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sophiethewitch1 · 3 months ago

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What We Want - Chpt. 8 - Jason Fucking Todd

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Well, look on the bright side of things. You’re not crying right now. That’s nice. You’re not an intern anymore. That’s nice. You struggle to think of anything else. Oh yeah, you’re rich! That’s also nice. You’re not dead. Nice.

This is kind of pathetic. You just feel bummed after having to break up with George a second time. And getting smacked right in the face by him. Which you know, anybody would be, you think. You don’t think a single soul has ever known the George Lancaster Break-Up Special more than once. And you didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to fall for that asshole more than once.

You couldn’t fake a brave face anymore, you just didn’t have the energy for it.

…And let’s not forget almost dying via Joker goon. Not even the man himself, just a random lackey. You think of how he literally disappeared in front of your eyes, and decide you are going to stop thinking. It’s doing you no good anyway.

Instead, you just start walking. Letting your feet and your intimate knowledge of Gotham’s streets, even in this area you don’t often frequent, guide you. You find yourself at the train station. With little consideration, you buy a ticket to the southern part of the city. The bad side of town, the docks, where your apartment used to be.

You feel like a little rat scurrying back into the sewers as you hop on the subway, tucking yourself in between people who don’t recognise you, probably because of your general dishevelment.

Shoulders knocking against strangers, you feel the most at home since this whole disaster started. You stare across the train car, watching a baby babble to its mother. It catches your eye, gives you a big toothless smile, and some snot dribbles into it’s mouth. The mother notices and cleans the baby up with a tissue. When she catches you staring, you give a very awkward but friendly smile, and she smiles back.

A tiny weight lifts off your shoulders. Surrounded by the chaos of Gotham, as the subway exits the tunnels and heads up onto the sky rails, you find yourself warm by the rays of sun through the clouds. The view is beautiful, as it always is. Usually, you’d be looking at your phone, too busy to enjoy the sights. But it really is beautiful.

It’s only when you hear the announcer calling out that you realise you did this for a reason, and dart out of your seat and through the narrowly closing doors. The metal closes behind you with a small hiss. The Docks station, for most people, would be one of the better Gotham train stations. Newly built, and with all the tourist money it was clean. Well, clean as it could get. You’d read some article about the bacteria the rats were carrying being not found anywhere else on earth, and you’d decided to stop reading articles.

Anyway, for you, even the shining marble of the station was a sad sight. Because you only ever came here on your very worst days.

This seemed like one of them.

The familiar streets flit past you, barely something you’re even cognisant of. This part of the city was mostly new, the concrete fresh under your feet instead of littered with potholes. Still, it wasn’t at the centre of the blast radius, so it hadn’t been totally demolished.

No, that was just up ahead. And like everything else in this weird new world, you immediately noticed something different. Where your family had died was… still there, for some reason.

With confusion, exhaustion, and no small bit of despair, you stop in the middle of the pathway outside the remnants of what used to be an old diner and was now just a pile of rocks. Some very charred rocks. Looking at the wreckage, you raise your brows. Its crumbling form is still under construction after all these years. The yellow caution tape is only a deterrence to you because you don’t want to end up on the gossip reels for a second time today. Looking around, you find yourself further confused. Lots of other parts of the pier had been redeveloped, but this piece of the puzzle still lay bare.

It didn’t, in your home, your world. It had been replaced with high-rise apartments, and since they were so close to the water, so pretty and new, you had no hope of affording them. It probably wouldn’t be very good for your mental health even if you could. Still, you’d taken many walks past the street. Enjoyed the little bit of dirty white concrete that had survived. You and your siblings had signed your names into it, and you’d stroked the sidewalk like the weirdo you were many times.

Like you did today. And today, for some reason, the rest of it was here. Untouched. A remnant of the disaster. As you run your thumb along the sharp edge of Julie’s J, you find yourself once again lost in your memories. They were like honey traps to you these days.

The mum-and-pops diner had been run by your uncle. It’d been in the family for three generations, and he was incorrigibly proud of it. You’d all had your birthday parties there, because it was free and you were poor. It wasn’t like your uncle would let you pay for the food anyway, it was just one of the few times Mum could stand the generosity. She didn’t like it when you had disappointing birthdays, and no matter how much you tried to fake your happiness, she could always see to your core. Eventually, you and your siblings all gave up on trying.

You were late. You were often late, but this time it was… it was the difference between life and death. If you’d been a few blocks further, a little bit earlier, you’d probably be dead too. Or at least have some serious hearing loss instead of just suffering mild tinnitus.

You had felt more than seen the destruction. The earth had rumbled, and a deafening roar had swept through the streets. You remember falling to your knees, the worry about being late morphing to worry for your best clothes to a true terror when you realised where the blast had come from.

When you realised your family was in the epicentre.

