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promiscuous
in which spencer reid doesn't like that flirty!reader is going on a date. he makes that known. (bandages universe)
flangst, 18+ for discussions of sex warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, mentions of going to a bar/going for drinks, very suppressed mutual pining, jealousy from Spencer, reader implied to engage in casual sex, reader calls themself a slut somewhat disparagingly but like as a joke, it all gets resolved, he is very sweet, he rambles when he's nervous a/n: oh God I love them so much they are like so in love and they literally have no idea at all because they're so dumb... but WE can tell.. turning point for them
“Penelope wanted me to confirm that you guys are coming to drinks with us tonight?”
It���s something of a standing tradition for the BAU on the last Friday of every month, and usually you’d agree, but tonight, you have other plans.
“Raincheck for me,” you say, sliding some files into your bag which you do not plan on reviewing. “I have a thing.”
“What thing do you have on a Friday night?” Morgan asks skeptically. You don’t bother looking at him as you hide a smile.
“A date, Morgan. You jealous?”
“You’re going on a date?”
You’d nearly forgotten Spencer was in the room until he spoke—he’s been in one of those quiet moods of his where he sort of floats around everyone else and makes himself insubstantial. As you cast him a sidelong glance, trying to figure out his tone of voice, you see he’s frowning. Nearly grimacing. His brows are drawn so tight you’re worried he’ll give himself a headache.
“Uh, yeah. I am.” Suddenly, your parade feels a little rained on.
“With who?”
You pause, looking back down at your desk with a new frown of your own and shaking your head as if you could clear it that way. “Just… some guy from OT.”
“Dalton?”
Ding ding ding. Somehow he got it right on the first guess, and for some reason, you wish he hadn’t. You don’t want Spencer knowing who you’re going on a date with. It feels wrong.
“Does it matter?” You evade, shoving your things with a little more force into your bag.
“Well Dalton is an idiot, so I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you’d go out with him.”
“And if it’s not Dalton?”
“Then I’d tell you all the guys in OT are idiots and you shouldn’t waste your time on any of them.”
“Alright—” Morgan passes between your desks, placing a friendly hand on your back as he does. “I’m gonna let you two hash this out by yourselves.” He gives you a look, eyebrows raised, unsmiling, that means, go easy on the kid. It makes you feel terribly guilty. And more than a little defensive.
“Night,” you call halfheartedly. He only waves as the glass doors swing shut behind him, leaving you and boy genius alone in the bull pen.
Silence falls, cloistering you as you finish packing up together. It seems to magnify the buzz of the overheads. You notice him intentionally lingering, and you sling your bag over your shoulder with a sigh.
“Okay,” you say, turning to face him with your whole body. He seems uncomfortable with that, but you’re not letting this go. “What is this? Why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, refusing to meet your eyes. “I just think—”
“Yeah. You’ve made your thoughts abundantly clear. I don’t know why you’re judging me for going on a date.”
“I’m not judging you! I just think you deserve better than a guy who looks like he… snorts protein powder for every meal and has less capacity for intelligent conversation than a mealworm.”
“Okay. Do you have someone in mind?”
The words come out a little sharper than you’d meant for them to. A little louder. Spencer looks like a scolded puppy as he swallows.
“Not specifically. Just—someone more like you.”
He just doesn’t get it. You fold your jacket over your arm.
“Yeah, well, until someone more like me comes along and asks me out, Dalton is the best I’ve got. I know he’s not my soulmate, Reid. But he asked me to drinks, and I said yes.”
The room is mostly dark. Only a few fluorescents remain on to cast Spencer in an almost clinical glow against a dark grey background. You’ve been here before. It feels like an interrogation. An environment where you’re practically begging for the truth without saying please, but there’s only room for measured dishonesty.
Spencer speaks under his breath, fiddling with the strap of his own bag. “He’s not good enough for you.”
“What do you want me to do?” It’s an exasperated, confrontational sigh. Your arms raise and fall heavily back to your sides. Another long grey hallway of silence that leads nowhere. When it becomes clear he doesn’t have the answer, or he’s not comfortable sharing, you straighten. “I’ll see you Monday, Reid.”
Your spirits are completely dampened as you trudge to the elevators. What once seemed like an exciting opportunity now only serves as a depressing reminder that you’re wasting your time with a man who isn’t what you want. Maybe you should just call the whole thing off.
