on your movements like it was a sacred text.

You peeled the top off slowly, revealing the curve of your waist, your chest, your shoulders in small increments–it was more than he’d ever seen at once from you. Once you riddled yourself of the article of clothing you threw it to the side, which left you in just a plain white, cotton bra.

Bob’s gaze swept over you modestly, almost like he was too shy to linger on one part of you for too long, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. You saw the way he struggled to swallow for a moment, gulping loudly from the way his throat closed from all the tension that was building up in the room, then you saw his hands move down to the hem of his own shirt.

He awkwardly shimmied out of the fabric, tugging it over his head, messing up his light brown mane of hair in the proces. You could feel your chest tighten, and your mouth dry up, seeing the expanse of skin that was exposed to you.

It was the first time he’d allow you to see him like this.

And god–he was beautiful.

His chest was broad and lean. He was dusted with freckles that went across his shoulders and collarbones, like they were constellations begging to be traced. There were a few scars too–old and pale, stretched and softened with time, because they certainly weren’t fresh. You wondered about each of them. Not necessarily the stories, but how they shaped him as the person you were falling for more and more every day.

He was flushed from neck to navel, the pink hue blossoming over his ribs and all the way up to his ears. His arms hung at his sides for a moment, allowing you to drink in the image, even though he was visibly curling in on himself a bit. You reached out for him, beckoning for him to come closer to you, watching as he sheepishly moved into your space now. Your fingers skimmed gently over his ribs, dragging slowly up the plane of his stomach and across the center of his chest. You looked up at him with a smile plastered on your lips

“You’re breathtaking Bob…” You whispered, seeing the way his eyes softened, hearing the sincerity that laced your voice when the compliment fell from you. He felt lightheaded from it, as you leaned in to kiss the skin just above his navel, your smile shadowing against the flesh.

“I think I’m gonna die.” He responded, choking on his own breaths.

”Now, now…Don’t die yet…You haven’t kissed me again.” That is what unraveled him, seeing you pull away from his stomach, looking up at him with those lust filled eyes that he had seen night after night.

He leaned down slowly this time, and when your lips met, it was warmer than before, like a supernova had exploded between the both of you. It started soft, like the last one, but it built. His mouth moved over yours with a kind of reverence that made your toes curl into the carpet beneath you. His hands skimmed down your sides, thumbs brushing along the soft slope of your waist as he kissed you deeper.

Then one hand drifted lower, tracing over your outer thigh. He paused just for a second to look at you, and when you gave the smallest nod, he gently urged you backward.

You let him guide you down until you back pressed into the mattress as he hovered above you, bracing himself on one elbow beside your head while the other stayed on your thigh, as you bracketed his hips with your legs. You could feel how hard he was trying to rein himself in, watching his shoulders tense when you brought him closer to you.

”A-Are you sure this is okay?” He whispered against your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the thin space between you.

”Bob,” You murmured, tracing your fingers along the freckles on his collarbone, “If I wasn’t sure, I would tell you.” His eyes fluttered shut for a beat, the words sinking into him like a weighted blanket, before he leaned forward to kiss you again, savouring the contact.

You felt the way he trembled just slightly above you, the way he braced so carefully against his arm, like he was scared of putting too much weight on you, or doing something wrong. His lips dragged over yours, warm and open, letting you taste the cool mint again as his tongue flicked out to meet yours when you deepened the kiss.

His breath stuttered as he exhaled sharply through his nose, attempting to keep up, but you could feel how overwhelmed he was already. Your hands slid over his back, fingers tracing along the soft lines of his muscles beneath skin that practically burned beneath your touch. You felt every ripple, every twitch of control that he tried to maintain, and the thought of it–of him holding himself back for you–made you want to pull him even closer.

He groaned softly against your mouth, almost like it was bordering on a whimper.

“Jesus…You feel so good,” He whispered suddenly, like he couldn’t keep it in, like it was something he had been wanting to say all week and it finally burst free. His voice cracked slightly with the confession, and his cheeks burned as he buried his face against your jaw to hide the heat crawling up his neck, realizing how stupid it must’ve sounded.

”S-Sorry, I just…I just-“ You hushed him for a moment, slipping your hand up his back slowly before curling your fingers into his hair.

”Bob…Don’t apologize. You feel good against me too.” You had barely let the words settle between the both of you, when you hooked your legs a little tighter around his waist and gently guided his hips closer to yours.

Bob’s breath caught in his throat.

His jaw slackening and his lips parting in tandem with one another, as his eyes locked onto yours like he was trying to decipher something written across your irises. You could see it in his face–the unraveling, the awe, the absolute vulnerability of someone who wasn’t used to being wanted like this. And yet, he was burning from the inside out.

“What…What are you doing?” He asked, his voice thin and shaky.

Instead of answering, you ground your hips up against him in one slow, aching press.

The noise he made was soft and strangled, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, then snapped open again, and you were able to see the dazed glassiness that shimmered over them. You could see the way the new sensation tore through him, as a full-body tremor made his shoulders tense and his thighs flinch.

He didn’t move at first–he couldn’t. But when you tugged gently on the back of his hair and pressed your lips to his neck, he let go.

His hips rocked forward, not with force but with aching, desperate need, mirroring the movement you’d given him. Your bodies slotted together in a slow, tender rhythm, each motion sending a wave of heat in your abdomen. It wasn’t frenzied or rough—it was exploratory, intoxicating, and so deeply charged you felt like your bones were shaking.

You kissed your way up his neck, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. His hand was trembling against your thigh, while the other one gripped the duvet beside your head. You felt the shudder in his breath again, and the way his hips pressed a little harder this time, a little more urgently. You could feel the outline of him pushing against the thin fabric of your cotton shorts, and it left you breathless, just the thought of being so close almost made your heart stop.

The moment swelled around you–timeless, heavy, and sacred.

Then your fingers trailed down, slow as molasses, brushing over his abdomen and dipping lower, finding the waistband of his sleep pants.

The reaction was instantaneous.

His entire body went rigid, and his eyes snapped open, bright and wide—and in that split second, you saw it. That flicker of gold in his irises. It glinted like sunlit honey, like lightning flashing beneath the surface of a lake.

Then–CRACK.

A sharp, unnatural noise split into the room, and both your heads jerked toward the window, seeing the fracture that had webbed across the glass. It kind of looked similar to when a rock hits a windshield at full speed, only there was a larger impact point. You both blinked at the damage, before your eyes returned to his, seeing that the gold was gone, and he was back to his normal shimmering blue irises that you were enamoured by.

His mouth moved to speak, but no sound came out, then he looked down at himself, and froze. You followed his gaze, seeing a wet spot blooming across the front of his pants.

Then everything happened all at once.

He scrambled off of you, nearly toppling sideways off the bed in the process, and you sat up immediately, reaching for him.

”Bob…Hey…” You said, trying to get him to calm down a bit, but he was already moving.

”Crap…I’m-I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, as he grabbed his shirt off the floor, pulling it on with frantic hands like he needed to shield himself from you, from the world, from his own embarrassment that floated up into his chest, causing him to shake a bit. He tried to cover up the wet patch as his skin turned a cherry red, spreading all the way over his face and neck. He opened his drawer so fast that it nearly flew off the track as he collected the first pair of boxers and sleep pants that he could find.

“Bob, it’s alright.” You murmured, watching him rush towards the door,

”I-I just…I need…I just need a second.” He whispered before bolting out the door so he could tend to himself in the privacy of the bathroom.

You sat on his bed, still breathless from the closeness, from the way his body had moved against yours, and from the crack in the damn window. But mostly, from the way he looked when he realized what had happened—like the sky had fallen on him. Your heart was aching in the way he reacted, and now that you were sitting alone everything felt amplified.

Your eyes drifted to the window again, staring at the crack that shimmered faintly beneath the golden wash of the lamp–splintering like lightning. Curiosity pulled you from the bed, as you shuffled closer to it, wanting to get a better look.

The fracture was intricate, jagged at the center with spider web veins splitting outward like a slow explosion. You reached up, hovering your hand in front of it.

No air came through, no whistling of wind, and no change in temperature.

You furrowed your brow and pressed your palm against the surface, feeling the cool solidity of the glass. It didn’t flex, nor did it crack even more with the pressure you placed on it, which made you even more perplexed.

You stepped back slightly, squinting at the window. It definitely wasn’t a regular one, it was industrial, reinforced, maybe even bulletproof. The thought made your lips part a little, as you tried to reconcile the softness of Bob–the sweet, awkward, blushing man who mouthed please hurry to you because he wanted to be so close–with the person who had just cracked fortified glass because he was so overwhelmed by your touch.

You huffed out a breath that was caught between awe and amusement, as you continued to stare at the jagged impact, until you saw movement in the glass, noticing Bob trying to sneak in, like you wouldn’t see him. You turned on your heels.

He stood against the door, fiddling with the hem of his shirt as you looked him over. He had changed into navy blue sleep pants, and his hair was clinging to his forehead–you assumed it was from him splashing water on his face to freshen up. He was holding onto a bundle of clothes–the ones he had changed out of–as his eyes scanned over you before dating away. You glanced down at yourself, suddenly remembering that you were shirtless, standing in your bra still.

His face flushed again, but this time it was threaded with much more than just embarrassment. There was remorse in there, maybe even a little bit of fear, like he was worried that you wouldn’t look at him the same because of what happened.

“I…” He started, voice hoarse, “…I’m sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to just…Leave like that, I just–” He swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. Or, I mean–you did, I guess, but–God.” He laughed breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut for a second. “I’m making this worse.” You shook your head gently, cutting him off before he spiraled any further.

“It’s okay Bob…Trust me you don’t have to apologize.” You said quietly, stretched out a hand towards him, “Now, come over here please.” Bob glanced down at the gesture, returning his gaze back up at you, hesitating for only a second before stepping forward, dropping the bundle of clothes on the floor. His movements were so timid, like a wounded animal coming over to look at the mess it made.

When he was close enough you leaned forward and wrapped your hand around his wrist. His eyes were wide and glistening as you tugged him toward you even more, his lashes trembling with the weight of remorse. Not just for bolting from the room or leaving you half-dressed and flushed on his bed, but for losing control…For being too much.

“I see those cogs turning in your head. Your brows are furrowing. Stop thinking for a second, and just look at me Bob.” You said, breaking through the thoughts that kept racing through his head, wrapping your arms around his waist. Bob let out a soft sigh, bringing his gaze down to yours. His hands hovered over your back for a moment before slowly coming to rest against your skin, holding onto you like he was afraid you were going to crack.

“…I truly didn’t mean to do that…” He murmured, motioning to the window, “I didn’t even think about it...It just happened.” You turned slightly in his arms, glancing back at the window for a split second, then returning your gaze back to him. You tilted your head up, brushing your lips softly against the underside of his jaw, feeling the beginnings of stubble.

”Pretty sure it’s bulletproof glass too, by the way.” He blinked down at you, his cheeks flushing a deeper red, confused at the statement, and at the way you were smirking up at him, “I must’ve really gotten you going.” You added, trying to lighten the mood. A groan caught in his throat.

”Please…Don’t say that.” He whispered under his breath.

”Why not? It’s kind of hot.” Bob’s eyebrows raised at your comment, letting out a quiet laugh–embarrassed, and flustered, but undeniably touched by the way you were trying to make light of the situation.

”You know…I think you should actually be a little freaked out by this at least,” He stated gently, pulling back just a little bit so the both of you could comfortably look at each other, “I mean…We didn’t even…Do anything and I…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, as he ran his hands along your back, “I’m just saying if I lost that much control just f-from grinding against you, what’s going to happen when we have sex?” He added, his voice laced with worry. You traced your fingers along his spine as you listened, feeling his chest rising and falling against you, the panic simmering underneath all the tension in his muscles. You leaned into him a bit more.

”Well…You don’t really use your powers all that much, Bob.” He raised his eyebrows at you, surprised by what you were possibly suggesting. You continued, gently brushing your thumbs along the hem of his shirt.

“Maybe that’s part of the problem. You’ve been bottling all that energy up without giving yourself a way to release it. Maybe you need to exhaust your powers a little–practice, push yourself in a safe space so you can figure out where the edges are. Then maybe…” You paused mid-sentence, reaching up to him to push his hair off his forehead, “You won’t have to worry about breaking any more windows.” He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling your fingertips trailing down the side of his face to hold his jaw.

“Or…” You added thoughtfully, “We could try some small exercises together. I know there are grounding techniques for people with telekinesis or energy-based mutations–things to help hone it and redirect it before it builds up too much.”

Bob was staring at you now like you were the only stable piece of land in a world that kept shaking under his feet. You ran your thumb along the slight roughness of his jaw, taking in the warmth of his skin.

“Either way,” You said, “We can figure it out together.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“Together,” He repeated, almost like he was testing the weight of the suggestion in his mouth, making sure it was real. His hands gripped you just a little tighter, like he didn’t want to let go, admiring the fact that you were even sticking it out with him.

“And maybe next time,” You whispered, pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of his mouth, “You’ll crack something a little less expensive.”

That made him laugh for real this time–a breathy, bashful sound as he rested his forehead against yours. “No more windows,” He whispered. “I promise.” You swayed in your spot for a moment relishing in the silence, as your hearts thudded against each other like it shared the same rhythm.

“…Maybe just the bedframe,” He mumbled a second later–so quietly you almost missed it.

There was a pause.

Then his eyes went wide, his entire face lighting up scarlet as the implication hit him a split second too late. “Oh my god,” He breathed, “I didn’t mean—shit—I mean I did but I—”

You broke into laughter, the sound bursting out of you like sunlight, catching yourself against his chest as your shoulders shook. “Robert Reynolds,” You gasped through your giggles, “I didn’t take you as a person to make a sex joke like that…I like it.”

——————

Yelena snapped her fingers in front of your face.

”Helloooo? Earth to Y/N…You’ve been zoned out for like ten minutes, are you concussed or something?” You shook your head, snapping yourself out of your trance, noticing your palms were sweaty, and your pulse was pounding in your head.

”Sorry…I’m fine, I was just thinking about that last round in my head. Trying to figure out how I let my ass hit the mat again.” You lied, grabbing your water bottle, attempting to cool yourself down.

”Uh-huh…” Yelena muttered, clearly not buying it.

Bucky was watching you as well, his expression unreadable as usual, his elbow still propped on his knee. His eyes were sharper now, completely focused.

”Maybe we should wrap it up for the day, I’ve got to go pick up a few things from my old apartment anyways, the renters are getting mad that I haven’t swung by yet.” You looked over at Yelena, who stretched her legs out with a low groan.

“Alright, that sounds fine to me.” She responded, getting up from the bench, cracking her neck before walking to the lockers, leaving you and Bucky alone. You let out a soft exhale, grateful that the plug had been pulled. You were too distracted to go for another round anyways.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” You glanced up at Bucky, your eyes meeting his gaze. There was no judgement in his face, just quiet concern. You nodded.

”Yeah, I promise, I just spaced out.” He watched you for just a moment longer, like he was trying to see if you had any tells of a lie.

”Alright,” He said, turning to grab his towel from the bench, “But if you ever want to talk, you know where I am.” You gave him a soft smile.

”Thanks, Buck.” He lingered for a second longer, then gave a quick salute and headed off after Yelena, leaving you alone. You stayed on the bench for a few minutes, gathering your thoughts and swatting around the brain fog that clouded your mind, before finally standing, feeling your muscles groan in protest.

You collected your things and caught a quick shower before making your way back to your room, expecting to divulge the line of questioning that Yelena had for you to Bob, but when you opened the door he wasn’t there. Your brows furrowed in disappointment as you stepped into the room, noticing a little note on his bed. You dropped your bag on the floor, picking up the scrap piece of paper that had his messy handwriting scrawled on it.

“Meet me on the roof, wear a sweater.” You were confused about the sweater part, but you still dug around for one, slipping it over your head once you found one that wasn’t already worn.

———

The rooftop greeted you with silence, except for the low hum of wind and the muffled buzz of distant traffic below. You stepped out slowly, your sweater wrapped tight around your arms, the door clicking shut behind you.

Bob was already there, standing near the edge, hunched slightly, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders curled in like he was bracing against the cold—or maybe against himself. The soft yellow glow from the rooftop security lights carved gentle shadows across his back, catching in his wind blown hair.

“You okay?” You called out, walking towards him, gaining his attention instantly. A small smile came up on his lips, as he wrung his hands together, like he was excited about something.

“I am now,” He responded, meeting you halfway. There was something different about him tonight, he still had that shy uncertainty about him, but it was like he was pushing it off a bit, replacing it with something more…Confident, “I wanted to show you something, if that’s alright of course.” He added stepping into your space, now close enough that his breath was fanning over your face. You tilted your head at him, squinting playfully.

”Are you going to crack all the windows from up here?” Bob let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking his head as a pink flush creeped up the sides of his neck.

”I promised you I wouldn’t break any more windows, and I will keep my word.” Before you could press further, he stepped closer, closing the last inch of space between you, wrapping his arms tightly around your back. It wasn’t hurried or anything, just grounding, and it was done with intention. You inhaled against his chest, the scent of cold air and warm cotton surrounding you as he ducked his head and pressed a kiss to your lips–soft, and gentle, yet brimming with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He pulled back for one moment, before adding one more peck against your lips, a smile draped across his mouth.

His arms hadn’t loosened around you, and you could feel the steady thumping of his heart under your hands where they rested against his chest.

”Okay…” You murmured, brows lifting at him, feeling your cheeks growing hot under his stare, and from the gentle kiss he had given you, “Now you really need to tell me what’s got you in such a chipper mood. You’re smiling like you’ve got a secret, and it’s starting to freak me out.” Bob’s grin widened–shy, crooked, but deeply earnest. You squinted at him a bit, catching little flecks of gold sparkling in the blues of his eyes.

”Just hold still,” He whispered, voice hushed and warm, “And I’ll show you.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he tightened his arms around you, like he was locking you into place against his chest.

Then you felt it.

A strange, delicate lift in your stomach, similar to how it feels when you’re descending on a roller coaster, only just a little more tolerable. The pressure in your knees disappeared, your weight lessened…And your boots weren’t on the rooftop anymore.

”Bob…?” You said, your voice filling with panic.

”Shh, I’ve got you,” He murmured, eyes fixating on yours, “Just trust me.” He whispered. You took in a sharp breath, and nodded. The movement wasn’t fast or jarring. It felt like being exhaled by the Earth–like rising through a warm, invisible current. The wind tugged gently at your sweater, and your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively brought yourself even closer to him, not daring to look down to see how high up you were.

“Holy shit Bob, we’re flying…” You said, your voice shaking, caught between fear and awe.

”Well technically I’m flying, and you’re just one of my lucky passengers. My first and only to be exact.” He corrected jokingly, you smirked at him, continuing to look over his face. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, as the air around you thickened, warming against your cheeks despite the altitude change. You felt like you were suspended in a dream–held against him, hundreds of feet off the ground, with only starlight above you, and a glittering city below.

“How does it feel?” You asked softly, seeing Bob blink down at you, eyes soft and uncertain, “To have all this power…” You added, your hand slowly unraveling from holding onto his hoodie, splaying it across his chest instead, rubbing along the warmth with a soft smile draped on your lips, “To be able to do this–to lift me off the ground, to break windows without touching them, to float above the world like it’s nothing…” The way you looked up at him–half curious, half lust driven–made something buzz in his bloodstream, something golden and chaotic, and desperate for attention as he felt your fingers trailing up the side of his neck.

Bob swallowed thickly, his arms tightening around your waist even more, his breath hitching as he let out a faint nervous laugh before glancing down at you, seeing your face glowing softly from the city lights that reflected in your eyes.

”It’s…Intense. I constantly have this noise in my head, like it’s trying to break out, and I’m always on edge trying to suppress it…But when you’re around, and you’re able to block it…I have those moments of peace, and I love it…So much Y/N.” He emphasized, as your fingers curled gently into the collar of his hoodie, while your other hand cupped his jaw, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

”You know…I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” You whispered, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the night, “The way you handle everything, the way you care about being gentle, the way you hold back even when you could easily just let go…” You went on, looking up at him with such admiration it made him gulp down the lump that was forming in his throat, “You’re just incredible Bob…And I wish you believed that more often.” Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like he needed to steady himself from the weight of your words, and when he opened them again, they shimmered with something so raw and fragile it made your heart ache.

“No one’s ever said anything like that to me before,” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, just disbelief. “It feels like…You’re seeing someone I want to be. Someone I wish I was.” You reached up with your other hand now, pressing it against his cheek.

”You already are.” You whispered, a soft smile coming up onto your lips, as your eyes trailed over his face.

Bob leaned forward, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warming your skin as it mingled with the air that kissed your face. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, he just held you close, taking in the night for what it was giving him so far. His fingers twitched against your lower back, like he was trying to figure out what he was going to say next.

“Can I ask you something…Kind of dumb?” Your lips quirked at his words, blinking up at him.

”There’s no dumb questions…Go ahead and ask.” He let out a nervous breath of a laugh, pulling his forehead off yours so he could get a better look at you, shaking his head a bit as if he was trying to psych himself up.

”I’ve been…Thinking for the past couple of days…And if it’s too soon or too much just–just tell me okay? I can handle it, I promise.” He started, stuttering through his words.

”Okay, “ You whispered, already feeling your heart climbing into your throat, seeing the way he looked at you with such hope, terror, and utter sincerity. He glanced away for a second, feeling his cheeks flushing hot.

“I was wondering if maybe–if it’s something you’d want–if I could, um…” He cleared his throat, then bit the inside of his cheek, finally whispering, “If I could make love to you tonight.” When the words fell from his mouth it felt like the sky was going to split open and swallow him whole, but he meant every word he said, and you could tell it was something that he wanted to make sure you wanted as well.

”I’ve been wanting to ask that for a while now, but I didn’t want to ruin anything or scare you off, or…” His voice faded, as he stopped himself from embarrassing himself any further, “God, I sound like an idiot.” He whispered. You shook your head, cradling his face in your hands, gently tilting his head down so you could look into those soft blue eyes.

”Bob…” You whispered, “You don’t sound like an idiot at all…You sound like someone who cares about me. A lot.” His lips parted like he wanted to protest, but the words never came. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his, “And that’s never something to be ashamed of.” His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as he trembled from the gust of wind that blew by the both of you, and from the nerves that prickled throughout his body.

”I just…” He started, swallowing another lump that began to form in his throat, feeling like he was on the brink of tears, “I’ve never done it like this before…Where it actually means something…Where I feel…So much that it scares the crap out of me.” You pressed your lips together tightly, removing one of your hands from his face.

”Hold me with one arm, I want you to give me one of your hands.” You instructed, and he obliged immediately, keeping you flush against him and giving you his other hand like you requested. You took it and brought it to your chest, laying it gently over your heart.

”Do you feel that?” You whispered, watching him nod slowly, his palm splaying flat over the pounding rhythm the shook the cavity of your chest, “That’s how I feel when I look at you…When you smile at me, when you hold me…When you ask me things like this, with all these nerves going through you…And that’s also how I’m going to feel when we make love tonight.” You added, feeling Bob’s breath hitch in his throat, and for a second he didn’t move. You thought you put him into shock, but then his fingers curled ever so slightly against your skin, like he was tethering himself to you.

”I wanna be good for you.” He replied, his voice breaking around the edges, “I want to be everything you deserve…I want to take my time…I want to see what you look like when you fall apart because of me, and I want to memorize every sound you make and every place you like to be touched and–and I want to hold you through all of it.” Your eyes softened at his words, feeling your heart folding at the edges from the way he said it with such trembling devotion, like he was offering you everything he had without knowing if it would be enough for you.

”I wouldn’t want it any other way Bob…” He breathed out slowly like he’d been holding it for minutes, like your answer reached someplace deep inside him he didn’t know was waiting to be filled. A small, shaky smile tugged at his lips.

“Okay,” He whispered. “Okay.”

You felt his arms shift, the weight of the wind returning to your skin, and together—slow and gentle—you began to drift back down. The city lights rose to meet you, the rooftop coming back into focus beneath your boots. He didn’t let go. Not even once. His hand stayed tucked between your shoulder blades, warm and steady, like he didn’t trust gravity alone to carry you safely.

The moment your feet touched solid ground again, you didn’t speak. You just stood there for a second, forehead still brushing his, eyes locked and dazed with something fragile and full and beautiful. And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed–it wasn’t even desperate…It was just full. Full of promise. Of understanding. Of anticipation humming low in both your bellies. His hand cupped the side of your face so delicately it made your knees weaken, and when he pulled back, you didn’t have to say a word. You just reached for his fingers and laced yours through them.

“Come inside with me,” You said quietly.

And he followed instantly.

————

You left the light on before you went up to the roof, so when the both of you stepped into your shared quarters, the soft yellow hue of the lamp greeted you with open arms and warmed your skin almost instantly.

Bob closed the door behind him with a soft click, the quiet thud echoing between your beds like a held breath. You stepped into the space between them, turning to face him slowly, your hands sliding up to push your hair from your face. His eyes followed the motion, catching every shift of your body like he didn’t want to miss a second, his fingers fumbling with the edge of his hoodie.

“H-How do you want to start?” He asked quietly, his voice threadbare with nerves. All confidence from the roof had dwindled pretty quickly once the reality of the situation really settled in, and now he could feel his chest tightening from the thought of what was going to come next. You could see it in the way he fumbled with whatever he could get his fingers on, it was the most obvious tell of his. You stepped toward him carefully, and held your hand out like you normally did with him.

”Come here,” You whispered. Bob didn’t hesitate this time around, taking a few steps towards you until you could curl your fingers around the hem of his hoodie, slipping your hands under the soft fabric so you could touch his burning skin. His jaw clenched for a moment at first contact, his lashes fluttering at the featherlight touch you always used with him. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, letting out a shaky breath against your mouth.

”We don’t have to start any particular way,” You murmured, “Just be here with me…” Bob gave a slow, trembling nod, bringing his hands to your waist. You leaned forward a bit, pressing your lips against his, taking his breath away in one quick moment of time. You could feel his shoulders loosen a little, as he sighed into you, his fingers squeezing your clothed flesh gently, pulling your body closer to his. You broke the kiss first, removing your sweater quickly because you were growing warm extremely quickly, just like Bob you ran hot, but only when you were anticipating something, and this was definitely something you were looking forward to.

You threw the sweater to the side with a sigh, pushing your hair out of your face again as you adjusted yourself, seeing Bob’s eyes following your movements, and tracing over the skin that was revealed to him. The light camisole you wore hugged your figure just enough that he could make out the subtle shape of your breasts beneath it, and in the dimmed hue of the room he could see the way your nipples pebbled against the fabric. Before he could even stop himself, his fingers curled under the hem of the covering.

”Can I…?” His voice trailed off, looking down at you with dazed eyes. You nodded immediately, raising your arms up slightly, feeling the way he peeled the fabric up gently, wanting to drink in every inch of newly exposed skin. He slipped the camisole off you, throwing it to the side to join your sweater now, as his eyes returned to your bare chest.

For a second, it was like he didn’t breathe. His mouth parted slightly, and a stunned silence stretched between you before he managed to snap himself out of the trance your breasts had put him in, clearing his throat.

”You’re so…Beautiful. I mean–I already told you that, but seeing you like this–“ He cut himself off, looking down at himself, flustered, “Makes me feel overdressed.” You let out a small giggle, seeing the blush that crowded his face turn an even deeper red.

”Definitely overdressed.” You agreed, keeping your tone light, coaxing a nervous laugh from him. He ducked his head with a shy huff of breath, his hair falling into his eyes.

”S-Sorry. Didn’t mean to get ahead of myself, I just–“

“Hey,” You interrupted, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, forcing his gaze to stay on yours–his pupils already blown out from seeing your bare chest– as you ran your thumbs along his cheeks, “It’s okay…I like when you know what you want and ask for it. I also don’t mind being underdressed in front of you anyways. You don’t have to apologize, okay?” His lashes fluttered at you, as the tension in his shoulders melted just a little.

“Okay…” He whispered back, giving you a small nod, glancing down at himself. He pulled away from your touch, and with shaky hands, he reached for the zipper of his hoodie, tugging it down before peeling the garment off his arms and shoulders, letting it land in the soft pile of clothes that began to grow at your feet. You watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he hesitated for only a second more before pulling his plain grey t-shirt off as well, letting it join the abyss below.