You sometimes wish you were on time that day. That you’d gotten to see them all, even if you went with them. It didn’t sound so bad, really. At least you wouldn’t be alone. Hmm, you should probably stop thinking like that. Or maybe go to a therapist about it.

Not that you could afford it. Oh, right. Rich now. That was really taking some getting used to.

You wonder if people who won the lottery felt the same way. Probably not, because the rest of the world reflected the changes the person felt. They’d have to go pick up the check, go to the bank, and if they let their family and friends know, deal with the consequences of that.

You’d just woken up rich. No time to adjust, your new life was here and it was demanding your attention very loudly. And soup-ly, unfortunately. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the rubble, you look towards your left, where you know the Memorial awaits you. It’s in the centre of the new shopping district, built on top of the bombed parts of Gotham. It sits right next to the water, the cold breeze a comfort that you’d turned to on more than one occasion.

You’d feel bad if you didn’t change your clothes. You told Grayson you would, and you already felt bad enough about... everything to do with him. You suppose he was your brother. Your ex-brother. Ex-step-brother. The ex-step-brother of a woman who you weren’t.

Really, he was just a stranger. It seemed he didn’t feel that way, though.

You start the walk towards the shopping district, and into the first clothes store you see. The prices on the tags would usually make you flinch, but well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing seems to matter. Your survival is now guaranteed, might as well wear some clothes that feel nice on your skin.

You walk out of that store looking like you just robbed it. Even the clerk had given you a weird look but accepted the black card tucked in your phone without much complaint. It’s an improvement if a small one.

Once you’re done, like a moth to a flame, you drift towards the Memorial centre. You’re following all the steps you used to in the past, but somehow, it all feels a bit alien. The world looks a little different, a little uncomfortable. Your shoes are worn in, and yet they still feel too tight.

Uncanny valley. You feel unwelcomed here, unwanted. Like the very earth can tell that there’s something wrong in this scene, some intruder. You ignore the feeling as best you can.

The Memorial is just as unfamiliar as the diner was, maybe even more. You know that your mother was a Wayne before she died. You know that. But still seeing your family’s framed photos, right alongside Jason's is so shocking you nearly jump. It takes a moment of wide-eyed staring before you can manage to get past that. When you do, for some reason you still go back to your old habits. You walk by them, the bouquets and to where their names used to be in thin letters.

You count with your fingers, finding the fifty-second line.

A man’s name replaces the spot where your mother’s is. The little grooves the oil in your fingers had left behind were gone, and instead was sharp stone like when the monument was first erected. It cuts at your fingers. It no longer welcomes your touch.

James Whitaker. That’s the name of the man who took their spot.

You can already feel a rising obsession with the random dead man. If you were going to psycho-analyse yourself, you’d recognise that you didn’t feel that the images of the Waynes you’d created were no longer real, no longer safe to your escapist mindset. You’d realise, that this was all pretty unhealthy, and you really, really needed therapy.

Instead, you give the guy your condolences and start reading the other plinths. They seem largely the same. It’s not like you hadn’t read all of these towers of stone at one point or another, your eyes glazing over the many, many names. So much devastation, all in one moment.

And still, this was not even a tenth of all the lives the Joker had taken. You kinda wanna go take a kick at one of the Bat signals littered around the city. Maybe that’d make you less… broiling with incompetent rage.

Again, maybe you should just go to therapy. You should call Jeanine about that or something.

Eventually, you circle back to your family and Jason’s shrines. You know, back then you’d been jealous that Jason Todd had been so well mourned. You’d wished your family had gotten the same treatment.

Now, you… felt jealous again. Possessive, over their memory, their image. You didn’t really like that random strangers that never knew them… knew them. That Sam always got As in English and Art class but would sometimes skip math and would hide in the bathrooms to do so. That Chasey had struggled with going to school because of her anxiety but kept going because she had a friend going through the exact same thing. That Julie was the ace of her school’s soccer team, and that she’d almost gotten them to nationals even in the presence of all the super-rich schools in Gotham. That your Mum was a great cook but genuinely hated doing it, but for some reason, baking was her favourite thing even as she had never made a proper macaron.

They didn’t know them. They knew their faces and a facsimile of them, but they didn’t know them. It reminded you of the people at the orphanage. Nice, but not kind. They’d had their own lives, they didn’t want some bratty, demented teenager who was going down and planning on taking everyone with her.

You really couldn’t be happy, could you? Maybe you didn’t know what you wanted. What you want now. What you’d wanted for a while, actually.

Ugh. You close your eyes and let out a deep, soul-shaking sigh. It takes a moment for you to shore up the willpower to open them again. Come on, flower shop, finish your weird little ritual then you can go home and hide for the next millenia.