“Wait,” Spencer calls, half-jogging to catch the open elevator. His bag bobs with every step, pens and things jingling around inside. It’s endearing, even though you’re upset with him. Your arms remain stubbornly crossed, but he makes it anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your mood.”
You laugh dryly. “Yeah, well…”
“It’s just that…” he sniffs and looks down, hair falling in front of his face. He really is sweet, even when he’s kind of a dick. He’s full of so much sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with it all. “I know how you are—you’re special, and funny, and intelligent, and, and Dalton—all those qualities are wasted on him. He looks at you and he just sees a pretty face. It may sound trite, but… he doesn’t deserve you.”
You sigh again, heart squeezing. The glowing light on the panel of floor numbers flickers. “I know your heart is in the right place, alright? But it’s not about who deserves me or who doesn’t. I’m not a prize. I’m a person, and people like to feel wanted. Sometimes, it’s just—it’s about who’s there, and who likes me enough to say it to my face. Sometimes that’s all I need, and I know you didn’t mean it like this, but when you say he doesn’t deserve me, it really seems like you’re not considering what I might want at all. Maybe Dalton is what I want.”
God—this elevator ride is like, comedically long.
“Is he what you want?”
At least he has the bravery to ask.
You glance over at Spencer, washed out bloodless and looking like he’s prepared to flinch, like he doesn’t know if he’s ready for the answer. The doors ding and slide open, and stale air whooshes from the chrome compartment into the lobby like a held breath finally exhaled. You swallow.
“I don’t know why it matters to you.”
“Because you’re my friend and I want to see you happy,” he insists, trailing after you as you speed walk through the lobby. Every click of your heeled boots echos.
“Then shouldn’t you be supporting me?”
“I’m not going to support you in making the wrong choice.”
The conversation spills out into the bitter-cold parking lot. You turn around to face him.
“Respectfully, you have no idea what’s right or wrong for me. I don’t like whatever this is,” you say, gesturing with a finger between the two of you, as if the conflict were a tangible thing—a phone line hanging between your hearts. “I don’t know if it’s, like, jealousy, or some misplaced feeling of possessiveness, or protectiveness, or—”
“It’s not like that!” He splutters.
“Okay—so what is it like? If you want to see me happy, why don’t you support me in pursuing the things that make me happy? And if that’s meaningless sex with some guy from operational tech, so be it! You are not in a position to give your two cents on who I sleep with!”
“I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t even thinking about—about sex! I don’t care who you sleep with!”
He’s turning increasingly pink.
“Fine. But if you weren’t thinking about sex, if you thought I was under any illusion that Dalton was going to be my fucking Prince Charming then clearly you’re not equipped to have this conversation. I know he’s an idiot. I’m not looking for my soulmate—thank you, though, for reminding me that it’s completely fucking pointless to even pretend. I love you, Spencer, but grow up. And stay out of my business.”
And with that, you’re turning on your heel and marching toward your car. Spencer calls your name—once. Twice. The wind lashes against your bare arms and stings your eyes as you fumble with your keys.
It’s just the wind.
Nothing else.
-
Maybe you’re simply not meant for love.
It’s a narcissistic thought in the sense that everyone has it at some point in their lives—everyone falls victim to the delusion that they are so uniquely wretched, so singularly incapable of being understood by another person. It’s the universal illusion of solitude. And you’d thought yourself above it for a long time. In college, there was fling after fling. Your bed was never empty if you didn’t want it to be. In your young adult life, you have other priorities—but you rarely have to be alone.
Now, though, as you sit on a rickety metal stool deep in the bowels of the Bureau’s records room, banished to sort through files in search of one that had been mishandled during a cold case and is now supposedly relevant again, (although you’re not sure it actually exists) you’re pondering the nature of those connections you’d been so sure your life was full of. Were they all artificial? Designed by you subconsciously to manufacture a sense of complacent satisfaction? To stave off the aching, gnawing loneliness in your gut that you’re only now becoming aware of and has been eating you away in bigger and bigger bites since Friday night?
Morgan was supposed to be just as arm-deep into a box of dusty manila folders as you are now, but he talked his way out of it, and you’re sitting in an awkward twenty-minute-long-so-far silence with Spencer. Which isn’t helping anything.