The second the fabric cleared his torso, your hands were on him–warm palms pressing against bare skin, tracing up along his ribs and over the planes of his chest, feeling the muscles contract beneath your touch, before bringing them up to rest at his neck. You pulled him down to you, fingers curling into his hair gently, as his lips met yours. The kiss this time was deeper–hungrier and desperate. He opened his mouth to you, feeling your tongue slip in, as your bodies aligned with each other again.

His hand slid up along your side, tracing over your ribs, until it found the curve of your breast, cupping it gently within his large palm. You let out a small moan of approval, your hips shifting slightly at the sensation and shivers that twinged up your spine. His thumb dragged over your nipple, circling it slowly before giving the flesh a soft and careful squeeze, not wanting to be too rough at first, drawing out a hum from you, and another gentle pull of his hair.

Bob pulled away from the kiss with a shaky smile, before peppering kisses along your jaw, and down your neck, carving out a wet path all the way to your chest, going to the breast that he wasn’t kneading with his hand still. His lips brushed over your nipple, testing, and teasing, waiting until you leaned toward him to close his mouth around it. A soft moan escaped the both of you, his breath warm and uneven against your skin as he sucked gently, his tongue moving in slow circles before fluttering along the peak. His other hand continued to palm and knead the other one, fingers teasing until both nipples were stiff beneath his attention. He switched sides, not wanting to neglect the other one, which earned another shocked gasp, feeling how more needy he was growing as he greedily sucked and nibbled. Your fingers laced deeper into his hair, trying to ground yourself when you felt your stomach somersaulting from the sensation of his tongue and mouth working in tandem together. Your words spilled out before you could really think–

“Jesus, Bob…” The moment you spoke he froze, pulling off your nipple with a soft, wet pop, lips shiny and slightly parted as he looked up at you. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes–God, his eyes–were wide and hazy, like he was drunk on you and the taste of your skin.

“Are…Are you okay?” You nodded immediately.

”More than okay.” You replied, as your fingers slid out from his hair to trail down his chest, moving with slow precision as you found the tie at the waistband of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze locked on his. You made quick work of it, undoing the knot in one swift pull before pushing at the fabric so it shifted down his hips, exposing more and more skin to you. He straightened up a little, taking his hand off your breast to push them off his legs completely, kicking them off to the side before mirroring your actions–going for your sweatpants too.

He bent down slightly to push them down your legs, and you took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss from him, catching him off guard. The both of you broke into soft laughter, easing your nerves a bit. Once the sweatpants hit the ground you kicked them off your feet, letting them be banished with the rest of your clothes.

Now in just your underwear, the air between the both of you was thick with anticipation. Your breathing slowed, and deepend, syncing with his as he took you in–really absorbing every inch of skin he could see, battle wounds and all–his gaze lingering everywhere. You let your gaze fall for a moment, catching the shape of him beneath the soft cotton of his boxers. His erection was unmistakable, full and straining against the fabric, the outline was thick and defined, which made you nervous, but also excited. The image alone sent a pulse through your belly, and made your toes curl.

When you looked back up at him, he wasn’t staring at your body anymore, he was watching your face. His expression was so open, so filled with awe and admiration that it nearly made your breath catch in your chest. He reached out, his fingers gently cupping your jaw, his thumb running over the skin, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips, savouring the moment with a sigh.

Then, without saying a word his hand slipped from your face and slid around your back, while his other arm slid under your thighs, lifting you to him with ease. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck and legs around his waist as he carried you the short distance to his bed, throwing the duvet down to the foot of the bed, before lowering you down onto the cool sheets, letting the mattress form around your figure, pushing you up a bit so he could get on top of you.

Bob settled between your thighs with the softest exhale, like he was afraid to ruin the moment by moving too quickly. His knees sank into the mattress, feeling the way your legs guided him closer to you. His hands remained gentle–one braced beside your head, the other holding the side of your hip, absentmindedly tracing circles along it with his thumb.

You tilted your face up to him, and he dipped his head to meet your lips once again. The kiss was slower this time, deep with care and tenderness. You kissed him back with the heat of a thousand suns, your fingers slipping into his hair, pulling him a little closer as your body arched up into his. His hand on your hip drifted up your side, tickling your ribs with the ghosts of his fingertips, letting the intimacy of the moment wrap around you like a second skin.

Then, he pulled back slightly, just far enough to look at you–eyes searching, lips still parted, breath uneven against your mouth. He hesitated for a moment, his thumb brushing idly over your ribs before he finally spoke.

”I-I want to go down on you,” He said quietly, as if the words were sacred to him. His voice was shaky, but you could tell it was just from the nerves that were pulsing through him in those moments, “I want to…Take care of you first…Want to show you how much I’ve been thinking about this…How much I’ve been thinking about you…If that’s okay?” Your heart thudded so loudly in your chest you swore he could hear it. The look on his face–open, vulnerable–was enough to make your breath catch. His words wrapped around you with such warmth that it rooted deep in your body.

You reached up, your fingers curling around the back of his neck, as you whispered.

”That’s more than okay.” He swallowed hard, and then nodded, giving you a small kiss, before drifting down your skin, his lips reaching every inch of you, peppering wet little marks across you, committing every detail to memory. Your hands drifted to his shoulders, brushing across the solid muscles of his back. He kissed your chest, then your ribs, all the way until he reached the edge of your underwear. He paused, lifting his gaze to yours again, just to be sure.

You gave him a small nod, watching his fingers hook under the fabric. He pulled the fabric down your hips, and thighs, as you helped him by pulling each leg out for him. He let out a sigh, looking at your completely bare figure beneath him now, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth for a brief moment before returning to where he was moments ago, putting your legs over his shoulders.

Bob leaned forward, brushing his mouth along your inner thigh, peppering kisses along the skin, memorizing the taste of your skin, inching closer and closer to where you needed him the most. By the time he reached your core, you could feel your whole body pulsing against him, thrumming with anticipation and desperation.

When he finally brought his mouth to your core, he slowly licked upwards, wanting to savour the first time he got to actually taste you. The feeling of it caught you off guard, which drew a soft moan from your lips–broken and boarding on a whimper. His hands tightened at your thighs, holding you closer to him as he licked you again–more firmly this time–his tongue parting you gently, working up to circle around your clit without touching it quite yet. You closed your eyes tightly, reaching down to lace into his soft brown strands of hair. You could feel his eyes on you, watching every reaction that he coaxed out of you. When his mouth finally closed around your clit, your fingers in his hair tightened, hips rolling into him with a gasp.

“F-Fuck…Bob.” You choked out, and that was all he needed.

He groaned softly in response–just hearing your voice sounding so wrecked like that almost destroyed him–and he settled deeper between your thighs. He dragged his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, curling it just right at the tip, then flicking it softly against you until your legs trembled around him. He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking gently, then swirling his tongue with practiced rhythm, giving you just enough then pulling back slightly to tease again, letting you chase the pressure.

Your back arched off the bed slightly, your breath catching in your throat.

”You…Holy fuck Bob…” You whined, not being able to find the words in your vocabulary because your brain was melting from the intense pressure that was building in your stomach. The way you said his name had him clutching at your thighs tighter, grounding himself as he buried his face against you more, like a man starved. He moaned softly, sending another wave of heat through your core, the vibration making you gasp. His tongue flicked, circled, and flattened, lavishing you with such deliberate devotions which drew you closer and closer to the edge.

He shifted slightly, and took one of his hands off your hip, bringing it between your thighs as he adjusted his other hand so it was splayed out along your belly. He traced his fingers through your wetness, dragging two of them along your entrance, teasing for just a second before gently slipping them inside. You bit your lip, suppressing a moan as you looked down at him, seeing how focused he was on pleasing you, his eyes glistening with such intensity that you felt like you were going to die.

His fingers moved slowly at first, letting you adjust to the slight stretch they provided, before curling them slightly, finding the spot inside you that made your back arch off the bed, crying out as your legs tightened around his head. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, he just groaned again, like your pleasure was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Oh my god–Bob–Bob please don’t stop…Don’t stop.” You begged, your voice breathless, and trembling on every syllable. Your fingers gripped his hair even tighter, as you felt the orgasm cresting with a pressure so intense it stole the air from your lungs. Your body was unraveling, and your muscles were tightening like a wire drawn taut. He felt it–he felt the way your walls began to pulse around his fingers, the way your hips started to jerk–and he doubled down, curling his fingers harder, sucking your clit in time with your shattering moans.

“Come for me,” He whispered against you, voice wrecked, barely audible but so sure. “Please. I want to feel it.” You broke apart beneath him with a cry, your thighs clamping around his head as your body seized, pleasure rocketing through you in waves so intense they left your limbs shaking. Your core pulsed around his fingers, your back arching off the mattress as you rode out the release, breath stuttering through sobs of ecstasy.

Bob held you through it, fingers still moving slowly inside you as his mouth gently eased off, switching to open-mouthed kisses along your thighs, grounding you, kissing you through the aftershocks. He watched your body tremble beneath him, his own breath ragged with awe.

Finally, when you dropped back onto the mattress with a long, shaky sigh, he pulled his fingers from you slowly, kissing your hip one more time before crawling up over your body. His skin was flushed, his mouth was wet and glistening with your arousal, and his eyes were glazed and dark with want–but there was so much tenderness in his face that it nearly brought tears to your eyes.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, before pulling back to caress your cheek, his thumb running just below your eye.

”Are you okay? Did I–“ You cupped his face, and pulled him back down to you, kissing him again, interrupting the words that were about to fall out of his mouth. He let a soft moan against your lips, before you slowly pulled back.

”You did…Absolutely amazing Bob. So fucking amazing.” Bob’s breath hitched the moment you said it, and you watched the praise ripple through him like a tide, flooding his expression with something raw and deeply earnest. He looked almost overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of affirmation, but he was appreciative of it regardless.

You gave him a second to breathe, brushing his hair back gently from his flushed forehead as he hovered over you, gaze still fixed on your face like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then you tilted your head toward his ear, your voice soft and steady.

“My turn.”

Bob blinked, his lips parting slightly. “Y-You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” You cut him off gently, placing your palms on his chest and guiding him down onto his back. “I really want to.”

He let you maneuver him without resistance, collapsing onto the pillows as you crawled over him, straddling his thighs with slow, deliberate movements that kept his eyes trained on you. Your fingers trailed down his torso, grazing the firm lines of his chest and stomach, watching as his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

When you shifted lower, reaching for the waistband of his boxers, he let out a sharp breath.

“Wait—” He said quickly, sitting up on one elbow, using his other hand to catch your wrist. “I–shit–I want you to just–just use your hands, okay?” You blinked at him, a little surprised by the request and the sudden interruption.

“Why?” You asked gently. His face flushed harder, eyes dropping to the sheets for a second before he met your gaze again, voice low and a little sheepish.

”Because I’m gonna end up finishing too fast if you use your mouth..And I don’t want to finish unless it’s inside you.” He admitted, his breath unsteady. Your thighs flinched at his words, leaving you staggered. You weren’t expecting it, not from him. Not from soft-spoken, anxious, stammering Bob…But then again he had just given you the best orgasm in the world…So he did have a bit more of a wilder side to him that evidently he only reserved for you at this point.

”…Okay.” You whispered, leaning in to kiss him once more, before easing down his body again. Your fingers curled into the waistband of his boxers, and you eased them down his hips, eyes never leaving his as you exposed him to the cool air. His cock was thick and flushed, twitching slightly with need, already glistening at the tip with precum. The sight of him made your mouth go dry, and your stomach turn. You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, watching the way his jaw tightened at your touch, his head falling back against the pillow with a soft moan. Your hand moved in slow, steady strokes, twisting gently at the tip, your palm slick from how worked up he already was.

“Oh…Oh god you’re going to ruin me.” He rasped, breathlessly. You leaned over him, your free hand braced against his chest as you shifted to straddle his thighs properly. The weight of you over him made his eyes flutter open again. His hands went to your hips, as if just having you there made him feel steadier. Then without warning, he looked up at you with glassy eyes and spoke.

“C-Can I sit up against the headboard?” His voice was rough with need, but still gentle—like he didn’t want to disrupt the closeness, only deepen it.

You nodded immediately, helping guide him as he adjusted, both of you moving slowly so nothing between you was rushed. You cradled his shoulders as he shifted upward, his back settling against the cold wood of the headboard with a relieved exhale. The lamp’s soft glow painted his chest in gold, and his hair was a little messy from where your fingers had run through it, his mouth still parted as he looked at you with awe.

You straddled his lap again, keeping one hand wrapped around the base of him as he pulled you closer again. His head tilted forward and he pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses to your chest, lips finding your breast again like he needed it, sucking gently over the flesh, making sure to leave a mark before pausing to let his breath fan across your skin. All the while, your hand kept moving—slow, slick, steady. You felt him throb in your palm, the heat of him pulsing like a second heartbeat. You could hear him panting, but he didn’t tell you to stop, so you continued until he pulled back from your chest completely, his pupils blown wide with something molten in his expression.

”Y/N, spit in my mouth…” He whispered, “I want all of you…I want everything. I want you in every part of me…Please.” He added, his voice on the edge of a whimper. Your breath caught at his words, not from surprise or shock but from the vulnerability the words had to them. His need wasn’t crude…It was devotional, like it was the only way he knew how to show you how dedicated he was.

You nodded once, slowly, with your eyes locked on his. Your free hand came up to cradle his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye before gently tilting his head back, exposing his throat to you. He kept his gaze on you, wide-eyed and trembling as you leaned over him, still stroking his cock while doing so.

With your lips parted and breath warm, you let a slow, steady thread of saliva slip from your mouth–down past his lips and onto his waiting tongue. He didn’t flinch, he just accepted it with a shuddering breath, swallowing it right when it made contact. A flush bloomed even more across his neck and chest. You smiled down at him, seeing how satisfied he looked. He took a deep breath, then surged forward, one arm wrapping around your waist as he kissed you, open and warm, with his lips parting against yours like he wanted to thank you with his whole body.

You deepened the kiss, your chest pressing flush to his as he held you in his lap, the heat of his body radiating against yours like a shell. His hands roamed over your back, your waist, everywhere he could reach, but it wasn’t frantic—it was gentle and slow, like he was memorizing you by feeling alone. And then you pulled back, just enough to speak, your lips barely brushing his.

“I need you inside me.”

The words left you in a whisper, but they hit him like a lightning strike. Bob’s breath stuttered, and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours—glazed, dazed, and swimming in something so deep it made your spine curl. He nodded, a little frantic, the motion jerky as he grasped at your hips again, steadying you, grounding himself.

“You sure?” He asked, drawing his brows together, his voice hoarse, wanting to be sure you were on board with this completely. You nodded, kissing him one more time.

”Never been more sure.” You adjusted your hips with care, steadying yourself as you guided him to your entrance, the tip of him hot and slick against you. Bob’s breath hitched, his fingers flexing hard at your waist as he tried to hold himself still, trying not to rush you. You watched his jaw tense, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you slowly began to sink down onto him, inch by inch, until he filled you completely.

The stretch made your thighs tremble and your breath catch, and Bob let out a strangled groan that vibrated through his whole chest. His head fell back against the headboard with a soft thump, eyes fluttering closed as he murmured something that sounded like your name paired with the words oh my God. You sat there a moment, your hands planted on his chest, letting your bodies adjust, feeling the twitch of him inside you, the way he was already pulsing with restraint.

And then you began to move.

It was slow at first, just the tiniest grind of your hips forward and back, your slick heat stroking along his length. His eyes cracked open, dazed and glassy, like he couldn’t believe this was real. He brought his hands to your hips, guiding you gently, letting you take what you needed at your own pace, and in your own way.

You moved together like a heartbeat–slow, steady, with increasing intensity.

Bob’s hands slid up your back, then down again to cup your ass, helping you ride him deeper, pushing you just enough to make your breath hitch with every descent. His moans became more frequent, low and helpless against your skin, and he whispered your name like a prayer, again and again, until it bled into the rhythm of your bodies.

“God–you feel so good–so so good,” he rasped against your neck. “I don’t think I can–oh shit–”

Your hips were moving faster now, desperation threading into every motion. The room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, your quiet moans, and his ragged breathing. You felt like you were both on fire—burning, blindingly alive.

And then, suddenly, Bob shifted.

Without warning, he gripped your thighs and flipped you, your back hitting the mattress with a gasp. Before you could say anything, he was there—above you—sliding back into you in one fluid, aching thrust. You cried out, your hands gripping his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, pulling him in closer.

Bob moaned softly, burying his face into your neck as his hips snapped forward with more force now, losing the gentle rhythm he had from before, exchanging it for something deeper, and more primal. One of his hands found yours and squeezed it tight, pressing it against the pillow beside your head, while the other shot out grip the headboard so he could brace himself.

And then the sound hit.

CRACK.

You barely registered it at first–you were too lost in the crescendo building inside your body, the way he filled you so perfectly, the way your name fell from his lips like he was worshiping you with every thrust. But his body shuddered on top of you, his hips jerking erratically now, the pace stuttering as he reached the edge.

“Oh God–God–Y/N–”

He moaned loudly, something close to a gasp punched from his lungs as his hips slammed into you one final time, and his whole body locked up. His hand crushed the top of the headboard–literally splintering the wood under his palm as he came inside you with a broken, breathless cry. You felt the wave of it, the way he pulsed deep inside, the warmth of him spilling into you, and it sent you hurtling over the edge too, your climax crashing through your limbs like a wave snapping every nerve awake. You cried out beneath him, your nails dragging down his back, your body seizing around him.

Bob collapsed, trembling, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath hot and wild against your collarbone. His hair was a complete mess, damp and tangled and wild across your skin. He was heavy and shaking, still buried inside you, both of you locked in the aftermath–too breathless to speak. You could feel his heart pounding against you–where his chest was pressed against yours.

Then slowly, you felt him lift his head from your shoulder, his cheeks a complete crimson now, lips parted as he gazed down at you with those shimmering blue eyes again, like he was trying to comprehend what just happened.

In those moments he leaned forward and kissed you, like he was saying thank you, or maybe he was trying to determine if this really was happening. You kissed him back with the same softness he gave you, your fingers pushing his hair back from his face. He sighed, and pulled back from your lips, his gaze raising slightly. You could see his mouth drop open slightly, and his eyes went wide.

”…What?” You asked, your brows drawing together in confusion. He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently reached up and tilted your chin, guiding your gaze upward–and that’s when you saw it.

A clean, jagged split ran right down the center of the wooden headboard. Splintered and cracked like lightning had struck it from above. Your mouth parted in shock, and for a beat neither of you said anything.

Then you laughed.

It started soft–with disbelief and surprise–but quickly turned into full, breathless giggles that made your body shake. Bob buried his face in your neck again, groaning quietly.

“At least we still have my bed to move to,” You teased, stroking his hair to calm him down from the embarrassment he was probably feeling. “But maybe we should…I don’t know…Get things that don’t break so easily?”

Bob groaned again into your skin, and you could hear the shy smile behind it. “Y-Yeah…Yeah, maybe,” He mumbled, barely audible.

You could feel the heat creeping back into his cheeks.

“Though…” He added after a pause, voice muffled and sheepish, “If sex is always gonna be like that… I-I don’t think it’ll matter what it’s made of…” You smirked, pushing him off his shoulder so you could look at him–and the adorable way he immediately avoided your gaze. Your heart swelled.

“Sounds like a good time to me,” You whispered, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead before pressing a kiss to it.

Eventually, you cleaned yourselves up, and shifted to your bed, sliding in under the fresh sheets, tucking yourselves into each other. Bob curled around you protectively, your bodies bare and warm together, with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, nose buried into your hair. You fell asleep like that–saturated in the safety of each other, breath syncing, hearts still fluttering.

——————

The morning sunlight slipped gently into the room, illuminating the soft gold glow of the lamp you’d forgotten to turn off.

You were the first to stir.

Bob’s arms were still locked around you, holding you like he thought you might disappear. You turned in his embrace, resting your palm against his chest, letting your fingers trace lazy circles along his sternum, and the little scars that he had around that area that were barely noticeable. His eyes fluttered open not long after, blinking slowly until they found yours.

“Morning,” You whispered.

“Hi…” He whispered back, his voice gravelly from, as one hand moved to push your hair out of your face with the backs of his fingers. “You’re still here.”

You smiled. “Of course I am.”

He returned a smile back to you, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in to kiss you–sleepy and sweet, his soft lips barely moving, while his nose brushed against yours. He pulled back slowly, letting his thumb trace your lower lip. You kissed the pad of it, with a sweet smirk.

”I could stay like this forever,” He murmured, trailing his touch down to the side of your neck, taking in the image of you in front of him, making sure he would remember this moment. You tilted your head into his hand, staring up at him with your heart pounding against your chest.

”Me too.” He grinned, just a little. The kind of grin that was half love-drunk and half processing the events that happened last night, then you remembered what you were going to talk to him about yesterday when you came back to the room, before you found his note.

”Hey I was actually going to tell you something when I came back to the room,” You began, already laughing at the story, seeing the way his attention was on you, hanging off of every word “During training yesterday evening, Yelena and Bucky gave me the third degree abo-“ Just as you were about to tell him you heard Yelena’s voice coming from an already opening door.

”Y/N, missed tra-OH MY GOD! HOLY CRAP!” You jolted, the covers pulling up to your chest as Bob yelped and scrambled to sit up behind you, wide-eyed and clutching the sheets. In the doorway, Yelena stood with her hands over her eyes, then immediately turned and bolted out again.

”I KNEW IT! BUCKY I TOLD YOU!” She yelled. The both of you glanced over at each other.

”…I’m assuming they gave you…The third degree about us?” Bob asked, finishing the sentence you were about to say before the interruption.

“Yeah…” You whispered under your breath, trying to suppress a laugh.

[sangunary]

BatBoy x Hero Reader.

SYPNOSIS: Being the subject of admiration of kids is a real privilege.

IMP: Reader is only 5 year's older.. Reader do not reciprocate the feelings.

Dick Grayson:

He liked you before he was Robin, before the light were on him just because you complimented his mother. Most Heroes don't really have the time to take personal note of citizens but you did, and he wasn't ashamed about liking you hell everybody knows that the you g boy liked you. The way his eyes would sparkle whenever he saw you or how he was trying his best to impress you like how kods would.

He broke his leg because he was trying to impress you, forgetting about the fact that he jumping through roofs too occupied with making sure you were watching he totally forgot everything he have learnt. It was embarassing for him pretending that his broken leg was just some boo-boo but you saw through him. Gave him a piggy back home which made him promise to you that he would be stronger and he'll carry you like that one day.

Bruce wouldn't stop lecturing him, scolding him for broking his leg for 'validation'. The moment Bruce somewhat insult you the young boy definitely defended you with his whole heart. He did not care who he had to face no one talk about you like that to him. Alfred wouldn't stop passing remarks about you from that day.

Jason Todd.

He started to like you when you gave him food when he was still living in the street. To you it was just giving a poor kid some food but to him... You were an angel sent by God personally for him and luckily he got to meet you again by fate.

He was more reckless than any of your mentee and definitely more ruthless, Bruce already told you about his bad tendency but you treat him like a normal person. With him around you could go through a whole mission while closing your eyes he would take care of everything for you before you can ask. If any thug get a hit on you, boom! A dislocated arm. After each patrol with yoy Bruce would lecture him again and again, and as a result he was permitted from patrolling with you alone.

He took it like a champ and run straight to your house with his belongings, a credit card he stole from Bruce on his hand. Begging you take him and run away somewhere without Bruce. He ended up staying with you for two months before the unthinkable happened.

Tim Drake.

Being liked by him have to be the worst dream for heros. Not only did he show up at your apartment with a whole binder full of why you were the exact hero he demanded for him to be your sidekick. He even brought a list of chores. He talked about how easy it was and even bringing a presentation on how to hide your identity better cause not every kid deserves to know your identity he needs your validation real bad.

Not only did he not get to live with you he instead got to live with the dark knight. Even during Patrol he wouldn't stop asking you questions which you answered, everything but the 'Can you love a sidekick?'.

Bruce is very sick of your name now, everytime he did something wrong Tim was ready to bring his luggage to your apartment. For Bruce he was learning every random fact about you through his bored kid "Their bathroom is atleast 5 feet by 8 feet", "They're neglecting their school work, especially on friday", "They eat ramen everyday... We should give them money".

Bruce made Tim your contingency plan.

Damian Wayne.

Damian started to 'care' about your presence after you flicker his forehead when he was stating facts. He was amazed by your audacity so much that he ended up at your apartment analyzing everything and memorizing them. It was because if he has to fight you it'll be inside your own home and he'll laugh at you when he ended you in your own comfort.

That never happened he ended up cleaning your apartment out of pity. Gradually he would 'soften' letting you do his hair or let you touch his personal weapon he treasure dearly. To him you weren't just a person you were the embodiment of warmth and he wasn't going to let any one took that warmth from him, they should thank him if they managed to left with only a broken rib.

Bruce saw you as a huge disaster and tried to send you to blüdhaven for your own and his son sake. Damian would always visit you every single night, he couldn't be at ease knowing his trust was so far away so he made sure that you were taking care of yourself not because he love you and only because you were the missing part of him. Being lectured by a kid on how to live isn't fun.

[meownotgood]

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion.  tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found. 

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device. 

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position. 

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine. 

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired. 

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why. 

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity. 

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did. 

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device. 

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response. 

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you. 

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them." 

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust. 

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder. 

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible." 

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in. 

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm. 

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork. 

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight. 

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock. 

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance. 

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise." 

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then." 

Viktor answers, "As anticipated." 

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached. 

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge. 

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?" 

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers. 

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit." 

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all." 

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement. 

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement. 

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system." 

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors." 

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job." 

"It is." 

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold. 

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself. 

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon." 

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing. 

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular. 

Viktor notices. 

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected." 

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright. 

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?" 

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you. 

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?" 

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss." 

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken." 

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous." 

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms." 

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald. 

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you — 

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask. 

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later." 

Anything you want. 

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours. 

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?" 

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside. 

"Good." 

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside. 

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault. 

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken. 

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move." 

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong. 

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously. 

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-" 

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster — 

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed. 

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep. 

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs. 

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion. 

— 

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?" 

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez." 

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly. 

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt? 

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him. 

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already. 

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed. 

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again. 

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor. 

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter. 

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.) 

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand. 

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings. 

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered. 

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open. 

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out — 

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead. 

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose. 

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there. 

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things. 

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure. 

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch. 

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep. 

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe. 

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges. 

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective. 

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are. 

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent. 

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place. 

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then. 

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become. 

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable. 

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up. 

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you." 

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore." 

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open. 

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist. 

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming. 

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in." 

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it. 

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously. 

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating. 

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed. 

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?" 

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions." 

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand. 

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms. 

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-" 

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it." 

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist. 

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere." 

You groan, tossing your head back. 

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense." 

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them." 

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck. 

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald. 

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework. 

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?" 

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it." 

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute." 

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-" 

"I disagree." 

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault." 

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point." 

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly." 

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen." 

"Fine." 

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you. 

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching. 

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at." 

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-" 

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way." 

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm. 

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up. 

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static. 

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand." 

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all. 

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly. 

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice. 

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest." 

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening. 

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald. 

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence. 

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver." 

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left. 

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him. 

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage. 

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement. 

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go. 

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this. 

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together. 

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?" 

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably. 

"Yes?" 

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?" 

"I thought you did not want to talk about this." 

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me." 

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open. 

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut. 

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield." 

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed — 

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee. 

"I guess that makes sense." 

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?" 

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-" 

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind." 

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart. 

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern." 

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all." 

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction. 

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy. 

"I need you to listen carefully." 

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening." 

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything." 

Right. Just your life. 

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over. 

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned." 

"Potentially." 

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same. 

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter. 

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you." 

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now." 

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name. 

So, you let it. 

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you." 

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully. 

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam. 

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing." 

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course." 

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside. 

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system. 

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open. 

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation. 

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no." 

"Ah. I will take it from here, then." 

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings." 

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics. 