The walk there is the same as always, if a little more morose. It’s in a good spot, near the church just a block away and the memorial on its other side, as well as less sombre atmospheres down near the pier. Well, as little sombre as Gotham can manage.

You feel like you blink and you’re there. Too quickly, you find a rainbow of blooms in front of you, the scent of the blossoms washing over you. When you walk into the flower shop, the bell at the door rings the same as it always does. On autopilot, you walk over to the small, cheaper buds. Your hand clenches around the crinkly wrapping paper, a bundle of posies in your hand. You go to the counter with your prize in hand.

Larissa, the counter worker, smiles at you. Your breath hitches. It’s a working smile, not one of the real, toothy ones she used to give you.

“Oh wow, I thought all the posies had sold out. Lucky you!”

You think of something to say, but the moment passes and you don’t. She rings you up, tells you the price, and when you pay, asks sweetly if you want a receipt.

She doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t acknowledge how you come here every week and buy this same handful of flowers. She doesn’t ask about your job or the weather. She doesn’t cheerfully tell you about how her apprenticeship is going, or about the next sweet thing her partner has done. No, she just stares at you, growing more uncomfortable the longer it takes for you to answer.

She doesn’t even seem to recognise this other version of you. It feels like another string that tied you down to the earth has been snipped. You have an image in your head of a child losing a balloon, desperately grasping at the air. You’re going to float up into the atmosphere, and then you’re going to pop.

You can see the foil glinting in the sun’s light, so, so clearly.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “Yes, a receipt, please.”

Taking it blindly, you barely flutter your eyes open as you walk out of the shop. She didn’t know you, didn’t remember you. That doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. You hadn’t really known her. It doesn’t matter. There’s no real difference, it doesn’t matter.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it never really mattered. You keep telling yourself this as you walk back over to the memorial. As you lay your flowers down with the others, the little posies are dwarfed by the other donations. It didn’t matter. You didn’t know her. None of this matters. Their flowers don’t matter.

You don’t matter. You hit that errant thought with a mental fly swatter.

Exhausted, you sit down next to the monument. You used to be able to lay your head on the stone, able to feel your family in the warmth it had absorbed in the sun. Now you just sort of, awkwardly reached out to the small bit of uncovered plinth at the side. You have to stick your hand through a wreath to do so.

It’s not warm. You wonder if your family are sad. And then you wonder if you’re an idiot for attributing feelings to a literal rock.

After a while, you get up. Cross your arms. You stare at your family's portraits, eyes moving over their smiles. One by one. You recognise some of the photographs, those are your favourites. A smile cracks across your face when you see the picture of when Chasey lost her two front teeth. She still grins cheekily at the camera, uncaring for any changes to her appearance, as all kids shouldn’t.

Your shoulders fall just the slightest bit when you see the picture of Jason Todd. It’s one of his older pictures. Probably seventeen or something. He’d always been a lovely boy when he was younger. And he still was up till he died but you’d always thought you’d seen something start to change in him. That sparkle of innocence, dulled, just the slightest.

And then he’d died. And you’d wondered if maybe he’d felt it was coming.

You certainly hadn’t. It had been like a hurricane tearing through your life. You’d ended up on the other side completely abandoned, the only friend who’d bothered to keep seeing you being one who’d learnt to dodge train ticket costs like a damn ninja. And you’d had to decide whether you could keep doing this, whether you even wanted to.

You were an obsessive creature by nurture. It had been all you could do to hang onto the Waynes, pretend they would love and care for you even if they’d have never even noticed you in real life. You weren’t sure that was strength or simple human survival. Dying was scary. Of course, you were scared of dying.

Your whole family had died. So, you told yourself, that Jason Fucking Todd would be sad if you killed yourself, and somehow, you had made it all these years.

And now here you were, and the Waynes did notice you in real life. You were important to them. You didn’t want to be, but you were. And again, you have to ask yourself, what would Jason Todd ask of you? What would he want you to do now, in this impossible situation you’ve found yourself in?

You stare at the picture. Stare at the way the sun hits his dark hair and blue eyes. Stare very, very hard. Like he might crawl out and give you a detailed list of what to do. You’d really like a detailed list. Or any guidance at all. Maybe you could go hit up a seance or something.

Your head falls forward into your sun-warmed palms. This is so stupid. No answers are going to fall from the sky, you need to find them yourself. And you’re not going to find them here.

Someone walks up beside you to the old memorial, and you quickly tuck yourself back into an acceptable image. Fold in all the rough edges you can. A tall and well-built man, with a face mask, sunglasses and a trucker hat, he looks like he could be a celebrity or something. Someone important, much more than you.

And you weren’t, not technically, at least. The universe had done the equivalent of a shelving error, and now here you goddamn were.