The tension comes and goes like the moon pulling the tides. It’s like you can sense it wafting off of each other—you feel it in the prickle on the back of your neck and the buzz in your stomach when he’s about to say something, and you glance over, and he’s already looking at you with his lips parted, and then he doesn’t say anything after all, and the silence reinforces itself.
It gets frustrating.
Not to mention this task is equal parts mind numbing and infuriating. Maybe Hotch just hates you.
Eventually Spencer clears his throat, and you welcome the distraction.
“What year are you on?”
You give him a long look which he doesn’t reciprocate, because you want to say, really? But eventually you pick up the edge of the box you’re sifting through and double check.
“Uh… June 1979 through August 1979.”
He nods matter-of-facts. “They should be making us wear gloves.”
Your incoming tangent spidey senses are tingling. It’s not exactly an opportune time, but it’s better than silence.
Plus—you’re pretty sure this is his idea of a peace offering.
“Why’s that?” You mutter, flicking through yellowed papers.
“Wood pulp paper contains an alum-rosin mixture to minimize ink bleeding, but in the presence of moisture such as that introduced in trace amounts by our fingertips it generates a diluted sulfuric acid solution. They didn’t start adding alkaline buffers into paper until 1986, and the cellulose chains that comprise the structure of the paper inevitably shorten and break down over time, so we’re actively degrading these documents by touching them without gloves.”
“Did you say sulfuric acid?”
“I said a diluted sulfuric acid solution,” he clarifies, utterly missing the point of your question as he so often does in that disarmingly endearing way of his. “Sorry, by the way.”
You look up from a photo of bloodied bell-bottom jeans. He’s caught you by surprise.
“For what?”
“For—”
He struggles with the words—you watch his lips form a few silent ones before he gives up on the nonchalant act and sets his file on his lap. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from it, but you don’t mind.
“For everything on Friday. I… I know it was none of my business. I sometimes struggle with… keeping my thoughts to myself. Especially when it concerns someone I care about. But I wasn’t judging you, I swear. What you said about—about sex, I—” he sighs, obviously frustrated with himself, and pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. “That’s not where my mind was at, at all. Whatever you… do, or don’t do, is none of my business. Obviously. You don’t need me to tell you that. You don’t need me to tell you anything. I just really wanted to clarify that I wasn’t shaming you or judging you for—”
“Spencer,” you say gently, cutting him off and reeling him in before he can dig any deeper.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
He glows under the canned lighting, a soft aura of white blurring the edges of him. The stale room buzzes. It’s otherwise quiet down here. Peaceful, almost.
From anyone else, you might consider it overstepping.
You wouldn’t have been willing to forgive them in the first place.
But it’s not anyone else.
“Thank you, for apologizing. I really appreciate it.”
He glances up at you, sort of hunched—always trying to make himself smaller than whatever force created him had intended. The deep brown of his eyes is melted and swirling and sweet and nervous. He’s not naturally good at these interpersonal things, but he’s always trying. He’s always pushing himself for you.
Do you ask too much?
Do you offer enough in return?
Struck by sudden insecurity, you look away. Go back to your files.
Perhaps you made a mountain out of a molehill and told him to climb it.
“I mean, I am kind of a slut. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so,” you laugh airily. “Maybe it was a good reality check.”
A trailing silence. An air conditioner kicks on.
“What? That’s not—that’s not at all what I was trying to say.”
“Spencer, it’s fine.”
His stool squeaks as he sits up straighter.
“No, I really want you to understand. Even if I cared or thought about how many people you might sleep with—which I don’t—and even if I determined that you were… sexually promiscuous, I wouldn’t assign a moral value to that judgement. Sexual promiscuity is observed all the time in the animal kingdom, it’s biologically sound and justified and in less misogynistic cultures where bonds forged between humans weren’t socioeconomic arrangements dependent on women being viewed as commodities first and foremost, it’s completely unremarkable. But I haven’t made that determination. All I know is that… you’re you. And that’s all that’s ever going to matter to me.”
Silence falls. Your voice gets stuck in your throat.
How does he so casually show you more kindness than anyone else has ever managed to show you in your life?
Spencer takes pity on you.
“And… we’ve talked entirely too much about something that’s none of my business today.”
It’s wry and earns a chuckle from you. Even Spencer manages a chagrined smile. That same strand of hair falls loose as he looks down. Light bounces from his self-effacing smirk.