It's… a lot. 

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within. 

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry. 

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system. 

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but. 

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one. 

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart. 

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself. 

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul. 

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.) 

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too. 

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides. 

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve. 

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal. 

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation. 

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations. 

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee. 

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling. 

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced." 

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand. 

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies. 

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?" 

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit." 

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term." 

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?" 

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you." 

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest. 

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside. 

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered. 

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck." 

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold." 

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish." 

"Give me your hand." 

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his. 

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits. 

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you." 

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact. 

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe." 

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."  

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do." 

"Correct." 

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed. 

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted." 

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose." 

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh. 

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?" 

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch. 

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you. 

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation." 

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close. 

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down. 

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir. 

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave. 

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks. 

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath. 

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs. 

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them. 

And yet, here you are. 

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles. 

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch. 

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?) 

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic. 

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?" 

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart." 

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-" 

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many." 

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in. 

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape. 

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible." 

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension. 

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you. 

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes. 

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed." 

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench. 

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?" 

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it." 

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons. 

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten. 

You glance up. "Good?" 

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise. 

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands." 

"Alright. I can do that." 

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck." 

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise." 

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module." 

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it." 

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires." 

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely. 

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in." 

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat. 

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn." 

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit. 

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control. 

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage." 

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully. 

"Sorry. I'll go slow." 

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover. 

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire. 

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going." 

"Does this- am I hurting you?" 

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine." 

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar. 

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it. 

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps. 

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust." 

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely." 

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them. 

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now." 

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy." 

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake. 

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.) 

You really need to focus. 

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done." 

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire." 

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller. 

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik." 

"You may need to come closer, then." 

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty. 

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool. 

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller. 

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire. 

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his. 

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it." 

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in." 

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 24

<<<Previous Next>>>

You had just taken a bite of your pastry; still warm, the subtle sweetness of melon practically melting on your tongue when Chai Latte Cookie leaned in with that look. You knew that look.

“So…” she began innocently, twirling a strand of her hair around one finger. “Will the ever-elusive, breathtakingly mysterious, utterly unshakable Sage of Truth be joining us this morning?” 

You nearly choked. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie let out a low whistle, already smirking behind his cup. Earl Grey didn’t look up, but you could see the small upward twitch of his lips. You glared at Chai, cheeks warming. “We didn’t even see each other yesterday.” 

“Oh, I know,” she said breezily. “Which is exactly why I’m asking. Perhaps absence makes the heart grow bolder?”

“Don’t you mean fonder?” Hazelnut biscotti offered, raising a brow. 

“No,” Chai said with mock solemnity. “I meant what I said. This one’s bold now. I saw it. The way they held his hand like a seasoned romantic under the table the other day? The nerve.” 

You covered your face with your hands, groaning into your palms. “I’m going to walk into the sea.”

“There is no sea,” Earl Grey said mildly, buttering his second pastry. “But if there were, I imagine you'd still try.” 

Chai patted your shoulder, all too pleased with herself. “Don’t worry. We’re proud of you. Truly. But if you think for a second I’m not going to tease you every time he’s not around, you’re wrong.” You peeked out from between your fingers. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.” Unfortunately, you did. Still, despite the embarrassment, there was a warmth in your chest that hadn’t faded not since that day in the gardens, not since the quiet walk to dinner, not since the moment you caught yourself watching him with that soft, foolish smile on your face. 

No, he wasn’t joining you this morning. But the thought of him lingered all the same. You waited for the perfect beat just as Chai Latte Cookie sipped her tea, her eyes still dancing from the last quip she made about Shadow Milk and then you leaned in, casually, your tone light but unmistakably deliberate. “So,” you said, “is there someone you’ve been thinking about lately?”

Chai choked. A sputter of tea escaped her lips as she quickly reached for a napkin, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with as much grace as one could muster after nearly inhaling jasmine green. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie blinked. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice half an octave too high. 

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow, ever observant. “They barely asked anything. You reacted as though they proposed on one knee.”

“I did not,” Chai huffed, cheeks just a touch too pink. “It was just them asking. I didn’t expect it.” You tilted your head innocently, sipping your own tea. “Why not me?”

 Chai stared at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a carefully constructed smile, she leaned back in her seat, twirling her spoon between two fingers. “You just don’t usually ask things like that,” she said smoothly. “Especially not first.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned forward, clearly invested. “But it’s a good question. Is there someone, Chai?”

Chai waved him off with a groan. “Please, like I’d tell you.” 

You gave her a small smile, more sincere this time. “You don’t have to tell us. I was just curious.” 

Her eyes softened, and something flickered across her face brief, almost imperceptible. She reached for her teacup again, holding it between her hands like a shield. 

“…Maybe,” she murmured into the steam. “Maybe there’s someone. Or maybe I just enjoy a good story too much.” 

Earl Grey gave a quiet hum, sipping his tea like this was all immensely entertaining. Hazelnut Biscotti looked scandalized; he hadn't gotten a straight answer. But you just smiled, letting the moment pass. Because you saw the way her gaze lingered not on Hazelnut or Earl, but on you. And maybe she did enjoy a good story. Or perhaps she was just quietly waiting for hers to be written.

You rested your chin in your hand, watching the morning light glint off your tea. “I think we’ll get in,” you said, voice softer than expected, but certain. “All of us. The Spire, the labs we want… I really believe it.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie tilted his head, grinning. “You sound pretty confident for someone who almost got taken out by enchanted ice cream.” 

You rolled your eyes. “That was one time.” Chai Latte Cookie laughed, nudging your leg under the table. “Go on, then. Enlighten us. What do you think it’ll be like?”

You glanced at each of them, letting the thought build in your mind. “Big, obviously. But not in an intimidating way. More like… the kind of big that feels earned. The towers won’t just scrape the sky, they'll speak to it. Glass ceilings, enchanted railings, whole hallways that reflect constellations, maybe even floating staircases. It’ll feel alive.” 

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow, intrigued. “You sound like you’ve seen the blueprints.” You smiled. “Maybe I’ve just dreamed hard enough.” There was a quiet moment before you added, “I want us there. Together. I want to sit with you all in some ridiculous sky-windowed study hall with piles of research and cups of bad tea and think…we made it. Not because someone handed it to us, but because we earned it. Because we never stopped trying.” 

Hazelnut leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, grinning. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“I’m serious,” you said, trying not to laugh. “We’ve all worked so hard. You, with your field reports and that time you got Professor Calamint to quote you-”

“Unintentionally,” Hazelnut Biscotti mumbled.

“Still counts,” you said. “Chai, your enchantments? I saw how the upper division students were in awe of your binding techniques.” Chai blushed, sipping her tea to hide it.

“And Earl Grey,” you continued, looking at him, “you’re probably already halfway to running your own department.”

He didn’t smile, not exactly but something in his expression shifted. A kind of quiet, thoughtful pride.

“I just mean…” You trailed off for a second, then looked back down at your tea, hands cupped around it. “I want it to be us. I want to build something with all of you. Not just research. A life.” 

Chai reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Then let’s do it,” she said simply. “Let’s get in. All of us.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti raised his cup. “To windows in the sky and pineapple-free food experiments.” Earl Grey added, “To what comes next. And who we’ll become, getting there.”

You smiled, heart full. “To us. Always.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie squinted at you over the rim of his cup, dramatic suspicion written all over his face. “Okay,” he said slowly, pointing a croissant at you like it was a wand of truth.

“But seriously. Who are you and what have you done with the real you?”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he said, leaning back with a grin, “first you nearly cry over us doing research together like it’s the last scene in a tearjerker, and now you’re giving motivational speeches over tea. Are you… okay?”

“I’m great,” you replied, mock-offended. “I’m being heartfelt!”

“Oh no,” he said, gasping. “It’s worse than I thought.” 

Before you could retaliate, he reached across the table and dramatically placed his palm on your forehead. “Warm. Suspiciously warm. Someone check the pineapple ice cream. I think it’s still in their system.” 

Chai Latte Cookie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “Hazelnut Leave them be!”

“I’m just saying!” he protested, wagging his croissant like a lecturing professor. “Next thing you know, they’ll be asking us to hold hands and sing a unity song about the Spire.” 

You groaned, grabbing a napkin and chucking it at his head. “You’re unbelievable.” Earl Grey Cookie, unbothered, sipped his tea calmly. “If they do start singing, I’m leaving. Just for the record.”

“Rude,” you muttered, trying not to smile. Hazelnut grinned, victorious. “There’s the real you. All I had to do was poke the dramatics out.” 

You shook your head, finally laughing again. “Fine. No more speeches. But you’re all still stuck with me at the Spire.”

Hazelnut Biscotti gave you a mock salute. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Moments like these made you cherish what it meant to be mortal. Even as breakfast came to a close the laughter lingered in your memories.

The four of you trudged toward Professor Almond Custard Cookie’s lecture hall like prisoners marching toward a velvet-lined doom. Despite the laughter from breakfast still lingering in your chest, the energy had shifted to something sleepier, more subdued as if the early hour pressed down heavier now that the scent of fresh pastries had faded from the air.

Even Earl Grey Cookie, who normally carried himself with such relentless composure, rubbed at his eyes with a gloved hand as you rounded the corner. 

Chai Latte Cookie stifled a yawn beside you. “Do you think if we all collectively fall asleep, he’ll just… keep going?” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie groaned dramatically. “He’d probably take it as a compliment. ‘Ah, yes,’”

he said, imitating Almond Custard’s slow, droning cadence, “‘my voice so soothing, so powerful it guides even the most unwilling minds into the arms of dreams.’”

You stifled a laugh. “You know that’s exactly what he’d say.” Chai nodded solemnly. “And he’d still assign homework while we’re unconscious.” 

The lecture hall loomed ahead, filled already with the rustle of notebooks and the soft drone of students shuffling into their usual seats. You settled into yours automatically; second row, left side while the others filled in around you.

A few weeks ago, your stomach would’ve twisted just being here. Back then, your notebook was mostly blank, your confidence was hanging by a thread, and Professor Almond Custard had developed an uncanny knack for calling on you at the worst possible moments. But now?

Now your notebook had pages of real notes. Now you could follow the material not always easily, but with far less panic. And now, thankfully, the professor barely called on you at all. Whether that was out of mercy or satisfaction, you weren’t sure, but you’d take the reprieve.

Professor Almond Custard Cookie shuffled in at last, his robes rustling like pages of an old tome, and the class collectively slumped as he cleared his throat. 

“Good morning,” he intoned, voice as slow and honey-thick as ever. “Let us return to the topic of magical theoretical integrations and their applications in low-energy environments…” 

Hazelnut whispered behind you, “Wake me when he says something I need to care about.” You fought a grin and let your head tilt ever so slightly toward Chai Latte Cookie, who was already doodling sleepy stars in the corner of her notes.

Even Earl Grey Cookie didn’t pretend to look overly invested though his quill still scratched dutifully at his parchment, because of course it did. Your hand drifted to your own pen, and you began writing, a steady rhythm that helped keep your eyes from drifting shut. 

The class stretched ahead, dull and slow, but you didn’t dread it anymore. And somewhere in the back of your mind just beyond the sound of Almond Custard’s voice you wondered what Shadow Milk Cookie was doing now.

If he was working on his speech that was endlessly picked apart. If he thought about you the way you were thinking about him. You tapped your pen once against your notebook. Just a little longer, you thought. Then you’d see him again.

The rest of your classes passed in a kind of sleepy, sunlit haze the kind that made your notes a bit messier than usual, but your mind was just clear enough to carry you through.

The late morning hours melted into afternoon without resistance, and soon enough, the four of you were trailing lazily down the corridor together, lingering in the quiet comfort of post-class peace.

“I think I’m gonna head to the Scholar’s Wing,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder and adjusting the strap with a small sigh. “Go see Shadow Milk for lunch.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie perked up with a grin. “Oh? A lunch date with the Fount of Knowledge himself?”

“Tutoring,” you corrected smoothly, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “I’ll just… check in on him. See how the speech prep is going.” 

Earl Grey Cookie gave a knowing hum, brushing a bit of dust off his sleeve. “Very considerate of you.”

“I brought snacks,” you added, patting your satchel. “I’m not planning to starve myself before dinner.” Chai Latte Cookie stepped in front of you without warning, hands already moving toward your collar. 

“Hold still,” she murmured, cupping your face, getting rid of any residual crumbs checking for anything that might be off.

“If you’re going to see him, you might as well look like you weren’t flattened by six hours of lectures.”

You blinked. “Do I look that bad?”

She gave you a soft smile, gently straightening a crease on your shoulder. “No. You look like you. Just… a slightly rumpled version.”

Her fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary before she stepped back. “There. Perfect.” 

Hazelnut rolled his eyes dramatically. “You’re sending them off like a lovesick noble in a romantic epic.” 

Earl Grey Cookie chuckled. “It’s the academic equivalent of sending a knight off to war.” You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. “You three are insufferable.”

Chai looked at you sweetly, “Don’t lie to yourself, you love us.” 

You didn’t argue. Just smiled, small and quiet, your heart full. “I’ll meet you all at dinner,” you said, starting to walk backward down the corridor. “If I don’t show, assume I’ve been buried under three feet of rhetorical edits.”

“We’ll bring a shovel,” Hazelnut called.

“And tea,” Chai added.

“And reason,” Earl Grey said with a smirk. “Though he may not listen.”

You waved them off, turning toward the familiar quiet of the Scholar’s Wing notes in your bag, nervous energy in your chest, and a little bit of magic still tangled in your hair where Chai had touched it. 

You approached the Scholar’s Wing with steady steps, though your heart drummed a little faster the closer you got.

The soft light that filtered through the tall arched windows of the corridor dappled across the polished floors like shards of daydreams quiet, golden, expectant. It always felt a little different, coming here with purpose. 

Not for tutoring, not strictly. Just to see him. You reached the familiar door, the one you’d memorized every detail of by now the precise polish of the brass plaque, the way the faintest hum of warding spells curled around the wood like mist.

You were early. You knew that. Technically, you didn’t need to knock Shadow Milk had said so once, long ago, in his typical way “Formality is a construct. But I’ll indulge it, if you must.” Still, your knuckles rapped gently on the door three soft taps, quick and careful. It wasn’t about permission, not really. It was a greeting. A ritual. You waited a beat. Then another.

No one responded at first, and for a moment you wondered if he might be buried in his work again, head down over a sea of ancient texts or that ever-growing speech draft. But then soft footsteps. A shadow passed under the threshold. The door opened. And there he was.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood with his usual composed grace, robes drawn neatly around him, one sleeve still slightly ink-smudged. His expression shifted the moment he saw you not with surprise, but with a softness that was almost imperceptible if you didn’t already know what to look for. “You’re early,” he said, voice low, calm. You gave a sheepish smile. “I know. But I wanted to see you.”

He blinked once, slow and unreadable. Then, he stepped aside. “Then by all means,” he said, and there was the faintest trace of something warmer in his tone, welcoming, even. “Come in.”

He didn’t say anything more at first just stepped aside as you entered, the soft fall of his robes brushing the doorframe. But something about it struck you. You tilted your head, giving him a sideways glance. “You usually don’t get up.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow ever so slightly, hands folding behind his back. “Don’t I?”

“Nope.” You stepped further into the room, shrugging off your bag. “You always say ‘Enter’ like a command whispered through the walls. I’ve never actually seen you open the door yourself.” He looked at you for a long moment, then turned, walking back toward his desk with that same composed grace he always carried. “You arrived earlier than usual. I assumed it might be someone else.”

“Ah.” You nodded slowly, teasing, lacing your words. “So I’m not the only one gracing you with midday visits.” 

His glance flicked toward you again sharp, amused. “I didn’t say that.” You smiled, folding your arms. “So who did you think it was?” 

He paused, adjusting a few scrolls on his desk. “Perhaps I hoped it was you.” Your breath caught just briefly and then his voice softened. “But if it hadn’t been… I imagine I would’ve been disappointed.” 

You blinked. You paused, your fingers hovering over the back of the chair across from him, the seat you always took.

The one for students, for questions, for careful study beneath the ever-watchful gaze of the Sage of Truth. But something about it didn’t feel right today.

Instead, you stepped around the desk, dragging the chair slowly, deliberately, to his side. The soft scrape of wood against stone echoed through the quiet room as you brought it next to his, tucking it just so close enough to feel the space shift, the atmosphere soften. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t speak, but you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and observant, as always.You didn’t meet his eyes right away. 

You just settled beside him, folding your hands in your lap. “Thought I’d try sitting here today,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered at the edges. “If that’s alright.”

There was a beat of silence just long enough for you to wonder if you’d overstepped. Then, softly, “It’s more than alright.”

You turned your head to look at him then, and for once, he wasn’t wearing the mask of the Fount of Knowledge. No distant air, no carefully crafted distance. Just Shadow Milk, sitting beside you, his gaze softened into something gentle. You offered a small smile, and he nodded once, slow and sure. 

And just like that, the space between you wasn’t for questions and answers anymore. It was just for you.

You sat a little straighter in your chair, glancing sideways at him, watching the way his attention lingered half on you, half on the open scroll he had yet to properly acknowledge since your arrival. A quiet moment passed, and then, you cleared your throat gently.

“So,” you said, nudging your shoulder slightly toward his, “are you planning to eat lunch? Or are you just going to subsist on ink fumes and scholarly resolve?”

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “That was the plan,” he murmured, eyes still focused ahead. “But your tone suggests disapproval.” 

You smiled, pleased. “Deep disapproval. Shame, even.” He turned to look at you then, one brow arched in that signature, inquisitive way. “I see.” 

You reached down and pulled your bag into your lap, flipping open the flap with a rustle and revealing the contents with a small flourish. “Lucky for you, I came prepared.” Inside were perhaps more than reasonably necessary snacks. Wrapped treats, dried fruit, a half-loaf of sweetbread from the dining hall, and two little jars of preserved jam nestled among napkins and spoons.

“I brought provisions,” you said, very proudly. “Just in case I got hungry. Or, you know, in case you needed a reason to not forget about basic mortal needs.” 

He looked at the collection, then at you, then back again. “You planned for this?”

“I plan for many things,” you said solemnly. “Hunger emergencies are high on the list. Especially in rooms where you lose track of time and forget meals exist.” 

A small, fond smile tugged at the corners of his lips, subtle but real. “I should’ve known,” he murmured. “You’re quite difficult to out-prepare.” 

You held out a wrapped bit of sweetbread like a peace offering. “Accept the mortal offering, O Fount of Knowledge.” His eyes narrowed just slightly amused. And then, with a quiet, almost reverent motion, he took it from your hand. “I suppose I’m convinced,” he said. “Just this once.”

You grinned. “That’s all I ask.” And for a few moments more, the two of you sat in gentle silence, sharing quiet laughter and sweeter things, the air lighter than it had been moments before.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, nibbling on your snack as the thought came to you casual, light, and maybe a little mischievous. 

“So,” you began, tone playful, “what’s your favorite flower? And which do you think you’d embody?” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t look up from the parchment he was annotating, but you saw the faint lift at the corner of his lips. “A curious question for a midday visit.”

“Come on,” you prodded. “It’s not that odd. Everyone has a favorite flower.”

“That may be true,” he murmured, finishing his note with a flourish of ink. “But few ask for both a favorite and a self-portrait in petals.”

You grinned. “Then I’m the first, and that makes it special.” He finally looked up at that heterochromic gaze resting on you with a flicker of amusement. “Very well.” You perked up. “So?” A breath passed. He set his quill down. 

“…Delphinium,” he said at last. “Tall. Elusive. Slightly poisonous. But beautiful in a way not easily understood.” You blinked. “Poisonous?”

“Only to those who are careless with it,” he replied smoothly. That made you laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“But,” he added, eyes narrowing slightly in thought, “if I had to choose a flower to embody, it would be different.”

“Oh?”

“The hellebore,” he said softly. “Quiet. Winter-blooming. Not eager to be known. And yet, it endures. Even under snow.” You tilted your head. “That’s a little sad.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But also true.” 

You were quiet for a moment, letting that settle. Then, with a smile, you said, “Okay. Your turn. Do me next.”

His brow arched. “Pardon?”

“Pick a flower,” you said, pointing to yourself dramatically. “One that fits me. What would I be?”

He studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze made your cheeks warm. Then, calmly, he said, “An Orchid.” You blinked. “Really? Not something more delicate?”

“No.” His voice was firm, but gentle.“Rare,” he said, almost to himself. “Stubborn, if not tended to just right. You don’t shout to be seen, but you’re noticed anyway. And…” He paused, then added, softer, “you thrive in places others might wither.” You swallowed.

“…That’s really sweet.”

He gave you a knowing look. “You asked.” 

You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across your face. “Alright, fine. You win.” Winning what you weren’t quite sure.

“I usually do.” He picked his quill back up, but the corner of his mouth curled just slightly, betraying the softness beneath the mask.

You said nothing more. Your heart caught, an unexpected stillness fluttering in your chest. You smiled, a little breathless. “That was… a very poetic read of me.”

“I am, regrettably, quite familiar with you.”

You laughed, light and flustered. “Is that a compliment?” He didn’t answer. But the corners of his lips curled, and his quill moved again this time slower, steadier. You looked at your hands for a moment, then glanced back up.

“Thanks,” you said, voice quieter now. “For seeing me like that.” 

He didn’t look up. But he murmured, so gently you almost missed it, “You’re easy to see. When one bothers to look.” Shadow Milk Cookie brushed the last few crumbs from his sleeve with careful fingers, finishing the small snack you’d brought with the same attention he gave to deciphering constellations or ancient texts…an absurd level of seriousness for a biscuit. 

You watched as he folded the empty wrapper and set it down beside his quill, then turned toward you with that unreadable calm. But you’d known him long enough to see the way his eyes softened at the edges. 

The way they held a question before his mouth ever moved. He gestured faintly to the seat you’d dragged beside his. “So,” he said, voice low, amused, “was today’s visit prompted by academic curiosity, or did you simply come to feed me?” 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “Both, maybe.”

“Oh?” He leaned his elbow lightly on the desk, resting his chin against his knuckles. “You brought sustenance and questions? How strategic.”

“I like to come prepared.”

“Clearly.” His gaze flicked toward the snack wrapper. “Though if your goal was bribery, you’ll need to bring more than one.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not bribery, it’s hospitality.”

“And if your presence is hospitality, then what is the lesson I’m supposed to impart in exchange?”

You shrugged. “Company. That’s all I wanted today.” He didn’t reply immediately, but you could tell he was still watching you carefully, attentively.

Like you were a page he hadn’t quite finished reading. After a beat, he said softly, “Then consider me a willing participant.” You blinked, a little stunned by the quiet sincerity of it.

“No tutoring today?” you asked, only half-teasing. “No assessments? Not even a pop quiz?” He smirked slightly. “Not unless you request one.” You groaned. “You ruin everything.”

“I ruin nothing,” he said, voice just barely playful. “You’ve simply come on a different kind of lesson day.”

“Oh yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what kind of lesson is that?” He leaned back slightly, just enough for the window light to catch in his hair.

“The kind,” he said, “where we sit in silence, eat questionable snacks, and pretend, just for an hour, that time doesn’t exist.” 

You smiled. “I think I could pass that.” He smiled, too just a flicker. Just enough to say he agreed. You leaned back in your chair, eyes drifting to the soft afternoon light spilling through the Scholar’s Wing window.

The warmth made the air feel still, like the day itself had paused just for the two of you. Your foot nudged against the leg of his desk absently, your gaze flicking toward him as he finished brushing a final crumb from his sleeve.

“So,” you said lightly, almost dreamily, “when the hour’s up… does that mean we have to go back to tutoring?”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t look at you at first. He was quiet, contemplative, his gaze trained on the golden rim of his teacup as if divining truth from the way the light curved around porcelain. Then, with the faintest lift of a brow, he finally replied.

“Of course.”

You groaned dramatically, slumping forward onto his desk like a tragic play protagonist. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Why would I?” he said, tone infuriatingly serene. “An hour of reprieve is generous. But I am still your tutor. And you are still… you.” 

You raised your head just enough to glare at him from over your arm. “That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.” You scoffed, but your lips curled despite yourself. “What if I claimed the hour was spiritually transformative and I can’t possibly return to academics today?” 

He didn’t blink. “Then I would suggest you take up poetry and write a full reflection on your enlightenment by tomorrow morning.” You let out a long, suffering sigh. “You’re evil.”

“I’m thorough.”

“Same thing.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gave the faintest shrug, and you could almost swear there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I find your dramatics deeply amusing.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “That is… not consolation.”

“It is to me.” You exhaled again, defeated, but a grin found its way to your face anyway. You settled back beside him, arms folded behind your head, and let the silence return for just a while longer.

An hour could last forever, if you didn’t look too closely. However time flies and you found yourself one-foot in the grave from his merciless tutoring. 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back in his chair slightly, elegant as always, before he returned his attention to you with an expectant look. He definitely asked you something…but you don’t remember what…time to deflect. You twirled your pen between your fingers and gave him a sly glance. “So… once I finish tutoring, do I get a reward?” 

He tilted his head, as if amused by your phrasing. “You mean beyond the privilege of knowledge?” You groaned theatrically. “Oh come on. That’s not a reward, that’s just the academic version of vegetables.”

“I happen to like vegetables,” he said, entirely unbothered.

“Of course you do,” you muttered. “Let me guess. You were the kind of kid who asked for steamed greens as a treat.”

“I was the kind of child,” he replied smoothly, “who did not need treats to behave.”

You blinked. “Okay, that’s kind of terrifying.”

He smiled, just faintly. “So. You want a reward.”

You nodded, leaning forward over your notes. “Just a little something. I think I’ve earned it. I didn’t even fall asleep during the theory explanation, and I only got mildly distracted twice.”

“I counted four.”

You gasped. “That’s not fair! My thoughts were only briefly astray!” His smile deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “If you finish the next two questions properly I’ll consider it.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not a yes.”

“No,” he said. “But it is a challenge. And I know how you are with those.” 

You stared at him, then picked up your pen. “Fine. But if I ace this, I’m expecting at least a poetic compliment and maybe a walk to the Academy gardens. Or stargazing. Or a secret book from your private collection.” 

He raised a brow. “You negotiate like someone who intends to win.”

“I always intend to win,” you said, scribbling the first answer. “Especially when you’re involved.” His voice was quiet when he replied. “Then perhaps I should start preparing your reward.” 

You handed him your notebook with a sheepish look, hoping praying that maybe, just maybe, your overconfident answers had landed somewhere near the truth.

Shadow Milk Cookie took it with all the ceremony of a scholar preparing to weigh ancient truths, flipping to your page without a word. He read through your work carefully, eyes scanning your answers with a focus so intense it made your stomach twist. Then came the silence. Not the awful, disappointed kind. The worse kind; the patient kind.

“…I take it I don’t get my garden walk,” you mumbled, slumping in your chair. Shadow Milk Cookie closed the notebook with a soft thump and folded his hands over it. “Not quite.” 

You sighed, dragging your hands down your face. “Okay, but in my defense, I got close. The structure was there, right? Emotionally, it was correct.”

“Emotion,” he said gently, “is not what governs magical theory. You’ve made conceptual leaps without establishing the foundation first.”

You peeked up at him through your fingers. “So… I failed the challenge.” 

He tilted his head, gaze soft. “You simply haven’t passed it yet.” You blinked. Then sighed. “Okay. Walk me through it. Again.” 

He picked up your notebook and turned it toward you, tapping lightly on your first answer. “Here. You conflated mnemonic sigils with memory anchors. Understandable, there’s overlap but you have to trace the function backward. What is this sigil supposed to do?”

“…Reinforce the cognitive imprint of a casting pattern?” you guessed.

“Correct. But not preserve it. That would be a memory anchor.” You nodded slowly. “Okay. So the application is different…”

“Fundamentally,” he said, tone never once unkind. “You’re not wrong in instinct. But instinct is only the beginning.” 

You scribbled a note next to the margin. “I’m still not getting that third part of the last question, though. About the transfer threshold.” 

He leaned closer, reaching over to annotate the diagram in your notebook. His voice was soft, measured steady in the way only he could be. “The threshold isn’t static. It fluctuates based on the complexity of the spell and the vessel channeling it. You were thinking too linearly.” 