He does an odd pose next to you, something military-esque, where he clasps his hands together and bows his head. With a quick flick of your eyes you confirm, yes, his feet are equal with his shoulders. It’s obvious that he’s paying his respects so you do your best not to judge him too hard.

And then he speaks to you.

“I’m sorry.”

You look up, startled and confused.

“For your loss,” the deep voice finishes, jerking his head toward the pictures in front of the two of you.

“Wha- oh uh, um,” you blink and then realise that this person has recognised you, which would make sense since you are literally in one of the photos in front of you, and manage to pull your fading conscious mind back together for a moment more.

“Thank you, uh-” you stare at him a moment longer, “You too?”

Almost worse than that time you told the barista who gave you your coffee you hoped she enjoyed hers too, but not quite. Well, you know, he’d probably lost someone here too. You don’t know why he’d be here otherwise unless he wanted an autograph or something. The thought almost makes you laugh.

He snorts at your words. You don’t know what to make of that.

He looks back down at the pictures and flowers. You think he does, at least, from the slight shifting of his head. He’s kind of mysterious. Pair that with the deep voice, the muscular and tall physique, and you’re an odd mix of attracted and socially anxious. Not that you’re not always socially anxious, but this guy feels… strong. Dumb again, you can see his biceps from here but…

You just can’t quite shake it off. Strong. Strong.

“They didn’t deserve it, none of them did,” he speaks again, and you wonder what the fuck he’s going on about at all.

You admit, you sound a little bitter when you mutter, “Well, that’s obvious.”

He lets out a bark of laughter, and you see his eyes flash to you from under his sunglasses. A shade of blue. There’s another odd pause, and then he turns to you. You don’t know why he’s looking at you. He crosses his arms, and seems to size you up.

“What are you doing here?” he asks you like he knows you.

Your brow furrows. Okay, kind of losing any hotness points here. Bothering someone who was grieving could’ve been seen as rude from the very start, but you’d just thought he was weird. Now, you thought he was weird and rude.

“…Paying my respects. Obviously,” you gesture downwards, “My mother, my siblings, and…”

Well, how would you describe the relationship between you and Jason Todd now? He was still just a stranger to you and-

“With who, that guy?”

Now, it isn’t often that you’re stunned into silence, but at the moment you can’t find it in you to do anything but stare and gape. Frankly, you’re astonished! You’ve never met anyone who spoke so rudely of the dead, and well, he couldn’t have picked a worse person to do it in front of.

“Excuse me?” your voice can’t seem to convey even half of your offence, even as you sound like you’re about ready to bite a second person for today. The man pauses like you’ve surprised him, which- what the fuck is going on? Why do you feel like an alien crash-landed on Earth these days?

“No, I just meant-” he huffs, shakes his head, and continues, his voice now offended too, “What the fuck am I saying? Yes, I did mean that. That little twerp was a naive idiot who was manipulated by the people he believed in most.”

You stare, absolutely speechless, as the stranger goes on a damn-fucking-near crazed rant about one of the people most important to you. Never met? Sure. Dead as hell? Absolutely. But still, he was one of your lifelines. Your candlelight in the dark, guiding your way even when you felt completely lost. And now he’s calling him a naive idiot? You can practically feel the steam coming out of your ears.

“He changed nothing, made no difference in the end-”

“Nothing?!” you practically shriek, finally able to find your voice just to use it to shout, “He changed… so much! He donated millions of dollars, did heaps of charity work, was practically a treasure to our city… He made multiple homeless shelters, an orphanage, helped rehabilitate criminals and countless other things.”

Your fists are clenched tight enough that they shake. You hide them behind your back, but you still feel like he can probably see them. Your emotions are simmering too close to the surface, bubbling over and onto the floor. About to burn his sneakers to ash.

“You seem like you care a lot,” he says, sounding reserved.

“Of course, I care.”

“…It’s just, you didn’t seem the type, on the TV,” he keeps talking, poking at you for some god-awful reason, and you bark out a harsh laugh.

“Maybe people need to stop making so many fucking assumptions, then? It certainly hasn’t gotten you anywhere,” you throw your hands up, damn sick of all the constant fucking surveillance you’re under. You can see why this version of you lost her mind. You’re near about to as well.

He stares at you for a moment longer, and you start feeling too uncomfortable. It’s a stupid and useless protectiveness that has you staying. Like he’ll somehow try and harm the shrine to your people. It’s happened before, Joker fanboys defacing it and such. This guy could be one of those bastards.

And yet… somehow you feel…

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he finally says.

“Good, you do that.”

“But in the end, nothing’s really changed. Joker’s still out and about, as you well know.”

You physically flinch like you’ve been slapped. For a good minute there, all you can do is stare at him in disbelief. You raise one shaking fist, and lift one trembling finger, pointing. The man looks in the direction you’ve pointed, and when he doesn’t see anything, turns back to you. His sunglasses reflect the grey afternoon sun.