You fiddle absentmindedly with the fraying corner of a folder, and you’re about to open your mouth, about to speak into the sparkling cloud that the easy laughter and the melted tension has left in its wake, and tell him how much you appreciate him and how kind he truly is and undoubtedly whatever you say will be made more beautiful because of it—because of the affection you have for each other—and then you stop, eyes catching on the case file between your fingers. You frown.
“Wait—what’s the case number we’re looking for?”
“91 18 00063 7.”
You hold the file up, eyes alight.
“I found it.”
Spencer frowns and takes it without asking. You watch as he reviews the number in tiny black typeface along the top of the document. His brow scrunches in disbelief.
“I genuinely didn’t think we were ever going to find it,” he murmurs after leading through the photos and glances back up at you. “We had thirty years of boxes to look through and you found it in under an hour. You’re like magic.”
It’s impossible not to smile. You feel all warm and sparkly as you snatch it back from him and stand, straightening your jacket.
“Will you tell that to Hotch?”
“I… will tell anyone who will listen,” he assures you, and you’re confident he’s following as you make your way through the maze of stacks. “Are we not gonna clean up our mess?”
“There are people who will take care of that later.”
“Yeah. Like me. During my lunch break.”
“Don’t worry. You’re going to be well rewarded for your efforts today.”
“What does that mean?” He mumbles, and you can practically hear his blush.
You smile to yourself.
Still got it.
for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid x you#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x y/n#criminal minds x you#criminal minds imagine#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfic
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Swan song
Professor Viktor x TA Reader
[PART 1]。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆[PART 2] ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆[PART 3] (coming soon)
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆[AO3 link] ⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。
Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.
Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, romanticizing and eroticizing borsht, lab shenanigans, reader being filled with equal parts shame and lust
Word count: 7.8k
Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.
Notes: A little something something while we await season two ;] The draft for this post deleted itself twice now. If the formatting looks wonky (especially in the texting section), NO, it doesn't. Shut up.
He didn’t lie.
Which is all the more shocking, considering you attend his 8AM lecture on the very same day, and he seems more bright and alight than you’ve ever seen him.
When did he find the time?
Though there isn’t a daunting amount to your thesis just yet, you still want to believe you’ve written something quite substantial over the past months.
You toss one glance around yourself before you follow him into his office after his lecture, and you find the stack of papers you’d left on his desk last night looking positively devoured, in the most… academic way possible. Scribbles and notes litter the margins, the edges of the papers are already somehow lightly worn.
He must have read it multiple times.
“Coffee?” He offers.
“Yes, please.”
As he gropes the machine in search of its switch again, he cocks his brow at you. “And what was that for?”
You frown. “What was what for?”
“That… glance, before you followed me into my office.” The switch clicks, the light comes on. “Looking around like you were being followed.”
“Oh,” caught in the embarrassing act, you shrug. “I don’t know. Being cautious, I guess. Students have been looking at me a little funny, lately.”
“Much too late for caution, I’m afraid.”
Uh oh.
As he retrieves two paper cups, you’re left wondering what exactly that should mean.
“Why’s that?”
“I thought you were well aware of the fact that rumors would start, um… circulating the moment I made it public that I had hired an assistant.” Coffee trickles into the cups, a soothing little melody. Viktor leans against the wall beside the machine as he watches the cups fill. “I’ve always been adamant about not needing one. It is natural for people to have questions — and to come up with, eh, answers — when I suddenly do.”
The notion of the answers students might have come up with swirls around in your brain.
You wish they were right.
You’re glad they’re not.
You look at Viktor.
“Do you mind it?”
The coffee stops pouring. Viktor does that thing again, spreading long fingers apart to grasp both cups. And he’s quiet — for a beat longer than he should be.
“No. There are more important things to worry about than… gossip.” He sets the cups on the table, then takes his seat. He hesitates for a brief second, craning his neck before he fixates on you, motionless. Waiting. “Do you?”
“Trying not to.”
The answer makes him… deflate, somehow. It’s barely visible, for just a fraction of a second his chest sinks, before his tone is back to his composed cadence.
“You will get used to it,” he assures. “Now, onto more interesting matters — your work.”
Thank god. You don’t know how much more of the awkward tiptoeing you could have handled.