You stared at the correction, then at his handwriting, elegant and sure even in the tight margin of your page. “This is why I wanted a reward,” you muttered, lips twitching. “You’re too good at making me feel like an amateur.”

He gave a rare, almost fond chuckle. “And yet, you are here still learning.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You nudged his elbow lightly with yours. “Thanks for not rubbing it in.”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked at you and offered a smile, so earnest, it made your chest ache. “I would never mock a mind in pursuit of truth,” he said softly. “But I will correct it. Gently.” 

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face. “Even if I don’t get my garden walk?” 

His eyes gleamed. “Finish the next section. Then we’ll see about the stars.” You set your pen down with a quiet click, stretching your arms above your head with a groan that felt entirely too dramatic for only an hour’s worth of effort. 

Still your brain was tired, and your notes looked like a battlefield of trial and error.

Victory was hard-earned, even if the page wasn’t perfect. Shadow Milk Cookie glanced over your latest attempt. “Close,” he murmured, tapping one line with his index finger. “This theorem wants clarity, not charm.”

You leaned in, squinting. “So, charm doesn’t count for partial credit?”

“That depends,” he said. “Are you trying to charm the rubric, or me?” 

You snorted. “Both, ideally.” He gave you a long, slow look. Then, with a soft hum, gently guided you through the correction. His voice was steady, as it always was, and even your missteps didn’t feel like failures when he spoke, not scolding, but unveiling the answers, like the truth had always been there, waiting for you to uncover it. By the time you scribbled down the final line again, the sky outside had begun to mellow, bathed in hues of lilac and pale rose.

The day was fading fast. You sat back in your chair and exhaled. “Well, I didn’t get them all right… but we finished before dinner. That’s something.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gathered the loose pages with fluid precision, stacking them neatly before turning to you. “It is.” You hesitated, glancing out the window toward the soft-lit spires and glowing walkways of the Academy. 

Then you turned back to him. “I’ll come with you,” you said quietly. “After dinner.” His head tilted slightly. “Come with me?” 

You nodded, voice a touch firmer now. “Wherever you’re going after this. If you’re working or wandering or… just sitting in your favorite chair cataloging truth like it’s poetry I’ll come.” The air held still for a moment, like the room itself was listening.

“But,” you added quickly, raising a hand, “after dinner. Because dinner is sacred, and if I miss even one meal with them, Chai will write a haiku about my betrayal. And Earl Grey will read it aloud.” 

He blinked once. Then, finally, the smile arrived soft, quiet, and full of that strange fondness that never had to be loud to be real. “Then I will wait,” he said. “Sacred rituals must not be disturbed.” 

You stood, gathering your things with a smile that reached your eyes. “You’re learning.”

“On the contrary,” he replied smoothly, walking with you to the door, “I’ve always known how to wait.” And outside, the day dimmed into dusk, while your heart carried the warmth of a promise unspoken but understood. The walk to the dining halls was practically engraved in your bones, lost in your thoughts.

You stepped into the dining hall just as the golden lanterns flickered to life above, casting their warm evening glow across the room. The scent of baked herbs and sweet rolls drifted from the buffet tables, mixing with the hum of end-of-day chatter and the occasional clatter of cutlery. Your friends were already at your usual spot middle table, just near the windows. 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie had kicked back in his seat, nursing something that looked suspiciously like his second bowl of stew. Earl Grey Cookie sat with perfect posture, reading over something folded in his lap that looked a lot like extra-credit material. Chai Latte Cookie, of course, was mid-sentence, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“-and then,” she was saying as you slid into the empty seat beside her, “he tripped over his own robe trying to flirt with one of the potion scholars. Knocked over two cauldrons. The entire hallway smelled like burnt strawberries for an hour.”

Hazelnut let out a bark of laughter. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Chai said dramatically, turning toward you as you began to fill your plate.

“Oh, you made it just in time. I was just about to retell the story, and trust me you need to hear this.” You arched a brow. “Is this the part where you traumatize me with gossip before I’ve even had dinner?”

“It’s tradition,” Earl Grey offered dryly without looking up. Chai grinned, tapping her spoon against the rim of her bowl like a conductor warming up the orchestra. “So. Rumor is, one of the second-years you know, the one who always talks about elemental harmony like it’s a romance novel? Well he accidentally enchanted his shoes to follow someone around campus. Without his consent.”

“Wait, what?” you blinked. “Like… autonomous shoes?”

“Fully sentient slippers,” Hazelnut said solemnly.

“They followed her for three hours,” Chai continued, barely holding back laughter. “She screamed every time they got closer. They had to call in the Labyrinth Tactician to unbind them.” 

You pressed your hand to your forehead. “I leave you all alone for one afternoon, and chaos takes the stage.”

“It always does,” Earl Grey said, setting his paper aside with an exhale. “But at least it’s never our fault.” 

Chai gave you a pointed side glance. “Well. Usually never.” You made a face but couldn’t suppress the smile curling at the corners of your lips. The table felt warm, familiar like all the strange, academic chaos of your life had found its grounding here. 

Among food, friends, and just enough nonsense to remind you that no matter what, you were still allowed to laugh. Chai Latte Cookie tapped her spoon against the rim of her teacup like a judge ready to deliver a sentence, her eyes glinting as she leaned in. “Okay, okay…this one isn’t about any random student for once.” 

You nearly choked on your tea, relieved and yet… mildly suspicious. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie looked up, intrigued. “Then who is it about?” 

Chai wiggled her brows. “You know Professor Dandelion Quiche, right? The one from the Divining Sciences department?” Earl Grey Cookie’s brow arched ever so slightly. “The one who’s always late to faculty meetings and quotes ancient dream omens out of context?”

“That’s the one.” Chai grinned. “So get this apparently, someone saw her sneaking out of the Cryohex Lab in the middle of the night. With Professor Frosted Thyme.” Hazelnut nearly dropped his fork. “No way.”

“They’re from opposite disciplines,” you said, bewildered. Chai leaned in closer, as if she was telling you all state secrets. “Exactly. Divination and elemental alchemy? It’s like academic blasphemy.” 

Earl Grey sighed, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. “That lab’s restricted after dark. If they were there, they were either committing scientific brilliance or a deeply suspicious rendezvous.”

“Or both,” Chai said, sipping her tea with flair. “Some say they’ve been working on a long-lost fusion technique. Others say they’re just… working on each other.” 

Hazelnut let out a choked snort. “I’m never going to be able to look at Professor Quiche the same again.” 

You stared at Chai, half-amused, half-horrified. “How do you even find these things out?” Chai just winked. “You’d be amazed what people forget to whisper in the tea line.”

She beamed. “I’m simply conducting research of the heart. And also chaos.” You shook your head, trying to smother your laugh behind your cup. “Well, thanks for the image. Really enriched my afternoon.” 

Chai patted your arm sweetly. “Anytime.”

Chai Latte Cookie had just launched into another one of her scandalous tales, this one about a rumored duel between two rival potion instructors over a misidentified root when Earl Grey Cookie, ever composed, set down his teacup with a soft clink and spoke.

“She’s not the only one,” he said, voice smooth as always. Chai turned to him, eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Earl Grey.” He arched a brow at her, unbothered. “Please. Half the things you know are because I told you first.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nearly choked on his juice. “You? No way.” 

You looked between the two of them, blinking. “Wait…Earl Grey’s your source?” Chai huffed, folding her arms. “Sometimes. Occasionally.” 

He smiled faintly. “Often.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

Earl Grey took another sip of tea, his expression amused. “But I let her do the reporting. It’s only fair. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let her have the gossip spotlight?” 

Chai gave him a begrudging grin. “You mean the glory, which I richly deserve.” Hazelnut leaned across the table, eyes wide with mock reverence. “So you're like… the secret informant? The shadow behind the gossip throne?”

“I prefer to think of myself,” Earl Grey said coolly, “as the archivist. She’s the herald.”

“I’m the herald,” Chai repeated, eyes sparkling. “Okay, I kind of love that.” 

You laughed, unable to help it. “So you’ve been working together this whole time?” Chai gestured between them with her fork. “Only when it’s really juicy.”

“And it always is,” Earl Grey added without missing a beat. You shook your head fondly. “No wonder you two are dangerous.”

“We’re efficient,” Chai corrected.

“Terrifying,” Hazelnut muttered into his cup.

Chai just beamed, clinking her glass gently against Earl’s. “To the dream team.” 

He returned the gesture with a dry smile. “To chaos well-curated.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie extended his hand across the table toward you, his expression equal parts exhausted and helplessly amused. Without a word, you took it, your fingers sliding into his with an ease born of mutual suffering. 

No dramatic flourish. No commentary. Just the silent, resigned solidarity of two Cookies who had been utterly outmaneuvered by the gossip duo at your table.

Chai Latte Cookie and Earl Grey Cookie were now deep in some kind of dramatic reenactment Chai’s arms flailing as she described the alleged potion duel in increasingly elaborate detail, while Earl Grey occasionally nodded, offering precise, unnecessary corrections like a dedicated footnote brought to life.

You and Hazelnut just… sat there. Holding hands. Witnesses to chaos.

“What even is this,” you whispered under your breath, half-laughing. Hazelnut exhaled through his nose, squeezing your hand gently. “I don’t know,” he murmured, deadpan. “But we’re in it together now.” 

You gave him a solemn nod. “This is our reality.”

“Pray for us,” he added, as Chai dramatically slammed her spoon down to mimic the sound of “a wand being shattered against a cauldron in fury.” You both winced in unison. 

And kept holding on. Because sometimes, friendship meant enduring the gossip apocalypse with the only other sane person left at the table. Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward, her eyes alight with mischief and the kind of energy that only brewed from too much tea and too many rumors.

“Okay, but hear me out…what if we all just come back to my dorm again? Another sleepover. I’ve got clean sheets, cinnamon candles, and I may have saved the last box of almond puff pastries.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie perked up. “You had pastries this whole time and didn’t say anything?” Earl Grey Cookie gave him a side glance. “She was waiting for a dramatic reveal. Obviously.”

Chai grinned. “What’s the point of hoarding snacks if you don’t unveil them like buried treasure?” 

You laughed, setting your tea down gently, but shook your head. “As tempting as that sounds, I can’t tonight.”

Chai blinked. “What? Why not?” You hesitated for a moment, then said softly, “I have to head back to the Scholar’s Wing. Shadow Milk’s waiting.” 

The words settled quietly over the table not dramatic, not scandalous. Just true. Chai tilted her head, the mischief fading into something gentler. “He’s expecting you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I told him I’d come back after dinner. I think… he was hoping I would.” 

Hazelnut let out a soft “oooh” under his breath, but didn’t say anything more. Earl Grey simply gave you a knowing look and a faint nod of approval. Chai smiled, nudging your arm. “Alright. We’ll save the pastries for next time.” 

Chai Latte Cookie’s smile faltered for half a second so brief it might’ve been missed if you weren’t looking. But then it was back, radiant and a little too bright, like sunshine forcing its way through a clouded sky.

“Ditching me for your mysterious scholar boyfriend?” she teased, elbowing you gently. “I see how it is. Cold betrayal wrapped in ink-stained affection.” 

You snorted, setting down your cup. “I never said he was my boyfriend, it's a bit complicated.”

“Oh, please,” she huffed dramatically. “You think I didn’t notice the way you practically floated back into the dining hall last time? If that wasn’t a post-kiss glow, I don’t know what is.” 

You flushed, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie cackled into his drink. “She’s not wrong.” True or not, nothing would help your case. 

Earl Grey Cookie, as always, was calm and composed, though his eyes twinkled just slightly. “We’ll be sure to ration the pastries accordingly in your absence.” You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “It’s just one evening.”

“That’s how it starts,” Chai sighed, clutching her chest like the lead in a tragic play. “One night becomes two. Suddenly we’re attending your wedding in the Moonlit Archives and I’m writing your vows.”

“You’d write the vows anyway,” Hazelnut muttered. Chai smirked.

“Exactly. I’d do a great job.” Despite her theatrics, you saw it that tiny flicker of something behind her eyes. Not sadness, exactly. Not jealousy, either. Just… a quiet ache. 

The way someone might look when they realize a secret part of their world is shifting. You reached across the table, brushing her hand with yours.

“Next time, I promise. Sleepover, pastries, everything.” She looked at you for a moment and then her smile softened into something more real.

“You better,” she said, voice warm. “Or I’m holding your pineapple ice cream hostage.” 

You grinned. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would.”

The table broke into laughter again, but your fingers lingered on hers for a second longer just long enough to say what you couldn’t out loud. Then, quietly, you rose, the chatter fading behind you as your thoughts turned toward the quiet hum of the Scholar’s Wing. 

Where he would be waiting. The knock was more of a courtesy than anything three soft raps against the wood, followed by the subtle creak of the door as you slipped inside and shut it behind you. The wards barely flickered, recognizing you, allowing you entrance as if you belonged. You weren’t expecting silence. 

But that’s what you were met with the low hum of enchantments, the faint rustle of parchment disturbed by the breeze of the closing door, and the softest sound of steady breathing. Shadow Milk Cookie was asleep. He was slumped over his desk, head resting on the crook of his arm, ink still drying beside a half-finished passage, his quill cast aside like a soldier at rest. Strands of star-dappled blue hair had fallen from their usual order, trailing like silk across the page and his cheek. 

His brows, usually so precise, were relaxed, his whole expression stripped of his usual composure. In sleep, he didn’t look like the Sage of Truth. He didn’t look like the Fount of Knowledge. He just looked… tired.

And human.

You stood frozen for a moment, the breath catching softly in your throat. He hadn’t moved the chair you'd claimed so many times before tucked beside him behind the desk rather than across from it. A quiet invitation. Your steps were featherlight as you crossed the room, your shoes barely making a sound against the floor. 

You lowered yourself into the chair beside him with the kind of care normally reserved for sacred things. For a long moment, you didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You just watched him. The afternoon light spilled through the stained glass in the corner, casting a gentle shimmer across the edge of his robes. You could see now just how long his lashes were. The faint shadows beneath his eyes, the subtle weariness in his posture. 

The way his fingers still twitched lightly, as if even in sleep, he was chasing something: an idea, a truth, maybe even a dream. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, only that the air in the room felt softer now, almost reverent. You didn’t dare reach for him afraid to wake him, afraid to interrupt the one moment where even time itself seemed to let him rest. Instead, you leaned in just a little, your voice barely above a whisper.

“…You always wait for me. Maybe I can wait for you just this once.” You smiled, small and warm, and rested your chin against your hand. And then, in the stillness, you waited. Your voice barely made a sound. Not even a whisper, really just breath shaped into words, the kind that dissolved into the quiet before they ever had a chance to be heard. Still, you spoke them anyway, tracing the air between you and him with thoughts too heavy to hold in silence.

“…I don’t know what we are,” you murmured, gaze flicking over to his peaceful, sleeping face. “Not really.” 

You watched the way his breath moved, slow and even. Not a stir, not a twitch. He was lost to slumber, far from the questions swirling in your chest. “Are we… something?” you continued, so soft that it was almost like thinking aloud. 

“Are we together? Are we… in love?” You didn’t expect an answer. Of course you didn’t. That wasn’t the point. “I mean, how do you even know?” you said, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. 

“Is it love if you never said the word? If you just… keep showing up? Keep holding someone’s hand beneath the table, or letting them sleep on your shoulder, or fixing their portfolio without asking?” 

You glanced down, a faint crease forming in your brow. “Or is that just kindness? Infatuation? I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell the difference.” Your voice wavered, but never rose.

“I keep waiting for someone to define it. For you to define it. But maybe… maybe it’s not supposed to be defined.” You looked at him again his cheek resting on ink-smudged parchment, his expression gentle, the starlight of his hair softly spilling over the page like spilled magic. “I just…” You swallowed. “I hope it’s not something fleeting. Not something that vanishes when my part in your timeline ends.” 

Still, he didn’t move. And maybe that was a kindness too. You leaned back just slightly in the chair, curling your knees up to your chest, folding your arms loosely around them. “You’re asleep,” you said, barely audible. “So I guess this is safe.” A pause. Then, quieter still, as if confessing to the air itself 

“…I think I’m scared because it feels real.”

And there, in the hush of that quiet, starlit room with no answers, no definitions, and no one to hear you but the weight of your own words you let your thoughts drift beside his, just for a little while longer. You shifted slightly, careful not to make a sound. The wooden desk felt cool beneath your cheek as you rested your head down, facing him. Closer than you’d normally dare when he was awake. 

From this angle, you could see the subtle slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes. His lips were parted slightly, breath even and soft. He looked peaceful like this… reachable. You studied him in silence, your own breath syncing to his without you meaning to. And then, like a secret too heavy to keep, your voice slipped out.

“I don’t know what we are.”

It wasn’t bitter. Just honest.

“I mean, we’re clearly not just friends. Not anymore. Not after everything.” Your gaze lingered on his hands, one curled under his head, the other resting loosely near the forgotten quill.

“But no one’s said anything. No label. No definition. It’s just… this.”

A silence. One he didn’t break. Couldn’t. That was what made this easier. “I think I’m okay with it. Most days,” you whispered.

“But sometimes… sometimes it aches. Just a little. To not know. To not call it anything.” 

You shifted your cheek against the desk, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “It’s easier to say this when you’re asleep,” you added, quieter now.

“When no one can hear. Truths are easier like that…when they don’t echo.” 

The ache in your chest pulsed again quiet, persistent. “I don’t need you to say it,” you breathed. “But… sometimes I wish I could.”

And still, he slept. And still, you stayed half-hoping, half-afraid that one day, the silence between you would have a name. You tapped him lightly on the shoulder gentle, careful, like a knock made from fingertip to sleeve. Shadow Milk Cookie stirred beside you, shifting with a soft, drawn breath as though pulled gently from some far-off dream. He blinked slowly, hair falling slightly into his eyes, his gaze still hazy with sleep as he turned toward you.

“…You’re here,” he murmured, voice rough and low, like a warm stone just beginning to cool from the sun. You gave him a small smile. “You were asleep when I got here. I didn’t want to wake you.” 

His brow furrowed faintly, more out of puzzlement than anything. “How long was I out?” You shrugged. “Not sure. I just… watched you for a while.” A quiet pause followed thick with something unspoken, something neither of you felt the need to put into words. His golden eyes lingered on you, still soft from sleep. You were close. Closer than usual. Close enough that you could count the stars in his hair if you wanted to. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he said, sitting up straighter and rubbing at his eyes.

“You didn’t,” you replied quickly. “I liked the quiet. And besides, I told you I’d come back.” He smiled faintly at that just the smallest shift of his lips. “So you did.” 

You leaned your cheek against your arm, resting on the desk beside him. “If you’re still tired, we don’t have to do anything. I could just stay. Or we could go for a walk, if you wanted. Or we can sit here and talk about absolutely nothing until we get tired of that too.”

“Talking about nothing sounds dangerously close to philosophy,” he teased, voice still soft-edged. 

You grinned. “That’s only if you do it.” He chuckled lightly under his breath, the sound rare and warm. The world outside hushed and still. Then, on a whim, you spoke. “Can I ask you some questions? Not serious ones. Mostly nonsense.” 

He gave you a wary but amused glance. “That usually means trouble.”

“Definitely,” you confirmed. He gestured with one hand, resigned. “Very well. Proceed.” You cleared your throat dramatically. “If you had to live in a teapot for the rest of your life, what flavor of tea would you want to steep in?” His brow lifted. “…What.”

“Answer the question.”

“Chamomile,” he said, without missing a beat. “Mild. Soothing. Unlikely to stain my robes.” You laughed. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’m simply fast on my feet.” You took another breath, letting yourself relax into the rhythm of your questions, the quiet between his replies.

“Okay, new one. Would you rather read every thought someone has about you or have to recite every thought you have about someone out loud?” He winced. “Neither.”

“Not an option.”

“…The first, if only so I could never speak again and no one would find it strange.” 

You were still laughing when the next question slipped out too quick, too curious. “Have you ever been in love?” The air between you stilled. You instantly regretted it not because it was a bad question, but because you hadn’t meant to say it so soon, hadn’t meant to ask it when his guard was still soft, when the edge between sleep and wakefulness made everything feel too close, too real. He didn’t answer at first. 

But then he turned slightly, eyes meeting yours with a look you couldn’t decipher right away. “If I have…” he said quietly, “I imagine it would feel like this.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t ruin the softness of that moment. So instead, you reached across the desk and gently nudged his hand with yours nothing more than a touch, light as air. 

And he let his fingers rest there, beside yours. Not reaching. Not pulling away. Just being. You felt the weight of his words settle somewhere between your ribs, the silence afterward stretching not awkward, but undeniably charged, like the pause before a leap neither of you were brave enough to take. His fingers still lingered near yours. Close, but not quite touching.

You didn’t know what to say. So, naturally, you said something else entirely. “…If you were a soup,” you asked softly, “what kind would you be?” He blinked once. Slowly. There was a twitch of his brow, almost a smile, but not quite. “A… soup?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, as if doubling down would make it seem like less of a cover. “Like, if you had to embody the spirit of a soup. What would it be?” He looked at you for a long, still moment. And then quietly, almost conspiratorially he said, “Miso.” You raised an eyebrow. “Miso?”

“Mysterious. Slightly salty. Best when warm,” he replied, ever composed, though his gaze flicked briefly toward your lips before darting back to the space between your hands. “Also widely misunderstood.” A breathy laugh escaped you, too quiet to be called anything more.

“Sounds about right,” you murmured. Neither of you mentioned the question you did ask. Neither of you dared to acknowledge how close you were to something that would change the rhythm between you forever. And so, you leaned into the ridiculous. Let the veil fall back into place. 

“Wrong answer,” you said at last, deadpan. “The only correct soup is tomato bisque.” He scoffed delicately, theatrically. “Of course you would say that.” And for a little while longer, the veil stayed intact. But neither of you let your hands drift apart. 

You stood from the chair slowly, your movements careful quiet. You didn't want to disturb the strange stillness that had settled over the room, the way the golden lamplight made the air feel soft and warm and a little heavy. 

Shadow Milk Cookie blinked at you, still emerging from the drowsy edges of sleep, and in the quiet that stretched between you, there was too much you both weren’t saying. You looked down at him, at the faint print his sleeve had left on his cheek, the way his hair was out of place ever so slightly from his nap. You could’ve reached out. You could’ve asked. But instead, you offered a small, lopsided smile.

“I think I’ll take my leave,” you said, voice light, a little too easy. “You seem too tired to be interrogated tonight.”

His gaze lifted to yours slowly, the corners of his eyes still soft from sleep. “You don’t have to go.” 

You hesitated. “I know. But you’re tired, and I…well, I’m feeling merciful tonight.” That got the smallest huff of air from him, barely a breath away from a laugh. You made it halfway to the door before glancing back over your shoulder.

“Oh, and just for the record,” you added, voice deliberately casual, “if you were a soup, I’ve decided you’d be a very dramatic miso.” 

A blink. “…Why?” 

You smiled faintly. “Because you always seem composed until someone stirs you, and then everything just… floats to the top.” 

His expression faltered not with annoyance, not with confusion, but something more like… hesitation. You weren’t sure. But he didn’t reply. And you didn’t ask again. You turned back to the door and rested your hand on the handle. There were questions you could’ve asked. 

Ones that weren’t dressed in metaphor. But neither of you were quite ready for that not yet. Maybe one day you’d say what you meant. When that day came maybe, he’d say it back. But for now? You slipped quietly through the door, letting it close behind you with a soft click, and left your feelings resting in the silence between them.

A/N Hey y'all! this chapter has been LONG overdue, I'm studying for finals nothing major (I'm coping) but no I promise I am a okay thank you to all of those who have asked, and not to worry I will bring this story to completion...Once all my exams are over I will have all the time in the world (for a bit) Anyways I will be replying to my inbox tomorrow!

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

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[acosmicbee]

Tender Loving Care

500 Follower Celebration - Day 1

Ever since your parents had divorced, your life had gotten so much harder. At first, you were sure it was a good thing. They could hardly stand each other and fought every second.

But then your father had moved across the country with his new wife. Despite this, you were still court mandated to visit him during the summer and holidays. Your father often lamented about how unfair it was that your mother had primary custody and you never visited, but never once paid for a plane ticket for you.

Instead, you were usually stuck on two or three trains across the country when you did finally visit. For three or four days, you would be stuck sitting still until you'd finally reach your destination.

Your mother only made you go so she wouldn't have to go back to court and see your father's face again. Either way, you were miserable and dragged your feet whenever you did have to go over to his place.

Despite your fussing and complaining, you never missed a visit for your mother's sake. Which led you to where you were now, picking out an empty window seat on the second train in your journey. It was a few minutes later, towards the end of boarding, when a man sat down beside you.

You barely glanced at him, both of you minding your own business as he took out a computer from his briefcase and began to work on something. You were on your phone, just trying to keep yourself entertained.

As the train pulled out of the station, you finally settled on some article with an outrageous sounding title. 'Local Bullies Found Dead After Innocent Verdict.'

Of course, by local, based on your phone's location, it was actually from the area where you'd boarded the train. The article painted a rather tragic story. A teen, just a little older than yourself, had been found dead in the school bathroom.

Apparently, the person had been getting bullied for months, but the school had always brushed it off as 'children playing'. At least, that was until the body was found.

Despite evidence of foul play, it was dismissed as a drug overdose, and the charges were dropped because the bullies came from rich parents. At the very top of the article was a picture of the teen as well as one of a man hunched over in a courtroom, sobbing. Curled up next to him, looking absolutely distraught, was a woman with a hand on his shoulder. The description labeled them as the victims' parents.

Except, all of the bullies had been found dead after going missing for a couple of days. It was obviously murder so an investigation had been opened.

You felt bad for the parents of the first kid. Obviously, they'd lost their son and had never gotten the closure they deserved. Not that you condoned the murder of the bullies, but at least there was some form of vengeance...

"Ah. You must not be local if you haven't heard of the Williams case." The man next to you said. You looked up at him, and he smiled. He had a thick southern accent and looked friendly enough.

Of course, you'd grown up being told not to talk to strangers. But you just had to know more about it. The case just seemed so unusual, and you couldn't remember hearing anything like it before.

"I'm not from around here." You said plainly, and the man smiled.

"Ah, I can tell. Different accent." He said before glancing at your phone again. He sighed, his face hardening. "It was a disgrace, the way the trial went. Complete mismanagement of the justice system."

"I knew the victim's family. I knew him, Danny, before the bullying started... I just wish I could go back and save him from all that pain..." The man trailed off, his voice wavering. You felt a little bad for him, especially because he seemed to be lost in old memories.

"I'm Y/N." You murmured, closing the article. The man gave you a weak smile, wiping at his eyes.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Y/N. My name's William, but I just go by Bill."

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Bill was a decent seat mate for the remainder of the trip. He told you a little more about Danny and what he was like, as well as the aftermath of the case in the community. Apparently, there were quite a few suspects for the revenge murders as well as numerous people who had been looking down on those families after what happened, so the case wasn't clear cut.

"The police there aren't too thorough, though, so I doubt much will come of it. At most, they'll try and find someone to pin it on so they don't look too incompetent, but they have no idea what they're doing." He said, sighing. 

"That's unfortunate..." You said, frowning. Then again, you didn't have much faith in the justice system either seeing as you still had to visit your dad. You sighed, closing your eyes for a second.

"Speaking of which, what are you doing on this train anyways? You're what, 14? Maybe 15, and you're traveling all alone." Bill asked. You opened your eyes again with a sigh. 

"Visiting family. You?" You asked. It was close enough to the truth without going into too much detail. While Bill was nice, he was still a strange man who you hadn't met before. You weren't about to go into your family problems with some random dude.

"Same. My mom was complaining that I missed her fourth wedding, so I'm heading out there to visit." He said. You turned to look at him. 

"Fourth wedding?"

"Yeah. She can't keep a man. She always does something that makes them leave her, with good reason, of course. But she still insists I show up and meet her new husband, even if he'll only last a year or two, if shes lucky." Bill sighed. "On top of that, her new husband has a kid who's gonna be staying there. Not that I have anything against them, I've never met them... but it's gonna be hard after what happened to Danny. I'm still not completely over it."