“Go,” you order, voice shaking just like the rest of you.

He just keeps staring at you. You wish he’d take off those dumb fucking glasses, so you could see this asshole’s face. Etch it into your mind. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t take any action. He simply waits for you to… Well, you don’t know what you’ll do. You haven’t known what you’d do since you left Dick behind two hours ago.

“You need to go,” you say again, and again, he doesn’t fucking move, “You… there’s… you have no right.”

You can hear the buzz of the city around you, the wind rushing by. His clothes rustle in the wind. Your voice sounds too loud in your ears, but he won’t just… he won’t leave. You don’t want this stranger here, watching you. Judging you. It’s all…

“Jason didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, and you think to yourself, desperately, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

There’s a slight shift in the stranger’s posture. His shoulders tensed.

You think you’ve offended him.

“The Joker… That’s nobody's fault but the government for not just sucking it up and giving him the death penalty, or Batman’s for not doing it himself a long time ago. They’re all fucking useless, but they’re the ones who are supposed to be dealing with this!” you continue, your words growing more heated. It’s only the already looming threat of an assault case that keeps you from shoving the guy. Not like you’d be able to move him an inch, of course, he was huge.

You’re sure it would feel good, though.

“It was never some random teenager's responsibility, and it wasn't mine either,” you say, but find yourself pausing for a moment when you hear the end of your sentence. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious anyway.

You’d tied yourself and Jason up together in your head. To you, you were both two sides of the same coin. One foot in the grave. You’ve got one foot in the grave…

“Jason Todd was a good person, and he made the world a better place.”

You look down at the portrait of the boy, his toothy smile twisting at your heart. None of this was fair. None of this had ever been fair. Why was this guy acting like anybody here had ever been able to do anything about it? Like Jason should’ve been smarter, and avoided a fucking bomb blast?

It was stupid. This was stupid, and you were over it. You were tired.

“And I miss him.”

It’s quiet after you say that.

“I don’t know how you can think it’s fair to act like his death was pointless when… of course it was, all of this was pointless,” you say, throwing your hands wide and gesturing to the entire memorial. “This was a tragedy, but Jason was a victim. And I’m sick of people like you who think they can decide whether someone else’s life was lived right. It’s not your damn right.”

“Now… fuck off!” you announce, and to your shock, he does. He fucks right off. The man gives you one last lingering look, and then turns and leaves without another word. Not like you needed them.

You huff out a shocked breath, and then turn back to the memorial.

The framed faces of your loved ones stare back at you, and for all you know it’s stupid, you can’t help but feel embarrassed for the display. You know your mother would’ve scolded you for your language, at least.

“Sorry,” you say, and you’re unfortunately reminded of that irritating man again. Likely that won’t be the first time he pops up again in your head. He seemed well, insane. Which wasn’t that odd in Gotham but… god, you just couldn’t seem to let it go.

It pissed you off to high heaven. His rudeness was something you’d usually be able to shrug off, especially from some random stranger, but, but, but-! Argh, damn it all. And it wasn’t like that was the first time you had had that sort of conversation, but it was certainly the first time someone had been so bold as to bring it up in front of your dead mother’s smiling face.

Earlier today had snuffed out the fire in you, but that encounter had been the spark to reignite it. More than that, actually. It had made you so damn pissed, made your blood boil in a way you just couldn’t ignore, to the point that you wanted to prove him wrong.

Jason Todd had mattered and had made a difference and change in Gotham. He had made a change in you. You put your hands on your hips, stare down at the flowers, and make a decision.

You’re going to fix your goddamn life. For Jason Fucking Todd.

Your body feels like shit, your brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, and yet this is the greatest opportunity you’ve ever been given. You have a chance to save yourself, and save your friends, and fix all the tiny little problems in Gotham that you’ve suffered through since childhood. Surely just throwing enough money at all your problems would fix some of them.

You were rich. If you couldn’t fix your life with millions of dollars available, then you had no chance.

And yeah, you don’t know what you’re doing. You know you can’t really change what happened. Back then or even just a few days ago. But you hate that. You hate it so much. You hate how weak you are in the face of loss. How both then and now, there’s nothing you can really do. And maybe if just out of spite, towards that asshat, Batman, Joker and everyone else, you want to make a change.

You want to be able to do something about it. You want it, so fucking bad.

First order of business?

…You want more flowers.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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inkinflux · 6 days ago

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Can't Keep a Secret

Viktor x gn!Reader | 3k | SFW Viktor notices you've been burnt out for a while, so organizes a short trip away to help you relax. A/n: I am so in love with this fictional man hnggggg also I based this off this song because it matched how sappy I felt :') 🚫 I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING USED TO TRAIN AI 🚫

Air pushed against your splayed fingers, the draft cool against your palm as you held it against the pressure. You dipped your nails down, the force causing your hand to swoop, the sensation pulling a smile on your face.