“Yes.” Your heart leaps into your throat. Acting normal has never been so difficult. “What did you think?”
“Very impressive.” He slides the stack of papers towards you. “I have made some… suggestions here and there, should you wish to take them into consideration. But, I think you struck gold with your hypothesis. Should you need a conversation partner, guidance, anything at all — I would gladly be at your service.”
“Thank you, Viktor. I really appreciate this.”
At the sound of his own name coming from you, something in him shifts. Shifts with an unfamiliar near bashfulness, he stifles a little smile into the rim of his paper cup, the corners of his eyes crinkle, he settles into his seat a little further.
“But you never held up your end of the bargain,” you point out. That snaps him out of it.
“Ah, yes. I did not.” He continues to hide behind his cup, before he finally seems to decide to take a metaphorical leap, as he sets it down and stares down at it. “I fear the unfortunate truth may be that when it comes to research, I either work better with a partner, or that… Cecil is right and I need to slow down. Though I’d guess the former is more likely.”
“You used to work with, uh…” you’re not sure how to approach the topic, “Talis, didn’t you?”
“The five basic principles of applied arcanism are commonly referred to as Talis’ princies, you do not have to feign uncertainty to appease me.”
So you drop the attempt to tiptoe around the subject, and ask, plainly:
“Why wasn’t your name added on?”
Viktor scoffs. “Talis-Sidorov-Sviboda has a terrible ring to it. Or so he’d said. And admittedly… I was more of a conduit than the co-author of his idea. He said we would name the next big thing we would discover after me, but… well, you know how it is. I dedicated myself to teaching, he retired to lead a quiet life in his gaudy mansion with his sports cars and his purebred German shepherds after he married some businesswoman.”
Though his story does line up, those aren’t necessarily the rumors you’d heard. There’d been talk of more than just a mild dispute of names, and… well, there had been… something between Talis and Viktor. But that’s about all you know.
Under your gaze, Viktor grows suddenly uncomfortable — both with the subject and the fact that he might be able to tell you know more. He’s quick to redirect the conversation.
“As for my research: I have been studying the laminal hexoin cascade in stabilized hexgems in various matrices. And though bold, I have been attempting to figure out the ideal matrix — something that will allow for close to a hundred percent energy renewal and render all other sources of energy obsolete.”
”That is bold,” you say. Your other thought, you keep to yourself: it also sounds impossible. You suppose stabilizing hexgems 20 years ago was also something thought impossible — and yet, Viktor hadn’t shied away. If anyone is apt for the job, it is him. “Any luck so far?”
“Partially. They have been yielding favorable results, but not enough to be viable energetic alternatives as of now.” He takes his cup again, bringing it to his lips in a rushed movement, drinking a mouthful, rather than a sip. Once Viktor sets it down, his hand remains on the table, fingers tapping on the shiny surface once, twice— “I could use a theorist to assist me with a few things.”
The implication dizzies you. Is he…?
But then he slides another one of his drawers open, and retrieves a stack of papers. Slanted handwriting, barely legible — you’re by now intimately familiar with it: his cursive. It litters the pages, in different inks and in pencil, diagrams, sketches… just looking at it makes you hungry to read it.
He smiles as if he’s read your mind, again.
“I was thinking it could be you.”
—
You’re invited to his office for lunch break the very next day too. And though he assures you there is no pressure in having to read through his notes by then, you disregard it.
It takes you a reread to be able to make sense of all his scribbles, but… it’s brilliant. He’s brilliant.
It should stop surprising you by now — his ideas, his drive, his curiosity, his mind — but with every single time Vikror impresses you anew, he becomes something more distant.
As you’re marveling at his intricate weaving of concepts, it strikes you, unpleasantly, that this is the same man you’d wanted to devour just days ago. The man who’s made you coffee, the man whose sharp eyes fold at the corners when he smiles.
You’d have deified him, had he been your teacher. You still do, especially now, after you’ve seen more of what his mind is made of. The mere notion of him becomes terribly out of reach, and you’re plagued with guilt for that night. Guilt for having tainted such a man with your thoughts.
And yet, you still can’t help but think of his neck, the soft pink of his chapped lips, the hollow of his cheeks. You wonder what his mouth tastes like, and you want to slap yourself on the wrist for it. You should have, because minutes later, you wonder about worse things too. The scent of his skin, the coarseness of his body hair, how far up under his navel it might reach.