You understood where he was coming from. Him being so open made you feel like maybe it would be okay to share a little about yourself as well. "I live with my mom most of the time. My dad moved across the country, but the court still says I have to visit him for summer break, even if I hate it. I only do it for my mom." 

"Yeah, I get that. I mean, I'm not legally obligated to visit her anymore, but I just haven't found it in myself to cut her off just yet." He said. 

After that random bout of story sharing, a period of silence fell between the two of you. Bill went back to whatever work he was doing on his laptop, and you went back to scrolling on your phone before eventually drifting off. The train would be going through the night, and your stop was the last one, so you had time to sleep. 

While you slept, Bill watched you, a saddened expression on his face. You reminded him so much of Danny. Maybe, if his new step-sibling was anything like you, this trip wouldn't be as bad.

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"Ah, thank you." Bill smiled at you as he helped to get your bag down from the overhead luggage rack.

"It's no problem. Are you gonna be okay alone on the rest of your trip?" He asked, looking a little worried. You just nodded, giving him a small smile.

"I've done it before. I'll be fine." You answered, taking your bag's handle. As you both disembarked from the train, you separated in the crowd. Bill watched you go, ignoring the urge in his heart to go after you. After all, something inside him just knew he would see you again at some point.

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You finally stepped off your final train onto the crowded platform. You'd parted with Bill a day and a half ago, and two trains later, you were really starting to get bored being cooped up. You tugged your suitcase behind you as you navigated to the exit of the station.

The road outside was littered with taxis and ubers, waiting to pick up the usual business clientele and bring them to whatever hotel or destination they needed. You, a teen who looked more sleep deprived than living, stood out like a sore thumb. As you scanned the hoard of cars, you finally located your father's.

As you approached, he climbed out with a smile, offering a hand to help with your luggage. You just huffed, hoisting it into his trunk without any help. He didn't seem put off at all, and his cheerful smile never wavered. At this point, after all the years of doing this, he was probably used to your grumpiness whenever you arrived. 

"This is going to be a very special summer, Y/N!" He said once you were both buckled into the car, and he started to drive. "Mari finally convinced her son to come and visit, and he's going to be flying in tonight. Sure, he's older than you, maybe 10 or so years, but I'm sure you two will get along great!"

Mari, short for Marigold, was the name of your stepmother. There wasn't necessarily bad blood between you two, but you definitely didn't really like each other. Therefore, you weren't nearly as happy as your father was for this apparent 'sibling bonding' opportunity. Not to mention that someone ten years older would be an adult who likely wouldn't want to hang out with a teen.

"I'm really sleep deprived. Can I please just go to bed?" You asked. Your father deflated a little but still had a cheery air about him.

"Of course, sweetheart! You do what you need, and you know where your room is." He said, as you finally pulled up in front of the house. You immediately got out of the car, heading straight for your bedroom. Your father, graciously, carried your luggage for you and placed it in your room before leaving you alone. 

You barely had the energy to change into pajamas before you fell into your bed asleep.

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"Oh, did Y/N already arrive?" Mari asked. She had been out grabbing some new sheets for the room her son was staying in. She'd picked him up from the airport after, and he was standing behind her, helping to carry in some of the other groceries she'd picked up before getting him.

"Yep. They're out like a light, same as always. You probably won't be seeing them til at least 10 tomorrow." Your father joked. 

"Their name is Y/N?" Mari's son asked, looking curious.

"Yeah." Your father pointed towards a small framed photo hanging on the wall. The photo was from last year when you'd been here, laying in the grass in the backyard. Mari's son hummed, smiling a little at the picture.

"Ah, will you please help me with these groceries, William?" Your father asked. The man smiled, although it was strained, as he turned around.

"It's just Bill." He answered, his tone a practiced calm as he started to help unpack the items.

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You woke up late the next day. The alarm clock on your nightstand read '11:42', which is now your second latest time sleeping in after arriving at your dads. A few rays of sun managed to find their way through your closed curtains but that wasn't what woke you up. As you lay there, wondering why you had awoken, there was a knock on your door.

"Y/N? Are you still sleeping?" Your father asked, knocking once again. You grumpily stumbled out of bed and opened the door.

"I was sleeping." You mumbled, crossing your arms. Your father didn't look apologetic at all as he mimicked your position, crossing his arms.

"Well, me and Mari have some errands to run. Don't forget to eat breakfast." He turned to leave before reappearing in the doorway. "Oh yeah! Mari's son is here so don't be alarmed if you see him. And be nice!" 

"I am nice!" You yelled, grumbling as you curled back into your sheets.

You tried to fall asleep again but you just couldn't. Now that you were awake, you were too awake to go back to sleep but too sleepy to get up. You compromised by just laying there, listening as the front door shut and the sound of your dad's car left the driveway.

About 20 minutes later, a distant sweet smell began to fill the air. Was someone making pancakes or waffles or something? That was enough to rouse you before you remembered your dad's warning. You decided your pajamas were fine enough clothes for a first introduction, plus you didn't feel like changing.

As you started to descend the stairs, you could hear someone moving around the kitchen. You could hear gentle humming along with the clinking of dishes as they worked. It was clearly a guy, but the voice sounded vaguely familiar to you.

It was only once you peeked into the kitchen that your eyes widened. Mari's mysterious son was the same guy you'd sat next to on the train. The one you'd have a very in-depth conversation with about his dead friend(?). He'd never fully elaborated on how he'd known the dead kid, maybe he mentored him.

It was at that moment that he turned around his eyes lighting up as he set his spatula aside.

"Well well well, isn't this a lovely surprise." He grinned, waving you over. "Well, come sit down. I made waffles."

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"Maybe it's fate!" Your dad joked that night at dinner. Bill was more than happy to explain where the two of you had met, omitting your conversation topic. You nervously laughed, feeling a little uncomfortable with the idea.

You were used to being an only child. Bill seemed nice but a little overbearing. You really were missing your mom right now, as well as the house that decidedly felt like home. You should text her later, even if it might take her a bit to respond with the time difference.

"Y/N?" You snapped back to the conversation. Your dad was giving you an annoyed look before he sighed, and the look disappeared. "Your mom called me. Don't forget to get your summer homework done at some point."

Ah, no wonder he was so interested in playing family. He must've taken the call outside, and even then its a wonder you didn't hear them screaming at each other. After those calls, he always insisted on acting like the perfect family for a day or two as if he could rub it in your mom's face from across the country.

In all honesty, your mom didn't care, but it made things extra weird for you for a while. Bill didn't seem to mind at all, easily blending into the facade of a happy family. Maybe he was more used to it because of the numerous step fathers he'd told you about on the train. 

"Well, I guess I'll go get started on it. Thank you for dinner." You practically dashed from the dining room before anyone could object. After washing your dish, you went back to secluding yourself in your room. You'd just started, begrudgingly, pulling out the homework when there was a knock at your door.

"Hey, Y/N. Can I come in?" It was Bill, who didn't wait before opening your door a crack. He looked around your room for a second before focusing on you. "Your dad wanted me to let you know that you can come to me if you need help with anything, okay?"

You shrugged, sighing softly when he left and closed your door again. This would be a very long summer.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

"Residents should be aware that anyone close to the coast has been issued an evacuation mandate. Winds are expected to be upwards of 160 miles per hour, making this a category 5 hurricane." A grim faced weatherman announced from the TV. 

Bill grimaced from his position on the opposite side of the couch as you. Your parents were out buying supplies to help weather the incoming hurricane. The area your dad lived in wasn't under an evacuation mandate, but it was strongly recommended that people begin to evacuate. Tension was beginning to rise within the house, and everyone seemed on edge.

Bill, who had the opportunity and an excuse to leave, had decided to stay with the three of you. Your mom was calling you every day to make sure you were okay, which was driving your dad more and more up the wall. He was quicker to snap at everyone, especially you.

"I'm sure everything is going to be fine." Bill said with a smile, as if you were a child who needed to be reassured. "Worst comes to worst, at least we have each other."

That was another thing, Bill had been steadily trying to get closer to you. He seemed very eager to take on the 'protective older brother' role, which was a little strange to you. He often said similar things about relying on each other, but you were pretty sure he didn't include his mom or your dad in those statements.

As if summoned by your thoughts, the front door slammed open. Your dad and Mari walked in the door, arms full of groceries. Your dad was clearly in a bad mood as he slammed down the bag on the kitchen table before stomping into the living room where the two of you were sitting.

"Y/N, get up and help out a little." He snapped, ignoring the fact that you were already on the way to help. You just rolled your eyes and ignored his antagonistic comments.

Bill was on his feet in an instant, walking after you to help bring in the groceries. Then again, he was stronger than you by a bit, so you didn't question it too much. He easily hauled up a bulk pack of bottled water while you took the easier canned foods. All the while, your dad was complaining about the lines at the store.

"There was hardly anything left! No water, no food! They took everything!" He said, as if he hadn't come back with almost everything on the shopping list. "Then, of course, your mother has to call as if I'm not busy enough already!"

You just helped unpack, half listening to his rant. While you were long used to his fits of annoyance and anger, they were new to Bill, who seemed to be losing grip on his temper by the second. You could see his fists curling from the corner of your eye. His irritation only spiked as your dad kept on lecturing as if it was all your fault. By the time he finished, all the groceries were away, and Mari was pulling him out of the room to cool off. 

"He shouldn't treat you like that. No one has the right to treat you like that. That's the same way those monsters treated Danny." Bill muttered. Danny, the dead kid who was the catalyst for your meeting of Bill. Bill still hadn't fully opened up to you about them, but it seemed like he was just burying everything, so he didn't have to deal with the grief.

"I'm going out. Want to come with?" He suddenly asked. You shook your head, still a little uneasy around him. He gave you a soft smile, the anger melting off him a little before he ruffled your hair. "That's fine. I'll see you when I get back." 

With that, Bill disappeared out the door, but the feeling of uneasiness never left. You brushed off the idea that this fight may lead to something bigger because fighting was normal in families. That was a mistake.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

Rain whipped the house as the wind shook the foundation. You and Bill were huddled together in the upstairs guest room around a single battery-powered lamp. When the rain had first started, Mari had gotten a call from her mother, who lived a little bit away. There was some sort of emergency, so your dad had gone with her to check on the woman and make sure she was okay.

That had been 3 hours ago. In that time, the power had gone out, and everything had picked up. Despite it being summer, the house had gotten cold quickly, so Bill had wrapped you up in one of his sweatshirts and a blanket. 

You flinched as you watched one of the neighbors' lawn flamingos get ripped out of the ground and thrown out of view. Bill had already moved all of the supplies up to the guest room, citing the imminent flooding that was due to come. 

"You should get some sleep, Y/N." Bill said. It was getting rather late, but it was hard to sleep when it sounded like you were stuck in a wind tunnel. Nevertheless, you lay down, hoping your dad would be back when the morning came.

Only he wasn't. The rain hadn't died down at all when you next woke up. When you got up briefly to change, you saw the inch or two of water that now covered the ground floor. Still, there was no sign from him or Mari. You also hadn't heard from your mom, but considering that the power was down, the cell towers probably weren't doing too well either.

There were only so many times you could play cards with Bill before you started to get rather bored.

"When do you think they'll be back?" You wondered out loud. You and Bill were playing Go Fish for probably the twentieth time today.

"They're probably staying with grandma because she's old. I'm sure they've been trying to call us, but the cell towers are down." He answered, picking a card from his deck. "Do you have a two?"

"Go fish." You numbly answered, staring out the rain washed window. Something in your gut was screaming at you, but there was nothing you could do but wait and see what happened.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

There was nothing but the howling winds and pounding rain. At least, that's how it felt. The radio towers were still out, so it was just you and Bill. It had just been you and Bill for almost four days.

The eye of the storm had come and gone quickly, so at least you could assume it was almost over. Hopefully, it was almost over. There were only so many card games and board games to play in the house. At least you were both good on water and food since you had the rations meant for a week and a half for four people.

You hoped your dad was okay, even Mari. It felt like your whole world was being torn upside down, and you were scared. Bill's overprotectiveness seemed to be growing my the minute. He was always fussing over you and trying to keep you comfortable and warm. You had even started to let him, just to feel a little safer and grounded.

The only time you ever spoke up about it, he'd brought up Danny and how much he missed him. You gave in pretty quickly once he started tearing up, begrudgingly letting him stuff you into another one of his hoodies.

You'd begun having vivid nightmares of drowning in a flood or being swept away. They often woke you up early, and you'd read or stare out a window until Bill woke up. Then he would scold you for not waking him up or telling him about your sleeping problems.

When you woke up early on day five to non cloudy skies, you could hardly believe it. Everything was flooded with murky water outside, but you were finally seeing blue skies for the first time in days. Even in the eye of the storm, it had been cloudy.

Bill found you, maybe an hour later, staring out the window. Your eyes were shifting from the floodwaters and the floating debris to the blue sky. The storm was finally over.

"The power's not on yet, but rescue teams should be forming to help stranded people like us." Bill said. "Let's have some breakfast, yeah?"

"Okay." You said, leaving the window behind.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

Just like Bill said, a volunteer team had assembled to help those stranded. Bill packed up all the important things, and then the two of you were helped into a motorboat by a kind lady.

It was only once you'd been taken to a nearby stadium that was being used as a shelter for those displaced, did you notice the buzzing within the bag you were carrying. You had all of the phones, so they'd likely gotten a signal now that you were clear of the more destroyed areas.

"I'm gonna go grab us some warm food and drinks, yeah? Stay here for me." Bill said, ruffling your hair. You nodded, sitting on the cot you were assigned. You dug through the bag as Bill walked off, pulling out his phone.

At first, you thought it was dead, but when you held the power button, it turned on. It was locked, but you could still see the texts displayed on his lock screen.

Mom >We're done at grandma's. Heading back. 10/24. 5:36PM

>Bill, can you unlock the door? We can't find our keys and it's raining hard. 10/24. 6:05PM

>Bill, why aren't you answering your phone?! And why is the doorbell smashed on the porch?! 10/24. 6:06 >Whatever you think we did to you isn't worth this! Please, this is serious! 10/24. 6:06PM

>Is this about what happened with your step-brother?! Your father said you were fine! We had nothing to do with that! 10/24. 6:07PM >Why isn't Y/N responding to our texts?! What did you do?! 10/07. 6:07PM >Bill, please. It's freezing out here! We might die! 10/07. 6:07PM

>We're gonna try to get back to my moms. I swear to you, William, if we make it out of this, you're never allowed around Y/N again. 10/24. 6:08PM

You froze. Those texts were from the first day the hurricane made landfall. Bill never told you anything about these texts. But these were from days ago, and there were no follow-up texts. Did... did they make it?

You dug your own phone from the bag only to see no notifications. A sinking feeling began to grow in your stomach as you checked their contacts. Both Mari and your dad had been blocked. In fact, you remembered a few times when you'd lent your phone to Bill the day the hurricane hit because he claimed his was dead and he asked to look some things up about setting up the portable radio he'd gotten. 

"Oh." You turned to see Bill, holding a tray of steaming food. He looked rather unbothered that you had caught him, casually setting the tray down on the cot. He offered you one of the steaming mugs with a smile, as if nothing was wrong.

"What did you do?" You whispered in horror. When Bill eventually realized you weren't going to take the mug, he sighed, taking a sip from it himself. 

"When I was 7, my parents got divorced." He said. You were about to interrupt him to ask what that had to do with him killing your parents when he shushed you. "I stayed with my dad full time, and we moved away. A few years after that, he met his future wife."

"When we moved in together, and she brought along her son from a previous marriage. He became my little brother, we did everything together. I was 10, and he was 4 at the time. When I moved out for college, I tried to stop by as often as I could. But it clearly wasn't enough for him to talk to me." His voice dropped, deepening with rage and grief. "Everything I did was for Danny. He was my brother, and they just took him away from me."

"When I saw your father yelling at you like that, blaming you for everything, it reminded me of those bullies who hurt my brother. I refuse to lose another sibling to bullies when I can do something about it." He hissed. Your eyes widened, finally connecting the dots. How he'd known Danny, the sad looks about the case when you first met. Those dots led you to a horrifying conclusion.

"You killed them. Those bullies." You said. Bill took a few deep breaths, calming himself down before he picked up the untouched mug on the tray and pushed it into your hands. The warmth did little to bring you comfort when he smiled at you, ruffling your hair.

"I did what needed to be done. Where I failed Danny, I won't fail you. And trust me, if they somehow manage to crawl out of whatever hole they hid in to escape the hurricane, I'll make sure they never find their way out of the next one."

You stared down at the mug of hot chocolate in disbelief and horror. Bill had just confessed to killing a couple of kids and possibly your dad and his own mother. You quickly took a sip of hot chocolate to suppress whatever instinctive noise was about to escape you from the mix of fear and disbelief.

"Also, Y/N?" You looked up, finding him smiling back down at you as if you'd just had a normal conversation. "Your summers and holidays will now be spent with me instead of your father. Ah, don't protest. I'll talk to your mom about it and get everything sorted out for you. All you need to do is continue to be such an amazing little sibling, okay?"

[snail-day]

Based off of this ask. Angst -> Fluff

Fighting with you sucks.

Satoru hates fighting. Hates how sharp his own voice sounds. Hates how your eyes narrow when you’re angry, especially when he knows he’s the one who made you look at him like that. When you both get too prideful. The both of you begin to throw words like fire.

And yeah, maybe it doesn’t happen often. Maybe you two don’t really blow up at each other unless something’s been simmering for a while. Something unsaid. Something he was too stubborn - or scared - to bring up. But when it finally bubbles over, it’s like throwing gasoline on the fire.

You say something. He says something back. Then suddenly, it’s not even about the original issue anymore, it’s everything all at once. All the little moments that built up to this one. He watches it happen like slow-motion glass shattering, and Satoru still can't stop himself from throwing the next stone.

Then silence.

You pull away. And Satoru lets you, even if it makes his chest ache. Even if it makes his hands shake a little while he’s pretending to scroll on his phone or clean something up. He tells himself he’s giving you space. That you need time. That he needs time.

But god, the second you talk again, really talk to him, it’s like the air comes back into his lungs. He's like a puppy who's released from time out.

He doesn’t even know when it happens, only that he’s behind you now, arms wrapping around your waist with the kind of desperation he tries to mask with theatrics. Kissing your shoulder, then your neck, then wherever he can reach. Smothering. Voice muffled against your skin as he sing-songs, “My loveeeeee, my loverrrrr, my love my love my love...”

He squeezes you tighter when you don’t push him away. Teases your little huffs and sighs and small little toru stop noises. He doesn't stop because you gave him the okay the moment you uttered a single word.

“Do you love me?” he murmurs, quieter this time, slight teasing. Slight insecurity lingering. “How much?”

You roll your eyes. Say something like “Not after that performance,” but he hears the warmth behind it. Still, he needs more.

“Only a little?” he asks again, nosing at your jaw, lips brushing your cheek. “I just... I need to know you’re still here.”

He’s not trying to forget the fight. He’s not even trying to fix it, really. He just needs to feel that you’re not going anywhere. That after everything, you’re still his. That he hasn’t loved too hard and burned it all down.

[manzuaves]

sᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜᴛs?

pairing. bratty!slytherin!sophia x quidditchplayer!gryffindor!reader

warnings. a bit of curses here & there. kisses and v mean sophia.

a/n. check out part 1.

What happened last night was something unspoken. Wandering hands, breathless gasps, and everything that followed. No one else needed to know.

You stirred awake with the soft light of morning seeping through your red and gold curtains, your body aching in a way that only Firewhisky and passion could explain. The haze of last night still clung to you like dark smoke.

Beside you, Sophia lay half-tangled in your sheets, her black hair a striking contrast against the white linen. Her breathing was steady, lips slightly parted, and she frowned faintly whenever her bangs brushed over her eyes. She looked peaceful. Vulnerable, even.

But instead of staying, instead of figuring out what to say or how to even begin the conversation once she wakes up, you left.

You slipped out of bed, wearing only your underwear. She had your oversized polo on, and the sight alone made your heart jump. 

Before Sophia could stir, you’d already snuck out into the common room, quietly grabbing what you needed to freshen up and make your way to the Great Hall for breakfast.

You weren’t sure how to face her yet or what this all meant. All you knew was that facing her in that moment, in the quiet aftermath, felt a little too real.

Luckily for you, it was the weekend. No early classes to rush to, no professors to scold you for looking like you hadn’t slept a wink. Just your nosy, overexcited friends who hadn’t stopped pestering you about last night, as the three of you walked down the Great Hall. 

The two snickered at the sight of all the love bites scattered across your neck that made you regret for not wearing a turtleneck sweater. 

“Piss off, Megan. Why would you want the details? You’re such a creep.” You slumped down at the long Gryffindor table, immediately lunging for the roast turkey like a starved Hippogriff, not even fully seated yet.

Hungover mornings always did wonders for your appetite.

“But no, seriously. What actually happened?” Manon chimed in from across the table, leaning closer with an annoyingly curious glint in her eye. “One second you two were sucking face, and the next? Poof. Gone. Did you get that desperate you apparated straight to your room?”

You paused mid-chew, throwing her a dry look. As much as you usually had no problem boasting about your escapades, something about this felt… different.

You knew Sophia. You knew how guarded she was. How private. Sharing anything especially with this group felt like cracking open something sacred without her permission. So instead, you just shrugged and reached for the gravy.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Plus Sophia might not like that I’m sharing this with you.” you muttered through a mouthful. “Now quit asking before I hurl this drumstick at you.”

“Since when did you give a care about your girls’ privacy?” they teased, leaning back with a smug grin. “You used to spill every juicy detail without blinking.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved another bite in your mouth, chewing aggressively. “Yeah, well, things change,” you mumbled, barely audible.

“Ohhh,” they sang, dragging the sound out like a middle schooler sensing drama. “You like her.”

You froze mid-chew. “No, I don’t.”

“Liar.”

“Eat your food before I use this fork for violence.”

You were in the middle of shoveling eggs onto your plate when it happened.

A hush swept over the Gryffindor table. Not completely silent, but enough for you to notice the shift. You glanced up just as Sophia LaForteza, in all her Slytherin glory, strutted into the Great Hall like she owned every inch of the stone floor beneath her.

You weren’t expecting her to make eye contact.

You definitely weren’t expecting her to head straight for you.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. She slid right onto the bench beside you, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the barely concealed gasps. Your friends were frozen, eyes darting between the two of you like they were watching a Quidditch final.

You opened your mouth to speak, apologize, explain, maybe beg—but Sophia beat you to it.

Without a word, Sophia reached over and tugged the red-and-gold tie from her neck: your tie. You hadn’t even realized she’d kept it on.

She didn’t look at you as she yanked it loose, then grabbed your collar and shoved the tie back where it belonged, tightening it with a firm, almost punishing pull.

Your breath hitched at the closeness, at her touch laced with frustration.

“Sophia—” you started, voice uncertain, but the sharp look she shot you shut you up instantly.

But then, she leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as she said just loud enough for your entire end of the table to hear:

“Next time, don’t sneak out of your own room like I was some dirty secret.”

And before your flushed face could recover, she planted a hard, taunting kiss on your cheek. Leaving a red, glossy tint on your cheeks to mark her territory. 

Gasps. Choked laughter from your friends. Someone dropped their spoon.

You wanted the wizarding world to swallow you whole. Or at least the table.

Ever since that night, something shifted between you, especially with Sophia.

In public, she was the same as ever: sharp-tongued and insufferably smug. She still rolled her eyes at how you parted your hair “like a tragic hero,” and complained about your habit of showing off your pearls “like you’re some cursed Gryffindor royalty.”

But in private? That was where things changed.

She became softer, more tender in ways that made your chest ache. Like earlier that week during Quidditch practice, your houses were sharing the pitch (a scheduling nightmare, but Lara being rumored to be dating Slytherin’s captain might’ve helped grease some wheels).

You were in the locker room for a quick water break, wiping sweat from your brow, when the door creaked open. Sophia slipped in without a word, her presence as commanding as ever. She crossed the space between you in three deliberate steps and tugged at the collar of your Quidditch uniform, pulling you toward her.

Her fingers ghosted along your chest, her brows slightly furrowed at your messy state. But if she were being honest, you looked hot when messy. 

“I missed you,” she muttered, then quickly added with a scoff, “Not that I was counting the minutes or anything, Merlin.”

You blinked, then smirked. “Already? And here I was thinking my charm didn’t work on you—judging by how you act like I’m a thorn in your side whenever we’re around people.”

She scoffed and smoothed out the front of your uniform with practiced ease, though her fingers lingered just a second too long. “Sod off, Y/N. You know exactly why I have to be like that in public. Can’t have people thinking this Gryffindor hottie has their Slytherin princess wrapped around their finger.” Her lips curled into a teasing smile. “Ruins the whole image.”

You were still caught in the way she said hottie when she continued, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, “Besides, you were taking so long at practice I nearly hexed one of your teammates just to fake an injury and get you off the pitch.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around her waist and pulling her closer. “That’s the sweetest threat I’ve ever received. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” she said, nose wrinkling as if she hadn’t just made your heart stutter. “It would’ve been the annoying one with the lopsided broom grip anyway. He deserves it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. Only Sophia could deliver a compliment and an insult in the same breath.

“But,” she added, voice dropping just slightly as her gaze held yours, “you still haven’t made it up to me for leaving me alone in your bed that morning.”

Her words hit you like a Bludger to the gut—guilt, yes, but also that fluttery rush you never wanted to admit out loud. Especially not to her.

“Will a kiss suffice?” you asked, voice low, smirk tugging at your lips as you leaned just slightly closer.

Sophia raised a brow, unimpressed and yet clearly affected. “We’ll see.”

It started with a shove, light, teasing, the way most of your arguments with Sophia did. Then suddenly, her lips were on yours. Her fingers were in your hair, nails grazing your scalp in a way that made your knees weak. You gripped her by the waist, tugging her impossibly closer, feeling the heat of her body pressed to yours through layers of fabric and frustration.

Her kiss was so demanding and hot and hungry, it was making you feral. You met her intensity with your own, matching the push and pull, biting back a gasp when her teeth grazed your bottom lip. Her hand slid under the hem of your shirt, not bold enough to go further, but enough to send a shiver through you.

You pulled back for half a second to breathe to take a look at her. Disheveled, eyes dark with want, her glossy lips slightly parted. Your wandering hands slipped down the Slytherin's curves, eliciting a moan that escaped her throat. "Merlin.."

You surged forward again at the sound, crashing your mouth back onto hers like it was the only way you knew how to respond.

While you and Sophia were deep in a heated make-out session, the door creaked open, and Yoonchae, one of your more diligent, albeit nosy, teammates, poked her head into the locker room.

“Hey, cap! Need anything? The team’s—”

Sophia practically leapt away from you like she’d been burned, shoving you so hard you hit the lockers with a loud clang.

“Bloody hell, LaForteza,” you groaned, rubbing your back. “With that kind of strength, you might want to consider the position of a Beater.”

You opened one of the lockers that you hit to take a glance at the mirror nearby, wiping her signature Slytherin lip gloss from your lips as Yoonchae stood frozen, eyes wide in horror and awe at what she’d just walked in on. You took a deep breath and regained your composure before finally facing your teammate. Your dignity slightly askew, but still intact. 

Sophia, still catching her breath, turned to the Korean with a venomous glare. Her voice was sharp, cold, and precise, like a dagger aimed straight for the gut. “For Salazar’s sake, are you truly that dense? Is knocking too complex a concept for your tiny brain to comprehend? I’ve seen Muggle-borns with more basic etiquette.”

Yoonchae’s face fell, her smile faltering as her eyes started to glisten. Sweet, soft-hearted Yoonchae, who probably just wanted to offer water or a towel, looked like she’d rather evaporate on the spot.

You glared at the Slytherin and stepped between them. “Language, LaForteza. She’s still my friend. You don’t get to tear her down like that.”

You took the poor girl’s hand and left the locker room with Sophia’s jaw clenching. and though her eyes stayed cold, something in them flickered, remorse, maybe, or just the realization that she may have overstepped.

“Y/N’s not talking to me and I might just cast the Cruciatus Curse on everyone until she does,” Sophia grumbled, aggressively filing her already-perfect nails with sharp, irritated strokes.

Daniela, who had been quietly reading on the couch beside her, slowly lowered her book with raised brows. “Whoa there, don’t drag us into your love quarrel,” she said, waving a hand in mock defense. 