You didn’t travel often, and never before via airship. The novelty was neither lost on Viktor as he held onto the railing beside you, eyes wide as he watched the rolling hills of Valoran pass beneath. The airship’s shadow dove up and down the golden fields of wheat, until it reached the highest crest and the gold slowly dissolved into blue.

The wind whipped your face, its dominant presence the reason why the rest of the travellers remained inside during most of the duration of the ride. But the feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant, in fact, it was refreshing.

After being holed up in your study for weeks, it felt nice to be given a stark reminder that you were, in fact, a living creature who needed sun and air and adventure to satiate your soul.

It had been Viktor’s idea to take a trip to the coastal city of Holdrum to pull you out of your rut. There was only so much staring at a blank piece of paper you could handle before it drove you insane. He knew that feeling of stagnation all too well, and also knew that pushing yourself past that point didn’t often yield the desired result.

The ship passed through a cloud, and you laughed as the condensation licked your skin, leaving you slightly damp. Viktor reached his arm out behind you, mimicking the way yours reached out into the clouds. He drunk in your joy and the fresh air, his tired lungs feeling lighter for once.

You opened your mouth as the next cloud passed, tasting it on your tongue.

The flight was thrilling, albeit brief, the airship docking a mere three hours after it had taken off from Piltover. The tickets had been cheap thanks to its avoidance of using the Hex Gates.

It was an irony that was not lost on you, that one of the creators of such an invention still couldn’t afford to use it the traditional way. Though you were sure an exception would’ve been made to let him fly for free, Viktor wasn’t the type to put up a fuss.

His hair was a fluffed mess from the wind when he shuffled along the gangplank back onto solid ground. You stuck close to him, slightly intimidated by the busyness of the station, wares and people being offloaded all around you.

Viktor tugged you along with a glint in his eye and a grin that shone brighter than the sun. Your briefcase was heavy with clothes and books, but you didn’t need to carry it for long as you reached a carriage that would take you to your weekend accommodation.

Your thigh bumped against Viktor’s as you peered out the window, making repetitive comments about how beautiful the view was. Viktor could barely concentrate as your hand rested on his knee, his eyes constantly drawn to your side profile as you watched the oceanside pass by.

His body objected as he clambered out, but his respite was so close, the seaside cottage standing at the end of the dirt path you’d been dropped off at. Peacefully isolated and surrounded by trees, with sand trailing through the cool shade of leaves, the sound of waves a hint at how to find the beach.

You took his bags, bright-eyed and excited to explore. Viktor tried not to drag his feet as he followed, lugging himself up the few steps of the porch. He subsequently crashed into the couch as you both entered the small wooden structure that had once been blue, but showed signs of age, driftwood peeking from beneath the paint.

“This is incredible!” Your voice came muffled from the other room as you darted in and out of the different rooms.

Viktor wanted to join in your energetic outburst, but after having been on his feet for most of the day, he couldn’t muster more than a hum of acknowledgement.

You poked your head out of the bedroom, taking in the way his lanky limbs extended over the small couch, his face pressed into the cushions. He heard you approach by way of creaking floorboards.

“Thank you.”

He raised his face, laying his cheek flat as he looked at you. You were on your knees, curled forward with your chin resting close on the cushion.

“I know no one who works harder,” he told you, “and no one more deserving of a break.”

You pushed his wind-tousled hair from his face, the gesture enough to make his heart soar. Or maybe he’d left it in the clouds when you’d thanked him the first time, looking up at him with the same adoration as you did now.

“No one other than you, you mean,” you teased, pinching his cheek before you rose back to your feet.

Viktor turned, the couch the perfect balance of firm and soft to keep his strained back at ease. He watched as you approached a window, opening it to let the stream of natural sounds flood in. Distant waves and the whisper of leaves rustling in the breeze that was picking up with the promise of a summer storm.

He wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful. That you gave him the impression of a living piece of the world, clicking so perfectly into any scene. In the clouds, by the coast, at your desk, by his side.

It was a secret he kept, to no one’s benefit but his own, really. These words he guarded, belonging to only you. The thing was, he was terrible at keeping secrets.

He had blurted about the tickets the moment he’d seen you last week, when you had looked so colourless and crestfallen. He’d do anything to see you smile, even ruining the surprise.

Even now, he struggled against the word as it danced on the tip of his tongue.

“Beautiful,” he mused, “isn’t it?”

You nodded, taking a moment to tear your attention away from the relaxing ambiance. When your gaze settled on him again, it softened.