And when you finish reading his notes a second time and bring the paper to your nose to sniff it — hoping for a trace of him — you realize you have a problem. A serious one.
It torments you for the rest of the night, through the hours you spend writing up some suggestions and ideas, all the way to when you switch off the light, and hug whatever pillow’s within reach close.
When you get the urge to tilt your hips against it, you decide to get up and splash your face with water.
And you wish you could do the same thing the very next day on your lunch break, when you’re standing in the doorway of his office and he’s eating borscht. The sweet-tangy smell of vegetables, beef and beets makes your stomach growl, but your physical hunger is long lost on your otherwise preoccupied brain.
The beet red of the soup has pigmented his lips. They look kissed raw, puffy, ripe. A lavish speck of colour on his otherwise pale face, it draws your gaze and does not let it stay somewhere more respectful.
You want to taste them.
He does it for you, raspberry pink tip of his tongue darting over the plush of his lips before he swallows and finally greets you.
“Sorry,” you say, and it comes out tense, near horrified. You’ve caught him eating soup, for chrissakes, not being bent over his table. Oh, god. Why did you have to think about that? ”I’ll come back later.”
“No,” Viktor gestures to the empty seat across from him. He screws his thermos shut, and puts it away. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you. Sit.”
And you do, like the dog you feel like you are right now.
“Did you manage to find the time to read my notes?”
Oh, did you.
“I… followed your example and made some suggestions of my own. But on separate pages. Here.”
His reaction is more than what you’d hoped for. It’s more than the impressed raise of thick brows that had kept you fueled last night, it’s more than the smile you’d been hoping for.
“You are unbelievable,” he grins, and takes what you offer, pushing his glasses up his nose before he starts reading. You selfishly use the distraction to stare at his lips again. He mutters to himself as he reads, pink mouth molding around whispered jargon, nodding. “Yes, this… this is exactly what I’d hoped for, when I’d asked for your assistance. Your fresh set of eyes is invaluable. I hadn’t thought of approaching the modification from that angle.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the page for even just a moment, flipping it surprisingly fast, and taking it with him as he leans back in his seat.
And decides to torture you.
Viktor traces the pad of his own thumb over the curve of his bottom lip as he takes in your handwriting. The give of the flesh under his fingertip hypnotizes, the slight drag of rough skin on soft pink one, your mind is long gone.
You think of rough fingertips on his lips, on his chest, rough fingertips on the pasty white of his gaunt lower stomach, rough fingertips in coarse hair. Rough fingertips dipping between his milky thighs, rough fingertips on where he runs just as pink as he does on his lips, rough fingertips dipping, slipping on slick skin—
You need to stop.
And you most certainly need help.
“Is something the matter?”
It feels like you’ve swallowed your own brain whole when he speaks, because your skull rings hollow when you try to come up with a reply that isn’t incoherent babble.
“Wh— me? No. Why?”
And because embarrassment loves to stick around once it has made its presence known, the stars align for the next social disaster: your stomach growls. Loudly.
“Did you not have lunch?” Viktor asks.
“I… didn’t get around to it,” you admit.
“I won’t take up too much of your time, then,” he assures. If he knew just how much of your time he’s started taking up — and the fact that you wish you could give him what is left of it to him, too. “I would like you to work alongside me on my research. But if you don’t feel like you can squeeze another project into your presumably busy schedule, I understand. I would be glad to have you merely as… a colleague to consult with, as well.”
Is that even a question? He’s offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You would be an idiot not take it.
And an even bigger idiot to turn down more time spent with him.
“You don’t even have to ask,” you joke. “Yes. I would be thrilled, Viktor.”
This is his first smile you witness when his pretty boyishness doesn’t shine through. It’s a gentle quirk of his lips, no teeth to be seen, just tenderness. It makes your heart leap to be the cause of it.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you.”
Silence.
Just as you’re about to breach it — he does it first.
“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow as well?”
He watches you from below long, dark lashes as you give a breathless yes.
—
“I brought you something.”
It’s the last thing you expect as you step into his office at noon, upon exchanging hellos.
You’re alight. With curiosity, above all else. And with worry — why would he bring you something? What will you do to reciprocate?
“Thank you,” you say, though you have no idea what for just yet. “What is it?”