Lara, ever the calm voice of reason, didn’t even look up from her notes as she spoke. “Just apologize, Sophia. You’re clearly in the wrong, and this isn’t just anyone we’re talking about. It’s Y/N. You can’t bitch your way around her and expect it to slide. Apologize to that poor girl, too.”

Sophia groaned, tossing her nail file aside. “I don’t do apologies.”

Just then, a younger Slytherin girl passed by their couch, nibbling on a chocolate frog and smiling politely. “Morning! Rough day?” she asked cheerfully, clearly just trying to be nice.

Sophia’s head slowly turned. Her eyes narrowed like she had just been personally insulted by the girl’s existence.

“Your face looks like it had a rough day,” she snapped, her tone ice-cold. “So maybe keep your little comments to yourself before I actually have one.”

The girl’s smile fell immediately, her steps quickening as she hurried away.

Daniela blinked. “You do realize she was just being nice, right?”

“She was being nosy,” Sophia hissed. “And I don’t need some wide-eyed second-year analyzing my mood like I’m a case study.”

Lara sighed, rubbing her temple. “Okay. Yep. You clearly need to talk to Y/N before you emotionally destroy the rest of the house.”

Yoonchae had always been like the little sister you never knew you needed. You first met her back in your fifth year, when Professor McGonagall assigned you to be a tour guide for the new first years. Back then, she barely reached your shoulder—wide-eyed, curious, and clinging to your every word. Now she was nearly your height, but still had that same stubborn sparkle in her eyes.

“Don’t let her words get to you, Chae,” you murmured, nudging her gently with your shoulder. “You know how vile Slytherins can be. Empty threats. All bark, no bite.”

You were both curled up on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, sharing two stolen pints of peanut butter ice cream you’d snuck out from the kitchens. Yoonchae sniffled under the thick blanket draped over the two of you, her eyes still puffy from earlier.

Your heart crumbled at the sight.

“It wasn’t my intention to interrupt your you know..,” she whispered, voice thick with sadness. “I didn’t even say anything bad, and she acted like I’d insulted her whole bloodline.”

You exhaled slowly, the guilt starting to sink into your chest.

“Yeah… that’s kind of her thing.” You twirled the spoon between your fingers. “But she had no right to go off on you like that. I’ll talk to her.”

Yoonchae looked up at you, hopeful. “You promise?”

You offered a small smile, brushing her hair out of her face. “Promise. No one gets to hurt my favorite teammate and gets away with it—even if she’s got annoyingly pretty eyes and a way with words that makes my brain malfunction.”

That finally earned a laugh out of her.

The next day, guilt gnawed at your insides still, like a Niffler on gold.

So you spent the whole day glued to Yoonchae’s side, trying to make up for scarring her for life. You waited outside her Charms class, leaning casually against the stone wall like some overzealous bodyguard. When she came out, you smiled and took her books from her arms before she could protest.

“I can carry my—”

“Nope,” you said, already walking. “Let me do my penance in peace on behalf of she-who-must-not-be-named.”

You gave her the last cauldron cake from your stash during lunch, even though you'd been saving it since last Hogsmeade trip. When she looked cold in the courtyard, you took off your hoodie and tossed it over her shoulders. She blushed and muttered something about you being weirdly nice today, but you just shrugged.

You even tied her hair back for Potions when she struggled with the clasp of her clip, fingers surprisingly gentle despite your usual Gryffindor roughness. You made her laugh a few times, even if it sounded a little nervous.

The moment you tugged her into the library with a hand on her lower back, purely to avoid Filch passing by. Sophia saw.

She stood at the far end of the corridor, arms crossed, green tie perfectly in place, eyes sharp enough to cut steel, and nails pointy enough to cause pain to two Gryffindors, but most especially to you.

Your laughter with Yoonchae died the moment you felt it. That chill crawling down your spine like the castle itself was warning you. You turned your head slightly and saw her.

Sophia.

You still felt mad about the Slytherin princess. The way she just snapped at Yoonchae like she was below her, like she meant nothing. You knew Sophia could be cold, biting even, but seeing her talk to your teammate like that made your blood boil.

And yet, you promised Yoonchae you’d talk to her. For her sake.

And maybe… maybe because a part of you missed her too. Missed the quiet thrill of her touch, the fire in her gaze, the way she made everything feel dangerous and delicate at the same time.

And so you bid your goodbye to Yoonchae, offering her a half-hearted smile before jogging off in the direction Sophia disappeared. You spotted her deep in the library, scanning the shelves, arms crossed in frustration at a book clearly just out of reach.

Before she could even try, you reached up and grabbed it for her, slipping it off the shelf like it was nothing.

She barely glanced at you. “What, finally decided I’m worth your time?” she bit, sharp and cool, like she hadn’t just made a scene the day before. 

You frowned, clearly unimpressed. “May I remind you, Laforteza, you were the one who offended Yoonchae. Don’t act all this stupid Slytherin with me when you caused the mess.”

She snatched the book from your hand, but not before her fingers brushed yours: soft, deliberate, familiar. She didn’t let go. Instead, she gently tugged at your hand, guiding you through the maze of shelves to a quiet, tucked-away corner of the library.

Finally, she said, a little softer this time, “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just… didn’t know how to react when she saw us kissing.” She paused, then added in a quieter voice, “I panicked okay? I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. It wasn’t fair.””

She sighed, the kind that sounded more like a crack forming than relief, and admitted, “You know how I am, Y/N. I’m a pureblood. I really, really enjoy whenever I’m with you but I’ve been raised to keep everything polished, controlled… everything but this.”

You looked at her carefully, the frustration in your chest slowly giving way to something heavier—understanding, maybe.

Her eyes met yours, dark green to the point of black and sharp and filled with something almost vulnerable beneath all the polish.

“But what?” you asked quietly. “I know I’m no Slytherin. I’m not conniving nor sly, I don’t play your games. I may be a jerk and messy and loud, and I act on feeling before logic. But I’ve always been real with you, Sophia. Isn’t that enough?”

You could still feel the ghost of her fingers brushing yours, her anger from yesterday clashing with the softness of this moment.

“I don’t need perfect, Sophia,” you said, softer now, and this was probably the first time you called her by her first name when it was just you two. Sophia couldn't help the way her breath hitched. “I just need honest. Were those kisses not real enough for you? Do I need to scream it to the whole damn wizarding world how much I’m obsessed with you?”

Sophia chuckled while closing the space between you. Her hands found your face, thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones like you were something fragile she was afraid to break.

"That's such a Gryffindor statement,” she murmured, a small, crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Thank Merlin you’re mine."

"You still owe Yoonchae an apology though." you said, not letting her charm her way out this time.

She groaned, leaning her forehead against yours. A dramatic sigh escaped her lips as she pulled away just enough to roll her eyes heavenward. “Fine. I’ll find her later. But if she acts smug about it, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll survive,” you teased.

She grumbled something under her breath, then added, “You’re lucky I find you cute.”

[jarofstyles]

Hello! Another picture blurb for you guys 😁 *I don’t own this photo and found it on Pinterest!*

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Warnings- pregnancy!

“It’s just amazing.” His hand had been glued to her belly before it had even dropped. It was amusing, adorable even, to see him so enamored with her body in such a chaste way. He had always been a touchy man but it had apparently been him holding back if pregnancy had anything to do with it.

“What is?” She murmured, letting her fingers card through his hair. It wasn’t often she saw him on his knees like this fully clothed, standing out in the field they’d stopped by to have their lunch.

“Just… You.” He sighed, stroking the smooth skin. Every night he liked to help apply the lotion she liked to put on as an excuse to touch and whisper to the baby currently growing in her, but he never got enough. “You’re growing a life in there. A human. One that we made together.” The air of wonder was evident in the words and it nearly made her heart stutter. It was almost as if reality seemed to be a dream to him and he took every second to solidify it was real. “S’fucking incredible. I can’t believe we did this. You’re doing this.”

“We did it together.” Her smile was tender as she met his eye. “And they’re going to be the most incredible baby ever, hm? With us as parents…” She clicked her tongue playfully. “Gotta make sure they don’t get too big of a head. It’ll be hard with yours.” It was a joke and he knew it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t lightly pinch her thigh to make her yelp.

“Don’t bully me in front of them. They will learn to take a joke later but for now, they’re gonna see us as the most amazing and loving couple. Just want them to have the best.”

Damn. He immediately had her softening, petting over his hair as he leaning in to kiss her exposed belly. He took every opportunity to do it especially now that she was showing quite obviously. “I know, baby. I’m just kidding.” She soothed. It was a little ticklish as he pressed little kisses all over the skin, but she knew what he was doing. “Don’t think they’re going to kick right now, Har.” Hopefully. His voice had a tendency to wake the little thing up and get them excited.

Considering how crazy her stomach felt during ‘story time’ where he read them nursery stories (altered, because the darkness of traditional ones freaked him out once she had told him about them) or when he sat by and sang to them? His voice was their favorite thing.

“I know. It’s just nice t’love on my two loves at the same time.”

[starlightgum]

[Honest] Na Baek Jin x Reader (NSFW)

Synopsis: You’ve been dating the head of the Union and childhood sweetheart, Na Baek Jin, for some time now. Your boyfriend was everything you imagined him to be and more: loving, kind, and caring. Despite all his qualities, his packed schedule and his work kept him busy from you. Your mind, however, can’t seem to forget the intimate night you spent together at his apartment just a few days ago, making it impossible for you to focus. As you grow restless with the passing of the days without seeing him, you finally decide to pay him a visit in his personal office.

Warnings: Explicit (+18)

Note: This is quite the first piece of writing I’ve ever uploaded, I loved Weak Hero Class 2 and the lack of Baek Jin works were honestly disheartening, so I had to step in. This is not proofread nor corrected, also, please keep in mind that English is not my first language. It’s entirely self-indulgent!

✦✧✦✧

You shift in your shoes before looking up to the metal door in front of you. The hallway where you were accompanied by one of the guys at the front gate from the bowling club was empty but well illuminated.

You knew the man inside the room was waiting for you, as he was informed beforehand of your presence. Regardless, you knocked out of respect, bumping your knuckles twice and waited.

Placing your hand on the knob, you didn’t twist it until you heard a clear and deep “enter” echo throughout the walls.

As you opened the door, you peered inside until your eyes found the other set of inquiring and sharp eyes steadily expecting you from his table.

Setting your foot inside, you notice his usually hard gaze visibly softening. You close the door behind you before dropping your school bag onto the sofa unceremoniously and slowly making your way to his desk.

Your follow the edge of the table with your finger as you cast a quick glance at his surroundings. On the desk there were neatly arranged pens, a box with organized files, and color-coded documents.

Near his hand were his water bottle, his two phones, his personal and work one, and in the corner tucked safely were his keys, hanging with a small charm with your initial matching with your own B hanging from your bag.

A gift you gave him the first week you began dating, which he gladly accepted with a small smile and a pat on your head, although curiously asking why.

You knew everything about him when you began dating—his status, his work, and especially his enemies, so you also knew you couldn’t endanger him or yourself by giving out your relationship so easily.

Normal things like uploading your couple pictures online to boast him to your friends, hanging around in the city at any time, or having your photo in his phone case—those small variables were risks

You knew, and you accepted everything that loving him entailed. That’s why you had to be subtle. Even if it felt a bit overwhelming at times.

Baek Jin on his side was setting the documents he was holding before on the surface and turning his chair towards you, all without ever stopping looking at you ever since you walked into the room.

As he came to face you, he slowly rolled his very tense shoulders until his back was fully resting against the chair. His stare slowly drinking you in, as he was recharging from not seeing you physically for days. A slow smile started to form on his face.

The white turtleneck was hugging his torso nicely, topped with a light black jacket and some wasted dark jeans. A comfortable attire, you suppose he changed into after classes when he was working at his "business".

His hair was nicely brushed and neatly kept, just the way he liked. The white light coming from the lamp was showing a nice contrast to his profile, which made his features look even sharper if possible.

You wondered how he managed to look so well-kept and dressed with how little time he had and how little he rested.

“Have you eaten yet? It’s nearly dinner time, y'know,” you muttered, while letting yourself appreciate the fond on his face, only reserved for you.

Baek Jin was a very hardworking man. He was always busy; when he wasn’t studying, he was volunteering; when he wasn’t doing extracurricular activities, he was working in the union; and when he wasn’t being a multitask man, he was also your boyfriend. 

And the fact is, that you missed your boyfriend very much.

“I was waiting for you, actually” he mused when you got close enough that your knees touched. He was sitting with his legs in a relaxed, wide stance, a hand supporting his chin, as he analyzed every single detail, from your shoes to your hair—a routine you got used to.

True to his high capacities, he was also a thoroughly observant individual; he always took care of his belongings. He also could only trust a few people, which he could count in one hand. For these few particular beings, he would do anything to ensure their safety, be it fight for them or kill for them. Therefore, he needed to be strong, sharp, aware, and instinctual. Which didn’t always play in your favor.

“Is that so? If I hadn’t come, would you have starved?” You half-jokingly asked with a small grin as you raised your hand to poke his forehead to ease the tension in his brows as he took notice of your demeanor.

From the exterior, you looked relaxed, a playful facade playing on your face, but your eyes couldn’t lie to him, nor your body.

You were fidgeting in place, unconsciously switching from fixing on his lips up to his sharp eyes repeatedly ever since you came into his field of vision.

And you should know better by now. You could never fool a man like Baek Jin, not him.

He suddenly took your wrist and pulled you closer. To avoid falling, you reflexively put up a knee in between his much bigger legs to balance yourself and he held your hip with a strong grip with his other hand to keep you upright.

“I know for a fact my demanding girlfriend wouldn’t leave me hungry; isn’t that so, love?” He answered with a knowing smirk, muttering the last infatuating nickname as he inched even closer until your noses bumped.

This only deepened the already shade of red forming on your face, and you tried to hide yourself from his penetrating state into his neck. As you breathed in you noticed the smell of his expensive cologne, a sweet scent mixed with an edge of soft lavender and coconut blend.

Knowing you like the back of his hand, he rotated the chair until you were trapped between his chest and the edge of the table, effectively throwing you out of balance in the small space.

You held on to his lean chest with both of your hands, wildly meeting up an already amused expression looking down at you.

In this position, you were forced to straddle him, his strong arms encapsulating you and not letting you escape. You resignedly sat on his toned thighs as the embarrassment wasn’t stilling inside your body yet. Your uniform skirt slightly riding up as the position didn’t make it any easier.

“You’re not being fair; I came to pick you up for dinner, and you’re trying to-” you tried to struggle to avoid looking into his perceptive eyes and the hot fanning breath near your lips.

“You think I don’t know you?” He muses while wetting his lips once, your focus entirely falling into that action. “You need to be more honest with your intentions; you know better than anyone I would never deny you” as he dipped down to your ear, he whispered “anything.”

His hands slip until they rest on your half-covered thighs, thumbs rubbing small, feathery circles.

You visibly shudder in his hold, which makes him let out a low laugh you could’ve easily missed if his mouth wasn’t right next to your ear. You reach back to look up to see the damned face of your unfair boyfriend and notice a single strand of hair adorning his face from the movement, making him look insufferably more handsome.

You sit like this for a few moments. Baek Jin alternating between circles and taps on your thighs as he waited for you to answer, looking like he had all the time in the world to spare.

You sigh and realise there was no escape; you would have to talk.

“It's just that I missed you, I-” you mutter looking down again, focusing on his bobbing Adam apple instead to gather some courage to speak up. However, he’s was having none of that, as he takes your chin almost immediately and raises it until you have to slightly crane your neck to look into his dark eyes.

“I like to be looked in the eyes when I’m being spoken to,” he demands with a warning tone that makes your back stand upright. “I can barely hear you either, dear.” He points while fake-disapprovingly shaking his head.

As he waits for your answer, his lips never leave the slight smirk, so when your shy stare finally meet his waiting eyes, his side smile only deepens until one of his sharp canines shows.

“I want us to go have dinner at that restaurant from last week again-” you start slowly, Baek Jin slowly nods as he was making a mental note to check off later.

“I’ll make time for you, just say which day” he simply answers and gives an appreciative squeeze to your hip with his large hands that sends shivers from your back till your neck.

“Also I want you to-, I want you to kiss me,” he hums affirmatively, and starts by leaving an innocent little peck on your cheek before going for another one lower on your neck.

Your reactions weren’t going unnoticed by him; the way your breaths were coming out uneven, your skin progressively heating up, and your eyelids fighting to stay open every time his lips came in contact your skin.

Leaving a wet path behind, he trailed even lower, the next kiss pressing harder into your neck.

He knew that was your weak spot. He was clearly messing around with you, and you were letting him get away with it.

Suddenly you feel his teeth slightly grazing your skin, which catches you off guard and accidentally clench your thighs around his own.

As you instinctively grind closer to Baek Jin, you feel something hard pressing into you through the clothes. A tinge of pleasure runs across your center.

At this, he suddenly halts his ministrations to hold you against him on the same spot, not letting you bulge an inch.

“And then what, beautiful?” He asks in a low, deep teasing tone only meant for you to hear, as if it were a secret. Slightly panting, he rises up his head to his height. From your position, you notice his eyes momentarily unfocused, desire pooling his dilated pupils.

His hands follow his gaze, thumb caressing your pouting bottom lip, slowly tracing the line from one corner to the other. He adjusts himself in the seat making you brush yourself against him again. You barely manage to muffle a sound coming from your throat at the feeling.

As the seconds go by, he grows more and more restless.

Surely, patience was one of Baek Jin’s best qualities. But even the strongest of the Union couldn’t hold himself back when his very own fantasy came true was sitting so prettily on his lap, in own office.

You try to blink away the coming tears of frustration adorning your wet eyelashes. Not being able to wait any second longer, you let the distress from all these past days come forward on your next words.

“And I want you to fuck me.” You whimper the last words as you fist the jacket of the man beneath you. You needed him, badly. “P-Please Baek Jin”.

His eyelids drop lower as a satisfied lazy grin spreads on his face. He stands up while easily lifting you up from your upper thighs, letting your legs hang on from his hips. You hold onto his broad shoulders tightly to bring yourself impossibly closer to him.

Clearing the desk with one hand, he slips your back on the surface while speaking a promise onto your lips. “As you wish, my love.”

✦✧✦✧

[d3wdropz]

Gojo Annoying Megumi and his S/O

Imagine being Megumi's partner- it's sweet and he's a gentle boyfriend. He's quiet and isn't the best at expressing his feelings so small gestures and quality time are his main forms of love language

You spend a lot of time in his dorm or yours usually his cause yours is messy. It's such a relaxing time, getting the chance to just chill and bond together. You read books, play board games, nap, anything really- everything becomes fun when you both do it together. This is especially true for Megumi who gets to indulge his inner child

Since Megumi didn't really get a childhood you both like to do activities that gives him the chance to catch up on some of the things he missed out on

His favorite thing to do in that regard is building legos- yes he's made you a bouquet for Valentine's Day

So on a random Sunday morning, you're both in your usual spot: Megumi's room. Specifically, on his floor as you paint his nails black. It's something you've both been meaning to try and today seemed like the perfect chance

Everything is nice and calm- you're focused on finishing his left hand and he's admiring how hard you're concentrating. It's quiet, perfect even

Until someone slams the door open

"Megumiiiiiiiiii- I got you souvenirs from London!" Unsurprisingly, it's Gojo standing in the doorway

You're left shocked, still holding Megumi's hand gently and taking a glance at the now ruined nail job

Megumi, on the other hand, is silently fuming at the sorcerer who just barged into his special time

Gojo's just as shocked as you, having heard nothing about Megumi being in a relationship. If it wasn't for the sudden discovery, he'd have the time to be bummed that his little 'Gumi didn't tell him anything- but at that moment he was just absorbing it in

You're all kind of stuck for a moment until Megumi sighs and speaks up "Gojo-sensei, can you leave?"

This, sadly, breaks Gojo from his thoughts and has him gushing over the two of you

"Oh my little Megumi is all grown up! When were you gonna tell me that you've got an s/o? You've been staying PG-13, right?"

It's so much at once that you don't even have the time to think about an answer before Megumi is slamming his door shut in Gojo's face. By the look on his face, he'd prefer you pretend that nothing happened

He'll have to deal with Gojo later and that's already a lot to handle, so you go back to fixing up his nails

After that first incident with Gojo, you and Megumi rarely have a moment of peace

You're eating out somewhere -guess who's tagging along and taking up the seat next to Megumi?

You're both training- Gojo takes time out his very busy schedule to yap about how annoying the higher ups are

The relationship you had with Megumi is no longer a private matter, Gojo's constantly hanging around and inviting himself to your outings

Things only ease up when Megumi reaches a breaking point and goes off on his annoying guardian well in his own megumi way

"This is the reason I didn't tell you about us- since you found out we haven't had even a minute alone. We're not immature or reckless, so if that's what you're worried about you can drop it"

You're standing there, sweating bullets and caught in between their weird father-son/brother-brother/uncle-nephew(?) bond. In your eyes, it's a stand-off for the ages, a teen wanting freedom and their guardian that still wants to baby them

To your surprise, Gojo starts sniffling before he cries out Megumi's name and jumps him. He's squeezing Megumi to his chest and nuzzling his hair, crying dramatically

"Ooooooh! My little 'Gumi's all grown up!" He lets out a loud whine and continues to sob, "It felt like just yesterday you were my little baby!"

When Megumi finally breaks away from Gojo, he's huffing and glaring- but the strongest sorcerer is still rambling "I'm sorry that I made you feel like a baby- you're a grown man now" he sighs dramatically "I'll start treating you like one"

Before Megumi could throw insults at him, Gojo's phone pings and he's gone in an instant, a faint "Great talk- gotta go!" is all that's left

The both of you are now left in silence, just as confused and alarmed as when Gojo first found out about you two

Only difference is the lack of his constant presence looming over your heads now

a/n so hi

I know i've been gone for like ever, but the fanfic writer's curse is real and its found me- i ended up getting diagnosed with bipolar disorder, i got accepted into the biggest university of my state, and i'm moving out at the end of the summer

life's been pummeling me but i'm trying to get back on track with my writing- thank you to everyone who've been patient with me!

[gyri-residue]

cursory research on god*jesus robot -or- uranai robo :

this little critter , with a carapace of plastic and entrails of silicon , wires and weak metal alloys , was released by bandai japan in nineteen-eighty-four . a fortune telling robot coated in a thick , shallow and strange veneer of sterile-marketable christian iconography . from what i've been able to surmise through limited research-scowering websites , reading words , viewing images and deducing connections between it all-of course it's undeniable and obvious that uranai robo is a simple , purposefully ephemeral novelty toy , especially reflected in the intended use of the toy as the user is meant to wish-pray to uranai robo and recieve one of four simple and incredibly vague responses . an interaction just as shallow as the toy's design and iconography .

(below) uranai robo's printed box instructions (left) and smile two monstrosity puppet articulation appreciation as filler because i hate tumblr mobile post architecture auto-structuring of making a lone image in a row of post format space so freaking huge and obnoxious and ugly !!! >:( ugh , anyways , a post of smile two monstrosity puppet articulation appreciation is slowly boiling into being in my drafts , channelling the absolute rage which festers within me over its being almost entirely cut from the fiiiilm !!! >_< (right , unrelated)

directions of use : 1) stand before god*jesus , 2) clap and clasp your hands in prayer , 3) make your wish-seek guidance from god*jesus . 4) god*jesus responds .

uranai robo has four repsonses to the supplicant ; two of them being head nods of affirmation-confirmation-motivation , one of which being gentle and the other stern . the other two being head shakes of denial-skepticism-trepedation , again one being soft and the other more assertive .

(below) images on uranai robo boxes depicting little demonstrations of how to use the toy .

the demonstrations on the toys' boxes are an interesting point of fascination for me , begetting frantic speculation spurred on by the absurd vagueness of the story presented and the way such uncertainty feeds into my schizoaffective nature . i'll save these readings and analysis for an addendum to this post as i want this post to stand on it's own , primarily , as a resource for uranai robo-based education . though , in regard to speculative lore analysis of the box demonstrations , i'm particularly interested in the nigh-complete and total distillation of an intimate interpersonal relationship into its barest , shallowest elements-quarks .

the curious aesthetic beauty of a godless machine* made with the sole and tired purpose of novelty , marketability and profit , nothing deeper , nothing more . *the word machine used as lightly as possible , uranai robo is still a simple toy after all , 'trinket' would be an apt descriptor .

their are a few delightful color varients , (below , left) uranai robo sporting a warm , gentle orange . notably weilding a cross . perhaps a weapon ??? (below , right) uranai robo clad in such a soft and beautiful pink

(below) uranai robo encased within their protective styofoam shelter , probably saying something along the lines of 'th-this is my hole ! it was made for me !'

(above , left) uranai robo freed from their veritable sarcophagus . (above , right) beauty shot .

what a strange thing to become hyperfixated upon , was upset with the initial post as it centered uranai robo as its sole subject while simultaneously containing literally ZERO information whatsoever on uranai robo , simply posted for aesthetics-which is not at all any amount of shade to the original poster !! all love to you sandmandaddysixtynine <3 , drove me into a frenzy scowering for information and learning more of this beautiful little fucker , and i must thank you immensely for it , this drive has been such a beautiful change of pace :,)

sources : shop listing on mercari , blog on medium created by margaret wallace at the tail end of twenty-eighteen , the old robots website , blog on playing in the world game ᵃˢ ᵒⁿᵉ of which i've sadly been unable find any information regarding when it was published and who created it further than the penultimate sign-off of 'the wolf has spoken' .

[crescenthistory]

Haunt Me, Then; Part 2

Pairing: Sirius Black x Fem!Reader

Part 1 of the The Hunger Games AU

Chapter Synopsis: On a Capitol Train filled with all the people that might give you answers, in their own unique ways, you find yourself feeling more confused and conflicted than before. Peter isn’t managing well, Sirius wants to talk but remains cryptic when you let him, and Bellatrix and Barty prove to be unpredictable companions to say the least. 

WC: 8.4k

Tags: Fem!Reader, Use of Y/N, Hunger Games typical warnings of corruption, oppression and widespread pain, mentions of imminent and past death, references to loss and grief, heavy hurt/comfort, bittersweet moments, Barty and Bellatrix are their own warnings, disassociation, kind of miscommunication trope, yearning, childhood best friends (to mentor/tribute to lovers), unwanted physical touches

A/N: huge thanks to my darling aimee (@ailoda) for taking on the feat that is beta-reading this series! keep in mind that this thg au is not thg compliant; i do what i want lol. i am open to doing a taglist if people are interested<3

Perhaps it was an odd aspect to focus on, but the chairs on the Capitol train were ridiculously comfortable.

While District 7 was far from the poorest region, there was not an emphasis on luxury goods either. In large families like the McKinnons, it was not uncommon to struggle to make ends meet, and no waiting room you had ever spent time in had plush seating options. The closest you had come to riches was through Sirius’ parents, who moved from District 1 prior to Sirius’ birth on request from the Capitol. They never would say why; they would never really say anything. At least Sirius and Regulus did not have to want for anything, and they gave whatever support they could to their friends. To you.

Yet, the chairs on the train felt like the most abundant lounge you could have pictured. Textured and ruffled like it was designed for angels.

In a few weeks, that was all you could hope to be, really. Angels. 

It felt easier at this moment to focus on the chair. How it felt against your thighs, how it removed aches from your bones, the ones you would have preferred to focus on, because pain was the most distracting thing of all. You wished to place your whole attention, your whole burdened soul inside the soft down of the pillow, to disappear into the microscopic world and not have to face anything.

To hide in your mind was a skill you had always excelled at, especially the past few years. Despite your mastery and best intentions, Sirius broke through.

Even as you blocked out the rest of the room, you were acutely aware of Sirius. You knew he was sitting across from you, table pushed to the side so there were no real barriers between you two. You knew he had his head in his hands, occasionally dragging his fingers through his hair and pulling, as if it would do him any good. You knew he sounded like a man at war; occasionally huffing, grunting, sighing into the nether. 

And because you were so aware of Sirius, you unfortunately remained aware of Peter, as Sirius kept looking his way and occasionally speaking to him. 