“There’s a storm rolling in,” you told him, taking a seat next to his reclined body. His shirt had rode up, exposing a section of his pale, lower stomach. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it down to cover him again, but not without brushing your fingers against him in what you hoped was an inconspicuous manner. Viktor bit down on the inside of his cheek, his entire body thrilling at your touch. “Perfect weather for a nap, don’t you think?”

Viktor smiled, the smell of rain filling the room as the first drops fell from the sky.

“You may choose whichever bedroom you prefer. I will remain here, for now.”

Your hand fondly stroked the cushion beside his head, too shy to risk another real touch. Viktor enjoyed having you so close that he could feel your warmth seep into him. You wanted to ask him to join you, your idea of the perfect nap to weather the storm being one where he held you in his arms, but sensibility won out in the end.

The room grew darker as you disappeared into one of the bedrooms, leaving the door open behind you as you collapsed onto the mattress.

The heavy rain lulled Viktor to sleep, his hand tucked under his cheek, unaware that you had curled onto your side in the same fashion, imagining the warmth of him around you.

When you awoke hours later, bare feet padding out of the dark and into the warm light of the kitchen, you found Viktor cooking dinner.

He had slipped into something more comfortable, a baggy t-shirt and pyjama pants that hung low on his hips. You admired the dimples of his lower back as he stretched up to grab two glasses from the cabinet. Once he placed them down, he propped his cane back under his arm, hovering close to the stove as something delicious-smelling bubbled away.

Your footfall was quiet, but he turned his face to the side, a small smile on his lips.

“Did you sleep well?”

You yawned as you approached him, dropping your head onto his shoulder. “Like a log. Is that curry?”

Viktor hummed a confirmation.

“The pantry is stocked, so I found something I thought you might like,” he stirred the pot lazily, still somewhat sleepy. “Though, the town has a market that sells imported fruits. I was hoping we might go there tomorrow.”

You nuzzled your head against the side of his arm and he chuckled.

“Will you stay awake long enough to eat with me?” He picked up the wooden spoon, blowing on it. “Here. Try.”

With his other hand hovering beneath, Viktor brought the spoon to your lips. The explosion of flavour melted into your tongue, and you hummed in delight.

“Good?”

“Good,” you agreed, eagerly moving to the table, sliding onto the bench.

A moment later, Viktor placed the food and assortment of cutlery before you, then slid in next to you, your thighs pressed flush against another.

You hooked your foot around his ankle, too tired to pretend you didn’t want to steal every sort of touch he’d allow you to get away with in your sleepy states. You found he made it quite easy.

Few words were shared during the dinner, the food so good Viktor had to warn you to slow down.

“Who taught you to cook like this?” You were surprised, because he had opted for quicker meals while at the Academy, too engrossed in his work to waste time on such necessities as a well-cooked meal.

“My mother,” he answered softly. “Years ago, I would return home each week from the Academy to tell her about my work with Professor Heimerdinger. She would always cook for me.” You looked at him as he reminisced, somewhat melancholy. “The smell reminds me of her. Vegetables and spice and stock.” He turned his gaze to you now, his eyes adoring amber. “She would have liked you.”

Your elbow knocked against his as you shied away from the kind words, swirling your food with your spoon.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he said with certainty, “because you make me happy.” He then poked your thigh, aiming for a lighter tone. “Even if you are clingy. Like a kitten.”

“I’m not clingy,” you stated with defiance, despite the fact that you’d all put burrowed into him.

Viktor smiled. “Do not mistake my comment for complaint. I… quite like it.”

Your back straightened at his words, the grip on your spoon tightening. Viktor cursed himself internally for letting the secret of his affections slip. Always in moments where he wanted to reassure you, he couldn’t help himself from tipping his hand to show you his cards were all hearts.

“I’m not like this with everyone, you know.” It seemed you didn’t know how to keep a secret, either.

“I know.”

After dinner, you sat on the porch, watching the rainy night with Viktor. You laid against his chest, his square thumbs massaging the wrist and palm of your dominant hand, which ached from the repetitive motions of your work.

“It is too bad such devoted hands cannot be mended with oil and tightening screws.” Viktor’s breath tickled the shell of your ear as he spoke. “Flesh and tendon is so difficult to work with.”

You melted against him, nestling your face against the side of his neck. “Still feels nice.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he replied, a smile in his voice.

The post-dinner relaxation gave way to a familiar pull of sleep, but when it came time to return to bed, you lingered in the doorway, pleading eyes pulling Viktor up from where he had been preparing to read on the couch.

He curled a finger against the underside of your jaw, stroking up and down. You pressed your mouth into a line and tilted your head at the man.

“Does this sleepy kitty need company?”

You tugged at the drawstring of his pants in response, and he relented, snatching up his book and settling into bed beside you, reading glasses perched on the edge of his angular nose.

“The reading light won’t keep you awake?”