Curled up on the sofa a bit to the left of you, Peter laid crying. Not loud wailing, though he would have been well within his rights to do so. Just silent tears and the occasional hiccup. It tore your heart open and made you want to run further away into yourself. 

Bellatrix and Barty – who you had learned seemed to only bring out the worst in each other – sat on the sofa across from Peter, chattering away as if they were not witnesses to this ironic train wreck in motion. Last time you checked in, they were gushing over the potential costumes you and Peter might be dressed in and what dynamics they hoped to see between the tributes in the arena, how their champions would play into it all. Or, at least Bellatrix was talking at Barty with enough enthusiasm to power District 12, You tuned them out long ago, until they became nothing to you.

Like you hoped you would be to them soon.

Sirius nudged your shoe with his. 

Your gaze fell to where his foot laid beside yours. You had matching shoes. Even after 5 years in the Capitol, he still wore black boots, as if he was moments away from heading into a forest.

You trailed up to find his insistent eyes on you already. He seemed to have been studying your face, one corner of his lip twitching into a half-smile. He tilted his head at you, almost in question – you had no answer, so you merely shrugged. 

That seemed to be enough for him. 

Sirius clapped his hands together, loudly enough to disturb Bellatrix and Barty’s conversation – the latter of which sent Sirius a nasty look you had yet to decipher – but not so loud as to startle Peter. “Alright, we have no more time to spare,” Sirius declared, ending the short period he had awarded you all to absorb the shock of the moment. Though, perhaps mostly himself. “Peter, Y/N, why don’t you head to your rooms to breathe or change – there’s rows of clothes to choose from already hung up there – and then the three of us meet up in 30 minutes in the parlor to start talking strategy?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Barty beat you to it.

“What do you mean the three of you, Black?” He somehow managed to snarl and laugh at the same time. “News flash, but your Capitol representatives are meant to be along for the whole ride.”

Sirius didn’t move his gaze to meet Barty’s as he spoke. “You are meant to be just that – representatives. You can join us for meals and public outings, but you have no business joining us outside of that.”

“How lovely of you to think you have a choice, Siri!” Bellatrix purred in a sing-songy tone of voice that did not at all match the contents of her speech. She rose from her seat and began walking in Sirius’ direction. “The parlor in 30 minutes sounds absolutely splendid. We can then discuss how to frame the tragedy that is the three of you in the most entertaining way for the interviews.”

The line of Sirius’ lips was tight and you caught a glimpse of his eyes flashing, but Bellatrix moved in front of him before you could read him further, blocking your view. You could hear him open his mouth, but Bellatrix lifted an arm to place a finger in his face, presumably over his lips. “Sh, sh, sh, little Prince, save the tantrums for the cameras.” 

She flicked the finger over his nose as she moved past him to float towards the door. When you saw Sirius’ face again, his eyes were squeezed shut, head turned to the side.

Bellatrix made a whistling sound that had Barty rolling his eyes and standing up – did she call on him? If that was what she did, he apparently listened for all intents and purposes, striding through the space between you and Sirius. These Capitol people seemed to walk as if it took no effort, as if they weighed next to nothing, movements all tied together in beautiful elegance.

The smirk and wink Barty shot you as he passed was neither.

The door slammed shut with a bang that, though expected, made Peter jump in his seat where he was just beginning to sit up and gather himself. You smiled sadly at him as he stared down into the floor.

Sirius, on the other hand, opened his eyes with a sigh. He took a moment to look between you and Peter, lingering on you when you actually met his eye. There was a miniscule shake of his head, seemingly instinctive, before he cleared his throat. “Alright. I meant what I said. I’ll take you two to your rooms to collect yourselves alone, and then we’ll talk strategy.”

So much for catching up.

There were a hundred things to be said, but the mere thought of raising any of the points made your blood heat uncomfortably. Instead, you nodded and got up from your seat, squaring your shoulders.

Half on instinct, half to make some connection with the one person you truly know in this place, you moved past Sirius to give Peter a hand up. At last, when you stood before him, he looked up to meet your eyes, tears still swimming in his blue irises. 

“C’mon, Petey,” you whispered, squeezing his shoulder with one hand and grabbing his hand with the other. He huffed a breath you wondered if maybe was supposed to be a friendly sign as he clutched onto you in turn, allowing you to help him up. You brushed off the invisible dust on his sleeves and smiled more assuredly this time, before turning on your heel and facing Sirius.

When he didn’t say anything, just stared emptily at the scene before him – your hands hovering over Peter, Peter’s lip audibly quivering – you once again cut through the silence. “Go on then.” Not your most politest, but you did not have it in you to be right now. You figured you should be allowed some sins, now towards the end.

Sirius seemed to snap out of it but merely nodded in turn, gesturing for you both to follow as he made his way out of the room.

The atmosphere was nothing short of awkward as you and Peter trailed behind Sirius through the impossibly long and winding corridors of the train. You had never really felt the age difference between you and Sirius while growing up, it was barely a year and you both assumed the positions of the older kids looking out for younger siblings and friends. Yet now, walking directly behind his broad back, defined with lean muscle that rippled with how tense he was, you felt so impossibly small. Not necessarily physically, just in every sense that mattered. You and Peter were like a set of puppies, stumbling after the seasoned elder, and you despised it. 

You reached out a hand behind you to find Peter’s. Some of the tension seeped out of you when he gripped you in return, his firm fingers settling beside yours like a welcome weight.

“That one there is Peter’s room.” Sirius came to a stop at the end of the hall, four doors on each side. He nodded with his chin towards one that was slightly ajar as he spoke. “And yours is across the hall.” He didn’t say your name, just set his intense eyes on some vague point beside your head.

You looked away. 

Squeezing Peter’s hand, you let go and gestured for him to enter his room first. Though it might not make a difference, you wanted to be with him as he entered, so he didn’t have to do it alone. Peter took small steps towards his room, pushing the door open with the tips of his fingers. To both your and seemingly Peter’s surprise, he gasped, and took a proper step into the room – it was huge, much more so than you would have expected to be possible on a train. Sirius had been right, there was an open closet filled with clothes to the right, and a bed in the middle that looked just as plush as the sofas.

“Yeah, live it up, Petey,” Sirius said dryly, a semblance of that old humour of his you remembered leaking into his voice. “It’ll be even better in the Capitol. See you in a bit.”

With more ushering than perhaps necessary, Sirius encouraged Peter to walk completely in, and shut the door gently behind him.

As Sirius turned to look at you, you turned away from him, hand already placed on your own door handle. You pushed it down and made to enter when you felt Sirius’ cold fingers curl around your elbow. It was a stark contrast to how Bellatrix would grab you, this was a featherlight touch, as if you were delicate, as if you were precious.

It made you look up at him through your lashes to find him already scanning your face.

“Y/N…” He trailed off.

You placed your fingers over his, careful to study how his face seemingly perked up at your touch, only to fall when you peeled his hand off of you. “Later, Sirius. If you want to explain, absolve your soul while you can or whatever, then do it later. Spare me right now. I just want to lay down.”

You took a small step towards the door again. Sirius pressed his lips harshly together before nodding, putting on a forced smile for a second. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, we can talk it out later – but until then, quit talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“About absolution and doing things while you can. Quit talking like you’re dying.” You could tell by the look on his face that he was being serious, but that didn’t ease up the knot in your chest at all.

All you could do was to hum noncommittally and turn around to enter your room. You didn’t lift your eyes to look at Sirius before you shut the door in his face.

You did not have it in you to change; you would rather cling to what you had from home. Instead, you sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of a full body mirror and leaned your forehead against it, slumping in preemptive defeat.

With laboured but increasingly measured breathing, you tried to get an overview of your situation thus far, playing over the past three hours to digest.

You wish your first thought was something poetic, something deep – some grand final words you could write in your diary that would be distributed all throughout your district as an ode to your memory once you’re slaughtered in an arena by some District 2 child for entertainment. You wished that if not your life, at least your mind could be worth something.

Nothing came to you though. Your first and most eloquent thought remained: fuck.

You were truly and genuinely fucked, why would you think of anything else? A part of your mind tried to remind you of Sirius’ request, his near-plea, to not talk like that, but how could you? He didn’t tell you what else to think of if not that.

Staring at your increasingly hollow reflection, you found you were left with more questions than answers.

The events of the day flashed before you and you did your best to file away only what you thought might be of significance to you going forward. Mary’s teary face and Marlene’s insistent eyes were important to you but not helpful, so you pushed them aside. Instead, you tried to bring forth any mention of this year’s games, anything Barty and Bellatrix have said or done that can give you an indication of what lays ahead of you.

It was clear that Bellatrix knew that you and Peter knew Sirius. Reunion, conundrum, loverboy. Her hints were a far cry of subtle, let alone tasteful, though you thought perhaps that was her goal exactly. At this moment, feeling like a young girl stowed away in your room, you had no idea what to do with that knowledge – but you held onto it, knowing you had to gain answers somehow.

The one thing you could do in what felt like an ocean of confusion and despair was to try and grasp onto some form of strategy to carry you through. Not the strategies Sirius was talking about for the games, but a personal strategy, a perhaps feeble but significant attempt at maintaining your sanity. Yourself. 

Thoughts would float by and you would try to keep only those that might help you survive mentally until it is finally your physical life on the line, on the pods in the arena.

Yet, even as you managed to let your hometown and your fears go, your thoughts still snaked away towards Sirius, a miniature betrayal it had committed against you every day for the past 5 years. You didn’t understand him, you didn’t understand how he avoided your every question and statement, yet still seemed so insistent on your survival and his apologies.

It had been years and all you had wanted was to hear his voice again, even hear some of the specific words he said – but now, they felt hollow even in their sweetness.

I had to go, I’m sorry, I know you.

It reminded you painfully of the words that had haunted you up until this day: I’m sorry, I had to. You’re wonderful. I love you. You’ll be okay. I love you. 

I bloody swear to you, he had said to you just some hours ago, you will make it through these games. As you envisioned his face when you saw Peter and recalled how you yourself felt when you listened to his quiet cries, you knew he could not mean that anymore. There was more than you on the line.

Whether it was a panic attack or a fit of rage that was brewing, you knew you needed to shake it off. Far from 30 minutes had passed, you thought maximum 10 – you really would need a clock in the arena – but you couldn’t stay put any longer.

Climbing to your feet, you ruffled your hair and squeezed your cheeks to try and feel better, paving away the chaos to instead focus on what is right in front of you. That had to be your strategy then. Moment by moment, step by step.

Opening your door tentatively, you stepped outside it, stopping for a mere moment in front of Peter’s. Wondering if you should go inside, listening to catch whether he was crying. 

You didn’t hear anything distinct, and even if you had, you didn’t think you would be much comfort for him at the moment. 

The corridors you walked through were highly industrial, another stark contrast to your hometown that was mostly built on wood and a few bricks. They felt the perfect amount of inhuman – while you were sure some design and craftsmanship had gone into building even this train, it felt void of interest and love. Just as a Capitol train should be.

The humming of the wheels were distant but ever present as you explored, feeling almost like you were sneaking out past curfew.

Not that you used to have a curfew, but Sirius did, and you would ditch it together. He was never one to be construed by Walburga and Orion’s chains – as he called them – and would ask you to meet him at the corner of their property at midnight. You might run through the woodlands surrounding you, lay down in a field and watch the stars, climb onto the roof of your primary school and point out whatever landmarks you spotted across town, sharing memories even though most of them had been made together.

Sirius’ childlike laughter echoed faintly in your ears when his real voice cut through your thoughts.

At the very end of a hallway that opened up into a larger room filled with seating arrangements and shelves, there was one final door to your right. It was slightly ajar, not enough for you to look in, but enough for you to hear.

“You mean to tell me this is a fucking coincidence?” Sirius’ tone was seething even in its whisper, but the anger didn’t seem to be directed at any one individual.

There was no response in the momentary silence before he continued. “She was never supposed to be picked, which means they did it on purpose. Pete is just the nail in the bloody coffin.”

Your brows furrowed, your hand coming up to steady yourself on the wall. It sounded like he was talking to someone, but you couldn’t hear anyone else.

“I don’t bloody care if they do, I–” He drew a sharp breath, you could picture the slight parting of his lips revealing white teeth. “Sorry. No, I know, fuck. Sorry, gods – I don’t want to keep saying that. Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

His voice faded into indecipherable mumbles.

You knew he was talking about you. He had to be, and the implications hit you like an arrow – both the implications of his words and of him talking about you in the first place.

If you were trying to clear your head, this surely was not helping you in the slightest. With the effort only a tribute must possess, you pushed off the wall and kept walking into what seemed to be the parlor, head keeping straight forward and not trying to steal a glance through the gap in the door.

You set your focus on the chandelier they had somehow managed to squeeze into the middle of this open space in the middle of the train. It cast the room in a light yellow glow, highlighting the different textures in the many pieces of even-more comfortable cushions across the room.

It was a comfort you didn’t want at the moment; you walked towards the window at the end of the room instead, seeing the outskirts of your district disappearing in a haze of browns and greens.

“You’re early.”

You only turned your head slightly to see Sirius walking slowly into the room, putting a small rectangular object into the sidepocket of his sturdy trousers. His face was carefully measured, but his eyes still betrayed him, eyes boring into yours with an underlying current dancing through the grey. 

“Oddly enough I didn’t feel like being cooped up.” You made an active effort to not add some comment about spending your final days in a more worthwhile manner. 

Sirius still felt it based on the way the corners of his lips twitched. He neared you, standing at the edge of the sofa closest to the window you were tracing with your fingertips – it wasn’t as cold as you were hoping. “Even though you said you wanted to lay down?” he asked, a certain mirth mixing into his tone, referring to your excuse from earlier.

You shrugged, nonplussed. “I did. I only needed a minute or two.”

Sirius’ gaze softened as he leaned his weight against the sofa, crossing his arms as he regarded you. “Take as many minutes as you need, princess,” he whispered.

You turned then, mirroring his stance as you leaned against the window. His face was open, laid bare for you even in his continuing torment.

“Can you make this make sense to me?” It wasn’t the question you wanted to ask the most, but it was the one you figured you might gain the most help from. Sirius used to be your clarity in situations like these.

He breathed in deeply, looking down in respite. “Five years ago, I survived the Hunger Games and was asked to stay in the Capitol. I did. Today, against all bloody odds, you and Peter were reaped, and got stuck with me as your mentor, and those two as your Capitol escorts. Together, we have to figure out how to get you through it.”

It was a rehearsed speech, laid prepared on his tongue, the Sparknotes poison you had asked for. His tone was controlled, some bitterness still leaking through

Asked to stay.

“Why?”

Sirius looked up at you then, an exasperated smile teasing his lips. “Which why are you searching for, princess?”

Why did you stay? Why were we reaped, if you don’t think it was a coincidence? 

For some inexplicable reason, you took pity on him and shook your head, trying to reflect his half-smile. “Let’s not. Let’s not.”

If Sirius could soften more with all his muscles and grit on display in his skintight black tshirt, he did. He pushed off the sofa, as if on his way towards you, beginning to speak. “Whatever you wan–”

When a high-pitched giggle made its way down the hall, he cut himself short with a frown and turned his head – you did the same.

“I’m happy to see we’re at a respectable distance this time,” Bellatrix said through a grin as she walked in, swirling down into a seat on the sofa Sirius was leaning against. “Your fans will be much more pleased this way.”

Sirius’ jaw ticked, gaze moving from Bellatrix to Barty who had trailed in behind her and opted to lean against the doorway, arms crossed much like Sirius’ and a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“I thought I told you to stay away for this meeting.” Sirius tried, despite all of you remembering just how that went last time.

“And I thought I told you where to stick it.” Barty’s tone was somehow both teasing and menacing.

Sirius scoffed, but the sound was tight as his eyes twitched at the sight before him. He looked between the two Capitol representatives with disdain. “Try to be of help then, why don’t you? Scaring the tributes is not going to help anyone win.”

Bellatrix twirled her black curls as she grinned. “You don’t want us to upset your sweetheart, Siri?”

“I don’t want you to terrify my friends, no.” Sirius’ tone was cool as he replied. “And we’re still waiting for Peter.”

“Pipsqueak is lost somewhere behind there.” Barty pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Didn’t know where the parlor was.”

Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you didn’t help him?”

Barty snorted. “No, why would I?”

Tired of simply witnessing this miniature battle of wits, you pushed off the wall and began walking towards the doorway Barty was currently blocking. “Don’t bother, I’ll go find him,” you announced. “Then we can get this over with.”

Barty didn’t move. He still filled the doorway, grinning at you like the Cheshire cat. “You need something, sweetheart?”

“Would you move so I could go get Peter?” You were already exhausted by this, not willing to entertain his games.

“Junior,” Sirius warned quietly behind you. It took you a second to realise he was talking to Barty.

Barty’s gaze flitted between the two of you, grin never faltering. “Aren’t you going into the arena? You can’t let someone standing in the doorway stop you. Move me yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have an axe right now. So. Move,” you said dryly, referring to Sirius’ infamous weapon of choice. 

Barty chuckled, but – despite your assumptions – moved to let you pass, instead walking over to plop down on the sofa, sprawled out like he owned the place. “You might make the games less boring for me after all, birdie.” 

You didn’t deign it with a response as you headed down the less-lit hallway to find Peter. You could hear Bellatrix’s voice faintly in the background, grateful for a short reprieve.

It wasn’t hard to find Peter, yet you purposefully stalled on the way back. He had been roaming in the other direction, apparently on advice from Barty, utterly lost and confused. His face when he heard your voice and whipped around was enough to soften the stone in your stomach somewhat and you walked in comfortable silence on the way back.

“Ah! There they are!” Bellatrix sounded elated, clapping her hands together as you and Peter emerged. Sirius’ head picked up too, offering you both a tight smile. He had moved to stand by the window you had been by earlier, fingertips lingering the same way yours had.

As you went in, you moved to drag a chair up beside the two sofas, creating a half circle of sorts, and brought your knees up to your chest. 

“Petey, why don’t you sit with me, mate?” Barty said, faux friendliness dripping all over his sentence. 

“You don’t have to do that Peter.” Your response was immediate.

Peter looked between you for half a second, eyes wide, before smiling nervously. “It’s, erm, alright Y/N. I’ll just sit.” He sat down on the end closest to you, but Barty moved closer, arm over the edge of the sofa, fingertips almost tickling Peter’s hair. He was enjoying this way too much.

Sirius seemingly agreed with you, pushing off the wall with his foot and walking to stand beside your chair where he could see all of you. “Okay then. Let’s talk business.”

“Yes, let us,” Bellatrix said, sitting up in her seat. “We should start with optics. How shall we frame our little triangular tragedy here?”

“There is no more tragedy here than in every other district.” Sirius’ arms were folded, displaying every muscle he had earned over the past five years, and his face was equally as focussed. “We should focus on their strengths as individuals instead. Peter is resourceful and Y/N is–”

“Desirable. That’s how we should market her – if the Capitol’s heartthrob is all sweet on her, then surely everyone else would be too.” Her eyes were gleaming, set dead on Sirius, as if you weren’t there despite the way she was talking about you.

Your breath was caught and there was a twinging of your heart warring with the rage in your stomach, but Sirius beat you to it.

“Stop.” His tone was firm, one that would leave no room for argument had he been addressing any other two people in the world. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Focus on what matters.”

“Stop what?” Barty laughed, inserting himself into the ridicule unfolding before you. “Addressing everyone’s favourite rumours? We would be stupid not to add it to our narrative. Just because you don’t want to say you lov–”

“That. Stop that, right now.” Sirius’ eyes were hardened as he set his sights on the two of them. “I don’t give a fuck about any rumours. These two, Y/N and Peter, are like my siblings. Sister and brother. The younger kids I looked after back home. We grew up together, yes, but we also grew apart when I moved to the Capitol. That is the true narrative and the one we will be sticking to, disproving all others. You want to be a team? You want to join our meetings? Then we must front the same picturesque storyline.”

Your neck felt like it had been snapped and your lungs punctured from the whiplash. It took every last bit of your willpower for your face to remain neutral, even as Sirius metaphorically slapped it. 

You were embarrassed that the cryptic rumours they were referring to was not what spread the most alarm in your head. 

Siblings. It wasn’t even funny how sour that word tasted on your tongue, and it hadn’t even been you who said it.

The Sirius who was speaking now was not one you had grown apart from, it was one you didn’t know. It was evident to you that this was a theatre, a performance, even if it lacked the theatrical joys you had previously associated with this very same boy. His face was firm, disconnected and determined all at the same time, a mix of opposites that only the Capitol could concoct in someone.

Bellatrix barked a laugh, seemingly not buying it. “Siblings? That is the narrative you prefer going with?” She tsked. “You have so many juicy television opportunities here, Black, and you go for the most boring one?”

Sirius sat down on the armrest of the sofa, shoulders squared to look broader. More intimidating. “Television, Lestrange, is supposed to last for the entirety of the games, not just the preparations before it. If you limit these tributes to a storyline that cannot follow into the arena, they are doomed to irrelevance. You don’t want boring tributes do you? You want a victor.”

He leaned back, looking at her with a gaze that told you he knew he had her. “Instead of some irrelevant rumour sob story, we explain their connections to me as a strength. An older brother who taught them, who they learned from. Give them framings and stories within their own rights. It will carry on into the arena through intrigue and comparisons in a way soapbox drama never will. I thought you knew this. It’s basic strategy, Bella.”

He was smirking now, an expression of glee that seemed more for effect, a final push, than a reflection of any genuine mirth. Bellatrix, on the other hand, had lost a lot of her usual fanatics, instead of staring Sirius down in an indiscernible manner.

“While I love that you get to hash out your drama,” you said, irony poison dripping from your words, “would somebody explain what teh fuck we’re talking about? What rumours?” You didn’t care that you were rude, you didn’t care how Sirius’ eyes twitched. You were wounded and frankly irritated to be spoken of and not to.

Sirius opened his mouth to speak, but Barty’s bark of laughter interrupted him. “What, Capitol news doesn't trickle all the way down to 7?” There was no hiding the condescension in his tone, but his glee somehow shone even brighter. “Beloved victor Sirius Black is rumoured to be in love with some girl from his district, much to everyone’s utter heartbreak.”

“Which is ridiculous considering I haven’t even been to 7 since I volunteered.” Sirius was strictly looking at Barty, ignoring your burning gaze. “Tabloids getting bored and sparking up irrelevant drama shouldn’t be involved in the Hunger Games where there is actual action to focus on.”

Bellatrix tsked. “Don’t underestimate the power of a good love story, Siri.”

“This wouldn’t be a good one – it would be far-fetched. Y/N and Peter are like my siblings. I haven’t even seen them in 5 years. Can we focus on strategies that are actually worthwhile, please?”

You felt nauseated and dizzy but nodded to signify that you were in agreement. Anything that would ease the teasing and bring you back to the fact that you were mere days away from the end of a blade.

You were beginning to grow nervous that they would refuse, that they would try to analyse the potential of a love story, when Barty kicked his legs up on the table with a loud bam and folded his hands over his stomach. “Alright, then. Whatever. Big Black and his two woodchippers take on the arena.” 

Bellatrix scoffed.

“If we’re to have learned from Sirius… does that mean we have to use axes like you did?” Peter, to your surprise, piped up, looking uncomfortable with the idea.

Sirius kept his business-face on as he bobbed his head side to side. “Maybe pose with one for a couple of promo shots, depending on the public’s reactions. But in the arena, you use whatever you need whenever you need.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, despite yourself and despite the fire in your veins. 

Siblings. 

You watched Sirius expressionlessly and noticed how his eyebrow closest to you kept twitching. You caught him casting a quick side glance your way, but it didn’t linger enough for you to analyse.

“Have you got no input on this, birdie?” Barty’s voice drawled, and you knew he was talking to you.

Without looking at him, you bobbed your head much the same way Sirius just had. “I don’t really give a shit about rumours or narratives or what anyone thinks of anything. I care about the part where I’m stuck in an arena to fight to the death.”

In a swift movement, Barty lurched up from his seat on the sofa and crossed Peter to sit on its armrest, body leaned forward into your personal space. His fingers were somehow elegant even in their bordering-on violent endeavour as they shot out to grip your chin.

“So you want to die then?”

“Junior,” Sirius hissed, pushing off his opposite armrest at the same time as Barty to stand before the two of you. Ready to intervene. 

The latter shot him a sideway glance with a wicked smirk looking between Sirius’ face and yours. “You are not fooling anyone,” he laughed heartily at Sirius before zeroing his green eyes in on you. “And you are choosing imminent death if you keep up your nonchalant attitude. It’s the Hunger Games. Play your part or get played.”

You held his gaze despite the churning in your stomach, biting back a comment about that choice already haven been taken from you. Instead, you said, in a voice a tad bit quieter than you would have preferred, “What game do you want us to play then, Junior?”

His smirk faltered for only a second before he released you with a huff. Leaning backwards, he let his body tip over the side of the armrest to land on his back on the sofa across Peter’s lap, who froze with his hands hovering in the air. You could just barely see his teeth flash. “I’m the one who gets to not care. I’m here for the circus, not the show, darling, and I’m counting on you to make it interesting. Show a little heart.”

Your eyelashes fluttered in confusion at the biting yet uncaring tone he sported, entirely uncertain where to place him. Bellatrix just scoffed once more, clearly upset with the day’s developments, while Sirius remained overtly tense beside you, fists dangling at his sides, clenched.

“Well, I think–”

Sirius cut Bellatrix off immediately. “Enough! That’s enough, alright? This is a brainstorming session, not a bickering one. The narrative is that the District 7 tributes this year are close friends, two kids I used to train and look after like siblings when we were younger. I will make a plan for how we present Y/N and Peter together and then I will go over individual strategies with them at a later point. Need I remind anyone that all of us rely on a good presentation?”

He spoke to you all, but it was clear it was pointed in the direction of Barty, who was quite literally kicking his feet over the armrest, much to Peter’s heightened nerves, and Bellatrix, who was beginning to look utterly bored with you all.

Their silence was their consent, so Sirius went on to look at Peter, accepting his meek nod. Then he turned to you, almost hesitantly. 

There was a storm in your eyes at how you were being spoken of, how you were being treated – but you didn’t know if Sirius could interpret that anymore. If he could, it didn’t stop him as he nodded to himself as he began to pace around the lot of you.

“Alright. Alright. Any final inputs before we part ways for dinner?”

“What, you don’t want to dine with us, Siri?” At Sirius’ increasing distress, Bellatrix seemed to find her footing once more.

“We don’t have the time to spare. It’s late anyway.” He stopped for a second to look at his two former friends. His siblings. “There’s a dining hall around five rooms down that way. Pick out anything you want. This place is yours, be comfortable.”

Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, I know where– I, uhm, found it… earlier.” He shot Barty a weary look, referring to his earlier diversion, making the older boy nearly giggle with delight.

“Great.” Sirius’ voice was calmer now, tired. He looked between you and Peter, but struggled to let his gaze rest. “Good job today. I– I’ll see you tomorrow.

You swallowed hard and realised you would probably struggle eating any dinner. Yet, you tried to stick to your earlier idea of moment by moment, step by step, so you nodded with your lips tightly pressed together.

“Yeah thanks. Same. Let’s go, Peter.”

It took some time to wrestle an entertained Barty off of Peter, but you headed back down the same hall you retrieved him from earlier, not looking back over your shoulder as you did so.

Just like the seats, the food provided by the Capitol was delicious. It was lush and rich, to an almost too intense degree, making you feel more like cattle fattened up for slaughter and less like important guests. 

You ate what you could as quickly as you could, and then you were left jumping your leg beneath the table as you waited for Peter to finish too – you knew you couldn’t leave him alone lest Barty or Bellatrix found him, but you were suddenly craving being cooped up in your room in the very same way that had stifled you earlier. 

Luckily, it didn’t seem that Barty and Bellatrix wanted to play with you any longer. Maybe it wasn’t as fun when Sirius wasn’t there, or maybe they were just too focussed on plaguing him wherever he was. 

You told yourself you didn’t feel bad for him. You had grown accustomed to lying.

You kept lying to yourself as Peter finished and you went back to your designated rooms, you kept lying as you hugged him goodnight and went each your way, you kept lying as you laid down on your ridiculously soft bed. 

The lies were many and merry; that you didn’t care; that you cared too much; that you were okay; that you were not okay. That you had any hope of sleeping tonight.