You made a small noise to suffice as a “No” before curling into him, your hand sliding under his shirt, coming to rest on the tuft of hair beneath his bellybutton.

Viktor reread the same sentence about a dozen times before he realized he wouldn’t be able to focus with you touching him like that. Still, he tried, until the sinking pillows pulled him into the same delightful dreams you dwelled in.

It seemed in his sleep, he had lost control of his limbs. Viktor awoke to an entanglement he couldn’t possibly hope to free himself from.

Your thigh was trapped between his, one of your arms pinned underneath him. Viktor’s nose brushed yours as he raised his head from the pillow, surveying the situation.

The movement caused you to curl into him further, a satisfied huff tumbling from your soft lips.

Viktor gave up any notion of getting out of bed, conceding to his fate.

The second time he woke, you were bending over him, placing a sweet kiss on his forehead. He shut his eyes quickly, pretending he was still asleep.

You were greedy and sought another stolen kiss, this time atop the beauty mark below his eye, your lips a fluttery feeling against his cheekbone.

Viktor waited patiently, silently urging you to give the same treatment to the mark above his top lip. He sucked in a breath as he felt your weight shift on the mattress, considering it as you hovered above him.

Then the springs creaked, his hopes dashed as you instead decided to get up.

You were eager to repay the favour of last night’s dinner with breakfast in bed, but before you could step away, a warm hand had shot out, curling around your forearm.

“Good morning,” you greeted, Viktor’s unfocused eyes drinking in your form.

“Where do you think you are going?” He asked, the rasp in his voice causing something within you to shudder.

You lowered you voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s a secret.”

Viktor’s sleepy smile almost convinced you to stay. But you were determined to do something nice for him, after he’d organized the perfect getaway and treated you to such lovely cuddles all night.

“Stay here,” you told him, and reluctantly, his grip weakened, his hand falling empty as you walked away.

After five minutes of trying to be patient, he missed you too much, making his way to the kitchen.

“Vik,” you tutted as he came up behind you, hands sliding down your arms indulgently. You turned around, holding the spatula up threateningly.

“A fearsome weapon. Is it meant to scare me off?”

“Yes.”

Viktor wrapped his hand around yours, easily stealing it from you.

“Hey!” You complained, but there was a laugh in your voice. Viktor took over pancake flipping duty, if only out of guilt for ruining your plans to serve him in bed.

You gave up, pressing your forehead to his back. Your hands naturally found their way under the hem of his sleeping top, thumbs feeling out the bolts in his spine, tracing them with such fondness that Viktor struggled to remember how to breathe.

“How does your hand feel?” He asked, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

“Like it needs more attention.”

Viktor smirked as you pushed your hand through the gap between his waist and arm, letting your arm dangle in his line of sight. He took hold of it and pushed circles into your palm with his thumb while he flipped the pancakes. It proved more difficult than he had anticipated.

Breakfast was eaten back in bed, as you had insisted, the entanglement now only limited to weaved legs. The dawning day beckoned, and as much as you both would’ve liked to remain underneath the covers, you both found the motivation to get dressed and ready to explore the town and beaches.

The dirt track that led you out of your blissful solitude was now dotted with puddles from last night’s storm. The sky still held a hint of grey, but luckily the clouds had mostly dissipated, giving way to a clearer day.

Your shoes squelched in the mud as you stepped out, turning back and waiting for Viktor as he locked the front door. When he turned to you, he froze at the look you were giving him.

“Do I have something on my face?”

He looked absolutely divine. Being outside of Piltover, outside of the Academy, seemed just as good for him as it was for you. The leather strap of his bag crossed over his chest, atop a teasingly sheer white button down. He’d pushed his reading glasses up into his hair, a stray strand falling against his forehead. You adored him.

“Oh,” he noticed your gaze and tapped his head, quickly taking the glasses off and pushing them into his bag.

He reached you before you could fathom a reply. “Let’s hope the rain does not catch us out,” he spoke, unaware of the way your enamoured heart had caused a short-circuit in your brain. He was amused at the stunned expression you wore, reaching up to tap on a large leaf above your head, causing cold droplets to fall upon your face.

You released a shocked laugh, giving him a light shove. He regained his balance, his walking stick tucked firmly under his arm.

The trees glistened with suspended water drops, and you curiously tapped against a few before you stuck your tongue out, eager to taste how fresh the water was. The remnants rolled over your lips as you turned back to Viktor.

“You should taste it. It’s exactly like the clouds.”

Viktor stepped forward, a large hand cupping your jaw as he dipped his head. His mouth was against yours in an instant, stealing your breath. He took advantage of your parted lips, his tongue delving into your mouth.

When he pulled back he was pink-cheeked and wearing a wobbly smile.

“Yes,” he stammered, unable to focus on either your eyes or lips, his gaze flitting between them, “It does.”

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