Sleeping had never been your forté, so after the violence of the Reaping and the reunion of a lifetime, you had little luck. 

You even lied as you told yourself you had tried for long enough. Truth be told, despite your time blindness you had a feeling you hadn’t been in bed for too long before you got out of it to stand in front of the mirror once more. Memorising yourself. 

You did eventually change into some of the clothes the Capitol provided, though they didn’t seem real. You were wearing what was supposed to be pyjamas, but they were much too reminiscent of normal trousers and shirts for you to feel like you were about to go to sleep. It made you miss your old ratty sleep shirt at home, but even the thought of it worsened your ache. It had been Sirius’.

With a sharp breath, you decided to explore the halls once more. Not for any thrill of adventure, you just had an inexplicable need to find a window to look out of. To watch the world pass by. 

You walked in the opposite direction of the parlor, further and further back, wanting to find the very end of your district’s compartment of the train. To know that behind yours were two tributes from District 8, two people you would soon be pitted against, brought a chill up your spine.

At last you meet a door in the middle of the hallway. The train was long and huge, but it cannot go on for longer than this, you thought. This must be the final room of your compartment, the one with the huge windows you had always noticed when you watched it from the outside.

Your hand falls to the handle. Gently, you open it.

“Oh–” The first thing your eyes landed on when you entered the room was not the landscape you had so longed for, but Sirius’ own staring back at you. Grey like the mountains cornering you but deep like the oceans you would pass in District 4. He was sitting down, as if he had had the same thought as you to come here to watch the windows. The thought pained you.  “Sorry, I didn’t– I’ll go.”

Sirius shot up and out of his seat, taking just one step forward. “No! You don’t… you don’t have to. You shouldn’t. Come sit, I’ll go, if you want.”

There was a lot to decipher in that sentence, a lot that you frankly did not have the energy for. Instead, you regarded him for one more second before slowly closing the door and moving to sit on the opposite side of the sofa from him. It was a cream – also, stupidly comfortable – sofa that stretched out in a half-circle at the very end of your compartment of the train. The wall above it was steel grey, barricading you from the next part of the train, but the walls on either side were wide floor-to-ceiling windows; the ones you had longed for. They were certainly reinforced to a degree you could never even imagine to ensure they wouldn’t break. 

You didn’t tell him whether you wanted him to leave. You just sat sideways on the sofa, leaning your head against the last bit of grey wall and looking out the window closest to you. 

“If you sit down on the floor and stare straight ahead, it’ll feel like you’re flying.” His voice was softened, a stark contrast to your earlier meeting. 

You still couldn’t help but bite back. “What a nice brother you are, giving out advice to the younger kids.”

It sounded like it pained him when he sighed. “Y/N–”

“Don’t.” You still weren’t looking at him, staring blankly ahead. “Just… don’t.”

You weren’t quite sure why you were upset with him. It was so much and yet nothing at all, stretching out across the past five hours and five years. You were upset with him for leaving, of course you were, and you were upset with him for changing, but of course he had. You were upset with him for confusing you so much, both through his words and actions, and perhaps, through your feelings. 

There was no time or need to address them now, yet they ruled much of your visible dismay as you got caught up on how he wanted to present you to the world.

Siblings.

Sirius was quiet for a moment; then, you heard the soft sound of him walking across the room to settle down on the floor in front of the window closest to you, just like he had said you should. He stared out, but you could feel him observing you in his periphery.

“There is a lot for you to resent me for,” he whispered. “Please don’t let that be one of them.”

Part of your brain wanted to rage against him for being cryptic.

The other just asked, “Why?”

He leaned back on his arms, biceps flexing, looking with an empty gaze into the mountainside. “It’s for your own good.”

“Why?”

Maybe you were being petulant. Maybe he deserved you being petulant if he wanted to cast himself as your older brother. 

Sirius made an exasperated sound and shook his head, turning to look at you – you didn’t return the gesture. “Princess, don’t make me spell it out for you, it’s worse enough as is. Everything will be better if people think we see each other in a familial sense.”

“As opposed to the truth, which is what?” At last, you turned to face him, doing your best to school away your pain, but still being left with an indent between your brows. You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

Evidently, neither did Sirius. All he did was whisper your name, so pleadingly, so achingly it made your throat hurt.

“Being your sibling didn’t make them think any more favourably of Regulus.” The words were out of your mouth before you could help them, though thankfully with less ire than before. Just a mixture of your own confusion and heartache. 

Sirius closed his eyes as if he got nauseated. He seemed to weigh his words carefully, face scrunched up as his muscles tensed. With memories of Sirius throwing Regulus around in circles, their laughter harmonising as they ran after you through the streets, you had no choice but to give him time.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, the first apology you uttered to him. “Is he…?” You trailed off. To ask was insensitive, it was cruel – but it was necessary. You needed to know.

Sirius’ face remained trapped in his pained scrunched up expression. He didn’t seem angry with your question, though you never had seen him angry with you.

“Yes.” 

The word hung heavy in the air between you like a suspended body. It was everything you had expected and nothing you had hoped. You didn’t ask how he knew.

Silently, you slid off the edge of the sofa and scooted over to sit beside Sirius, whose breath hitched. Just like him, you faced the window, but you had your knees hiked up and your arms wrapped around them. You laid your head tentatively down on top of them, turned towards him. Watched as the environments flurrying by cast coloured patterns over his alabaster skin, watched as his eyebrows twitched as if he would start crying.

Watched as silent, warm tears rolled down your own cheeks.

When he peeled his eyes open and met yours, they softened. His brows were still furrowed together and he swallowed heavily.

His hand just barely shook as he reached up to wipe the tear on your right cheek away with his thumb, touch gentle and cool against your skin. You closed your eyes and sighed.

Sirius let his hand drop from your face and it felt like a loss. 

Neither of you said a word for a minute. There were so many things you wanted to say, needed to ask. Yet nothing came to mind. Just two kids sitting beside one another, trying to remember how to breathe. 

“Tomorrow when you arrive at the Capitol…” Sirius whispered, trailing off. You found his eyes to be redrimmed when you opened yours, once again staring out the window emptily. “Just… don’t trust anyone, okay?”

He sounded more haunted than ever. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered in return, half-wanting to lighten his torment.

“And, I know– I know that should include me. I know you don’t trust me. But please, can you try to listen to me anyway?”

You watched him silently. You couldn’t deny him even if you wanted. “I will.”

Sirius nodded once, twice. Then, he shook his head and rose to his feet effortlessly. He looked down at you and reached out a hand, an open invitation. 

You held his gaze for longer than you should have before you turned your head back forward to look out the window, resting your chin on your knees. You were grateful to not have to see his reaction.

Still, you could hear his soft sigh. “Get some sleep soon, alright princess?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, suddenly fascinated by the granite. “Soon.”

Your every muscle sat at rapt attention, listening to his footsteps as he walked to the door. They ceased for a minute when he reached it, and you almost turned your head to look back at him – before the hinges finally creaked and Sirius disappeared.

You doubted you would get to spend enough time with him before your games to make the aching panic stop seizing your chest whenever he leaves. You reminded yourself that he is headed off to bed to sleep, not to the annual Hunger Games.

This time around, that would be you.

You turn your blurry eyes back to the window and find that when you stare into the middle of it, it does feel like you’re flying. 

[joeloverture]

tlou & enjoyment vs. conscious enjoyment

im currently in the deepest throes of finals season and looking down having to travel for two back to back residencies so ive been highkey spaced out on here, popping in and out at my own leisure. but im showing up to add to the conversation. reminder that ive studied all of these concepts at the collegiate level for years, have experience running workshops for poc, etc. i know what im saying. blah blah blah im vetty im mexican chilean / nahua & mayan

i do not fault anyone for enjoying tlou. in fact, i encourage them to. it’s one of the most popular medias of the time with a hit hbo show and it’s one of the most successful playstation games of all time. tlou is simply something that is meant to be enjoyed. this is good! finding comfort in these times is important for all of us. but simultaneously, we need to be aware of where this comfort comes from; i.e. is it at the expense of someone else’s discomfort? consuming any storytelling is an act that cannot be apolitical. everything about writing, art, and television is political from a story’s inception to its delivery.

these critiques about tlou are not new! they’ve existed for years. many call into question in the first game the deaths of poc as an engine that powers the white characters’ stories. this is a problem that persists into the second game and the second season. tlou is also inextricable from the zionist mindset of its creator neil druckmann. once you look for these things as an audience member in a critical way, they begin to pop up everywhere.

for example, martyr’s gate. in abbys part you come across a setup where seraphites leave written prayers to their martyred leader. if the player interacts with the environment in a specific way, abby picks up one of the letters that asks for the fighting to stop. she says, offhandedly, “easy. stay on your fucking island.” this is colonizer mindset turned to the highest degree. when layered with the themes of martyring and idealism that neil is clearly critiquing, this is just one example of horrific worldviews that have wedged their way into the storyline. she also announces to her friends that killing children seraphites is acceptable and necessary if they attack first. remind you of anything?

i’ve made a separate post about show joels death, which can be found in my pinned. poc trauma is especially prevalent with abbys character: her entire storyline centers white saviorism. her past sins can be forgiven because she saves two asian kids from their evil religion, whose trauma directly propels the plot. (yaras amputation, lev killing his mom, yaras death). the game never actually considers abby’s past actions. she changes in the course of about two days and we are expected to see this as a well rounded character arc as if she wasn’t the right hand woman of someone who yall watched brutally torture someone on live television last sunday. ive also heard a sound bite from the show: “i don’t care if they’re women kids or fucking babies look what they did! kill them all!” manny — a full blown stereotype of mexican culture — has his eye shot out by tommy. tommy later loses his eye to show consequences. neils pivotal ideology of “an eye for an eye”

and that’s just in abbys part. in ellies part, she tortures and then kills nora. jesse dies at abbys hand.

if i can write 3 entire paragraphs without even scratching the surface of the games intrinsic, racist properties, there’s a problem.

the issue is not engaging with this media. the issue lies in how it is consumed, and how it is addressed in internet spaces. this is not a dogshit take. the torture porn and racism is EMBEDDED into the plot. there is not a tlou without it. this is undeniable. attempting to deny it is to make attempts to save your own skin in lieu of poc begging you to experience this content with some level of consciousness about its origins.

it hurts to see the people we poc share this platform with brushing over our trauma and using it as fodder for their fanfiction and entertainment. it just does. especially when the vast majority of all of us have experienced this trauma firsthand or generationally to a degree that most white people have been lucky enough to be spared from.

denying that tlou is racist is simply a racist take. interacting with tlou is not something that is inherently racist in and of itself. this seems to be where the mix up has occurred. the mix up has also occurred on our end; for thinking that our experiences would be empathized with. or that certain members of the fandom would move forward with a larger degree of awareness. we know better than to think we’ll be taken seriously these days.

ive seen arguments like: the actors knew what they were getting themselves into! other poc disagree with you!

1- acting is an industry. many of the tlou hiring stories happened quickly without the specifics of the storyline being shared. pedro had the first 3 scripts and confirmation that he’d die; likely not HOW he would die.

2- poc are not a monolith. we can also be racist. we can also partake in racist ideology. we can also have differing views on this. i think most of us agree, though, that neil is a piece of shit whose perspective inundates the game.

that’s my piece. im missing some stuff but i typed this on my phone between finals. so 🐛

poc you will always be safe on my blog and with me. we can enjoy parts of tlou while disgracing other parts of it.

[mercurial-chuckles]

Permanence

Part 01: Echoes of Reverie

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes | Stucky x F!Reader Warnings: Fluff | Angst | Yearning | Mutual Pining | Poly relation | Eventual Smut Galore | Eventual Fluff Galore | ~1.5k | Canon divergent | Happy ending (it's me!) | Kept the warnings basic 'coz I don't wanna reveal a lot | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I'm missing anything. A/N: This is based on a request. The OC version of this story will run in parallel, but since I got quite a few requests for a reader version, here it goes! Hope you enjoy! ✨ Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider made by me in Canva. Picture credits to the internet! Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

New York City, 2011

Steve felt a little queasy. Maybe skipping breakfast wasn't the best idea. But he was too excited to care. Watching the game with you and Bucky, especially from the incredible seats Mr. Barnes had scored for them, was more than enough to keep his spirits high.

Curveball. High and outside for ball one.

It was a pleasant day. The bright blue summer sky gleamed, cloudless, and Steve was so happy, that he was practically floating on cloud nine. He felt strange though, like he'd lived through this memory countless times, and yet, he didn't want it to end.

"Hey, give 'em to me, punk. You gonna eat it all?" Bucky's voice rang loud in his ear, right as he yanked the fries out of Steve's hand.

"Let him eat, Buck," You grumbled. You reached over, snatched the fries back from Bucky's grip, and handed it to Steve, your fingers brushing his. Then, the little menace that you were, you dipped into the fries Steve had been cradling and stole a few for yourself.

"Hey, now. I said I'd buy extra," Steve teased, holding the fries behind him far from your reach with a smirk that made you squint at him in mock irritation.

"Guess you'll have to make that run anyway, punk," Bucky laughed, nudging him. Steve turned only to find a little kid who'd wandered over and taken a fistful of his fries, grinning up at him. Steve chuckled and gave him the rest.

"Sharing your food? You might be the kindest man I've ever met," you said, with that beautiful smile that never failed to make his heart flutter. Bucky caught his gaze and winked, grinning like a devil. Steve felt his face flush, heat creeping up his neck.

"Shut up," Steve muttered turning his focus to the field, but his mind was on the two people beside him.

Steve leaned back into the warmth beside him, Bucky's shoulder solid against him. You clutched Steve's other arm, your fingers laced with his own, eyes fixed on the game. This was his home. The game in the background, the cheer of the crowd, and the two people he loved on either side. Perfect.

But there was that queasy sensation again. Steve shifted, and for a moment, he thought he felt something soft pressing against his head.

Suddenly, he was no longer in Ebbets field.

.

.

It was another day.

You sat beside him on the windowsill of his apartment, squeezing his shoulder lightly, assuring.

"You've got me, Steve. Bucky will be fine," you said, but he could sense you didn't believe that either, but he held onto your hand tightly. You leaned your head onto his shoulder, staring at the Hudson, watching boats float by.

Something felt off.

Was he dreaming?

.

.

His surroundings shifted to that dreadful afternoon when he received the letter with a small pocket watch and a tiny feather. You left him. You left him. He cried unbothered as he read the letter sitting on that wobbly chair in Chicago's USO tour. Steve felt his world close in.

It all faded again, and then he was somewhere else. Bucky beside him in his uniform. A bar. 'Listen to me, Steve. Once this is over, we're gonna find her,' Steve could only nod at the conviction in Bucky's voice as he stared at Bucky's raging blues.

"Steve," Bucky's voice became more muffled this time.

What's that noise? A train? He was on a train. He was on the train.

"STEVE."

"BUCKY…Buck...hold on."

Bucky looked up at him silently, fearfully. He lost the grip on the bar and Steve couldn't reach him in time.

Bucky fell, and Steve jumped after him.

~

Steve's eyes flickered open. He blinked a few times; the pale white ceiling came into focus. He frowned. He was in a room. Everything came to him at light speed. The memory of him crashing into the water, thoughts of Bucky and you before he felt the cold seep through, lulling him unconscious.

So, the Dodgers are tied, 4-4.

But he was there at the game. Then why was it being broadcast? Something wasn't right.

And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow's capable of making it a brand-new game again.

Steve remembered Bucky and him assuring you that the game would turn.

Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field.

It was. Steve knew that. He remembered filling pages and pages of memories from that day. You looked gorgeous in that white dress, with faded prints of lilacs and poppy flowers, spattered across your dress. Bucky wore a much darker shade of blue shirt than him. Bucky looked so young and handsome.

Steve felt the softness of the bed, the light sifting through the window too bright as his focus shifted to the room around. It looked like a hospital room, the fancier kind. The radio looked familiar, and the flowers smelled fresh, too.

The Phillies have managed to tie it up at 4-4. But the Dodgers have three men on.

The memory of crashing into the arctic water rushed into the forefront of his mind, and he mentally scanned his body, but the pain was the last thing he felt.

Pearson beaned Resiser in Philadelphia last month.

Steve vividly remembered the day. Dodgers win. You, him and Bucky had gone to the little Italian place two blocks from Ebbets Field after the game. His memory was sharp, and it was that game, the day that remained one of his most treasured memories.

Something was terribly off. Where was he? Did he die? Was this some afterlife thing? Would he find Bucky like he thought? Would you be here?

Wouldn't the youngster like a hit here to return the favor? Pete leans in. Here's the pitch.

Steve's enhanced hearing picked up noises from outside the room. Kids playing, some buzzing, cars running, two people talking outside.

'What are you doing here, agent?'

'Vitals?'

'Agent.' Steve picked up from the conversation. Was this Hydra?

Steve turned back to see the potential exits. The window seemed possible, but something was wrong. He could see the people in the building, but they were blurred and moving in a loop.

Swung on. A line to the right. And it gets past Rizzo.

'Stay alert,' he heard from outside the door. Footsteps approached the door, and Steve's heart picked up.

Three runs will score. Reiser heads to third. Durocher's going to wave him in. Here comes the relay, but they won't get him.

The door opened, and a woman entered.

"Good morning," she smiled, closing the door and standing near it, blocking. "Or should I say afternoon?" Steve gathered she was an American. Was this the agent?

"Where am I?" He asked, his throat felt rough, unused. He needed water.

"You're in a recovery room in New York City," she said.

The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4. Oh, Dodgers!

Steve heard a distant whistle and turned to look through the window again, nothing had changed.

Everyone is on their feet! What a game we have here today, folks! What a game, indeed.

The woman was lying clearly.

"Where am I really?" Steve asked again, listening intently to the conversation outside. He could hear men talking, walking closer.

"I'm afraid I don't understand." She said.

"The game. It's from May 1941. I know, 'coz I was there." Steve told her firmly. "Now, I'm gonna ask you again. Where am I?" Steve could sense her fear, and he noticed her hand flicking to something behind. Was it a weapon? He could jump out of the windows, but those windows didn't seem right to him. The door was the only option.

"Captain Rogers…"

Steve heard more footsteps and hurried voices.

"Who are you?" Steve yelled.

The door opened, and two men entered, and Steve punched them right through the door before they approached. They went flying and fell into the hallway, cracking open the whole space.

The room was a setup. Where the hell was he?

Was it Hydra? But how could that be possible? Did they find him?

Doors burst open as he charged through level after level of the mysterious, clinical-looking facility.

Something was terribly wrong. Where was he? Was this Hydra? Did they capture him after all? He most definitely didn't feel this was an afterlife.

'All agents, code 13!' He heard through the speakers. He dashed through the double doors and there were more men in suits. He saw two armed men on the end, and Steve took off through the other end of the hallway and out through the exit.

Shit. Shit.

He ran as fast as he could, but his steps faltered as he took in his surroundings.

His mind exploded. Lights in broad daylight. Massive screens. Towering buildings. Crowds. Noise.

Steve stood frozen. This was wrong.

His breathing quickened. A thousand questions flooded his mind, memories clashing with the overwhelming reality before him. Too many people. Crowd. Loud. Honking.

What were those? Cars? They looked different.

"At ease, Soldier," he heard. A man with an eye patch approached. Steve's thoughts went berserk. Who was he? Should he punch the other eye and run for it?

"Look. I'm sorry about the little show back there, but," the man started speaking, sighing before he continued, "We thought it best to break it to you slowly." He said.

"Break what?" Steve asked, confused out of his wits.

"You've been asleep, Cap. For almost 70 years," he said.

Steve felt his ground shift.

No.

No.

No.

When he took down the jet, Steve felt an eerie kind of peace. In his final moments, he let himself believe he'd saved you, along with the countless others who'd never known him. It was poetic, really. He'd taken the serum for you, after all. For a chance at a future he was never granted, and maybe--just maybe--he'd see Bucky again if there was an afterlife. Fate, however, deemed he needed to simply suffer.

"You gonna be okay?" The man asked.

Steve said nothing as melancholy settled thickly in his mind.

What would he do in a world without you and Bucky?

Fic-a-boo Part 02: Distressing Transience Bucky dreaded love more than he ever feared Hydra. While he mourned the love he had lost--Steve--he also mourned not being the kind of man you deserved.    The way you saved him persistently, and resurrected him after Hydra, with years and years of patience. It was beyond his understanding. Gosh! You could totally beat Steve when it came to being stubborn. He watched you, relaxed in his arms, deep in sleep. His Angel!

If you wanna be tagged in my works, add yourself here. <3

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[juliet-017]

Liberation - M.R.

Mattheo Riddle x fem!reader

Minors DNI !!

Warnings: references to emotional cheating if you squint, unprotected p in v, creampie, squirting, size kink, lmk if I missed anything!

Synopsis: After getting out of one of your longer relationships you can't help but run back to a previous short term relationship, slipping back into his arms with ease, the sex even better than you remembered.

a/n: This is in no way an intentional reflection on Taylor Swift's relationship with Joe Alwyn or Matty Healey. She can date who she wants to date, it's her life (#Taywarrior). I started this back when FOTS was tending and just HAD to write it, enjoy! 🩷

Wc: ~1k

Life was desolate, boring, and as lonely as it could get despite having a boyfriend who would rarely bat an eye at you.

Cormac McLaggen wasn't the worst boyfriend you could ask for, he was still kind, and cared for you. Yet it felt like a prison, how he prefers to stay out of the public eye, your relationship feeling secret. ‘Romance is not dead if you keep it just yours’ was something you spoke of often whilst you were in his arms.

Till your relationship ran cold.

You never felt understood, feeling stuck in this relationship, it felt like a bloody prison, stuck in the confines of what McLaggen felt was best, the secretive nature driving you crazy at this point.

Your friends knew you were unhappy, trying to tell you to break up with him, to be free and happy. You wouldn't listen, going back under the wraps just to enjoy his warmth and joy.

After fucking years of dealing with him, with this. The escape from your gilded cage, the short-lived outings before being locked away once more like some songbird, falling into the arms of the one that always lingered in the back of your mind.

Mattheo fucking Riddle.

He wasn't soft by any means, but he still was a thick blanket, something that made you feel lively. It felt freeing, someone that you had been on and off with for ages, someone who knew you better than the back of your own hand, that you constantly snuck glances to for months on end even when in your past relationship.

**

The mourning period of your relationship was long gone when you at Mattheo and yourself decided to go for a stroll around Hogsmeade, just the two of you. It was a nice change of pace compared to those constant weekends in, Mattheo often letting you guide the way, watching you with adoring eyes.

The stares came easy, and judgments passed. He was Mattheo Riddle after all, infamous around the school for the constant spats he got into. But you didn't care, he was a breath of fresh air.

In all honesty, the attention you two gained was admirable, allowing people to stare and whisper, ignoring anyone who tried to tell you that Mattheo wasn't good enough for you.

Blocking them out came easy, especially after your last relationship, ending up smitten by the end of your Hogsmeade trip.

Curling up against his chest nightly, walking under the bright sun or the stars without a worry. The late-night trysts of freedom were a stark contrast to your life prior, it felt like flying. The deep connection that had you two constantly bound together.

***

It's how you ended up in his dorm, your panties torn and discarded, writing underneath him as he toyed with you. On your back, eyes admiring the top of the canopy bed.

“Fuck, Matty.” You whimper out, trying to roll your hips, desperate for him. His weight pinning you down as he works you up, only making you wetter.

He nibbles at your neck, sucking and biting, working his way to your shoulder then your tits. His mouth surrounded one of your nipples, teasing it with his teeth.

One of your hands curled in his hair, pulling slightly at Mattheo’s hair as he practically worshiped your body. “Gonna make you all pretty and marked up, baby.” He hums, squeezing your tits together and momentarily burying his face before pulling back to look over your vulnerable form.

You whined, desperate for him as you try to pull him closer. “Patience, doll.” He murmurs, bringing his lips to yours in a slow and purposeful kiss whilst his hands squeeze your waist in a possessive manner. “So gorgeous.. all mine.” He mutters into the kiss.

Before you know it he was aligning himself with your folds, collecting some slick on his head before pushing into you. He filled you fuller than you remembered, stretching you full of him with a slight burn as you dug your nails into his back pathetically.

Mattheo lets out a scoff, a deep chuckle. “What? Was McLaggen so tiny that you forgot what a good dick felt like?” He asks condescendingly, allowing you to adjust before slowly starting to move inside of you. “So damn tight.” He mutters, one hand still on your waist while the other cups your cheek. “Relax some, love.”

You nod, taking a few deep breaths, to relax around him. “There's my good girl.” He praises as he starts to move a bit faster, butting your cervix.

“Shit- Matty-” You moan, trying to pull him closer to you. “Feels so good.”

“Hmm, I'm the only one that can fuck you like this aren't I?” He hums, grabbing your jaw and smooshing your cheeks together.

You nod the bit you can, letting him paw at you like some feral animal as you arch your back so he can get deeper, readjusting to his large size with no complaints besides the occasional grimace.

He complies, grabbing your ass and helping you lift your hips slightly as he hammers into you with a bruising grip, the assault on your cervix so violent you already know you’ll be incoherent once finished.

He moves a hand to you with your clit, rubbing deep circles whilst listening to your vocalizations get louder. Continuing to praise you through your oncoming orgasm, clenching him. “So tight, bloody hell.” He groans, his hips snapping back and forth even harder as your moans and sweat mingle.

You don't even register it when you come, falling slack right after and feeling Mattheo stall. “What? Don't you wanna-”

He looks between your face and your pussy. “Holy shit, baby that was hot.” He mutters before slowly picking the pace back up. “Squirted all over my cock, I forgot how hot it was.”

You moan again, feeling him twitch inside of you. “Almost forgot I could do that.” You reply, voice light and airy.

“I was just joking earlier but turns out McLaggen really didn't fuck you good, huh?” He mutters, fucking you rougher before painting your walls white, collapsing on top of you, rolling the both of you over.

He pulls out of you while you both catch your breath, playing with your hair. “Gonna have to fuck you again once you catch your breath aren't I?” He asks, breath ragged and voice rough.

“Couldn't complain about that.” You giggle, nuzzling closer against his chest.

[elrielffs]

Nothing makes me laugh more than when Azriel gets hated on in his bonus chapter for his behavior that Cassian constantly showed in his own book and no one says a word about that.

It really is funny how often Cassian and Azriel are paralleled or very similar in their responses to Nesta and Elain, especially concerning mate behavior.

Hell even situations like Cassian (Azriel) getting Nesta (Elain) a gift, throwing it in the Sidra (giving it to Clotho) and having a scene with Emerie (Gwyn) are the same.

Both brothers stilled when the sisters entered.

Both had reactions to Nesta and Elain at their initial meeting.

Both worried about the sisters scrying for the Trove.

Both went crazy over a kidnapping (Nesta in the Rite) and (Elain in the Hybern Camp).

Nesta knew Cassian was hurt, Azriel knew what was wrong with Elain.

Both have lustful thoughts and find it hard to stay away. Cassian literally says word for word he can't stay away from Nesta and Azriel, while trying to stay away from Elain, can't sleep, is moody, is consumed with Elain and hyperaware of her every movement and seeing her with Lucien pains him.

Even Rhysand and Feyre were wanting to suck and fuck before their feelings were revealed.

Nesta and Cassian were fucking way before any feelings or revelation they were mates.

Same for Azriel and Elain. We know they both want each other. It's reciprocated but it's not just about sex. Elain and Azriel have known each other for two years. Azriel, who spends his free time with Elain in garden, Elain, who got him presents, Azriel and Elain staying up until 3 am talking. Azriel saved Elain, Elain made Azriel laugh like no one has ever heard. Azriel let Elain hold Truth Teller, Elain called his hands beautiful. They know each other as friends that know there's something between them but is unsure of it because of 1. her mating bond, 2. its just whole new ground for both of them. It's not a rebound, which happens as soon as you break up with someone, not 2 years later. It's not just lust, which fizzles out quickly and is not sustained for 2 years with nothing to show for it.

Sexual desire isn't bad, they just want to paint it that way because it's not about who they want it to be about and it is really a disservice to Azriel to paint him that way. He is nothing but respectful to women and to make him out to be some 16 year old boy who doesn't know the difference between lust and love because he wants to get his dick wet and he's "broken" is really fucking weird and desperate.