“I saw you eyeing my borscht yesterday.” There’s a glint in his eye that suggests more, so much so you can’t decide between flirting or digging a hole for yourself in the hardwood floor of his office.
The middle ground is standing in his office awkwardly as he unzips his backpack.
He retrieves two thermos bottles: the one you’re already familiar with, and another that looks older, more worn, and sorely lacks the sticker you’ve so come to love and fixate on and dream about. “I, eh, I made you some. In case you wouldn’t get the chance to eat before you came here.”
Your chest swells so much it hurts.
He made you soup?
“You… Viktor, this is… thank you. You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to. Have a seat.”
You practically jump into the seat across the table from his — a seat you’ve come to associate as yours, in spite of being well aware of the oppisite.
As he screws the bottle open and pours some steaming soup out into a paper bowl — god, he’d brought paper bowls — his eyes flick to you.
“But if you don’t care for borscht, you don’t have to—“
“I do care.”
And that rings true not just for the borscht.
It rings true for the soup he brings you the next day too, it rings true for every word that passes his lips. And it rings true for the time you start to spend in the insane coffee shop queue to surprise him with his preferred order and a slice of cake (a different one each day, until you figure out his favorite: cinnamon coffee), it rings true for the dark blue roughed up thermos he lets you take home the day you don’t finish the soup he brings you because you’re just so busy talking.
It’s November before you know it.
As the days grow colder, it’s not rare to be finding warmth by lavishing in Viktor’s attention as you ramble on about ideas — either for his research, or your thesis. All while he intently follows your thoughts with a smile, stopping just to shave another mouth-half-full’s worth off his cake of the day with his plastic spoon.
And once he savors the last bite, Viktor almost always flips it hollow side down, sliding it down the swell of his tongue within his mouth, removing it from between puckered lips. His cheeks hollow, he holds eye contact all the same, and it’s a mental image that haunts you. A mental image you project in your mind, nestled between the apex of your thighs. The thick of his tongue. The cushiony seal of his lips, the suction of his cheeks.
It never becomes any less distracting than the first time it happens.
You startle when Viktor speaks as he sets down the plastic spoon into the now empty packaging.
“I would like you to accompany me to the lab sometime soon. When would you be free?”
You’ve been before — but just a handful of times. Mainly for him to demonstrate or disprove certain guesses, or test conclusions you’d reached together.
“I’m free right now,” you suggest.
Viktor shakes his head. “I have a lecture in an hour.”
Right.
“I mean… I think we could make it in an hour.”
“I prefer to take my time.” Viktor leans back in his seat, stares thoughtfully at the clock on his wall for a moment. “Would seven PM work for you?”
“Uh…” you mentally go through your schedule for the day, “yes. It should. I might be a little late, though. How about… seven fifteen-ish?”
“Good.” The flow of the word is syrupy, yet his next sentence comes out surprisingly peppy with excitement: “See you then.”
—
Though you’re well into the final week of November, it never stops bothering you just how quickly the sun sets. By the time you get to the lab, the air’s gone cold, dry, and the darkness is heavy and thick.
Viktor waits for you just outside the university lab, under the halo of the street light — perhaps just a hint overdressed for the cold, in your opinion. It’s certainly trench coat season, though his is surprisingly long, reaching somewhere along the middle of his shins. The hand he hasn’t tucked in his pocket holds his cane and is clad in a leather glove. Around his lengthy neck, a red knitted scarf lays in chunky, impenetrable layers, reaching almost all the way to the swell of his top lip and his ears. You can hardly see his smile from underneath when he spots you — but his eyes give him away.
“Right on time,” Viktor’s tone has just as much pep to it as a few hours ago, perhaps even moreso. He rolls his shoulders, before he subtly nuzzles further down into his scarf, shying away from the biting cold. “Let’s get inside.”
He leads the way into the building, its warmth embracing you the moment you step in. The tip of your nose and your fingertips feel like they’re beginning to thaw, tingling just a hint. As you go to take off your coat, you notice Viktor isn’t in a rush. He rests his cane against the wall before he unwraps the thick, wide scarf from around his neck, folding it. He sets it on a nearby table, shucking off his trench coat, slender shoulders under a wool sweater. You watch closely as he then takes his scarf and stuffs it into the sleeve of his coat before he hangs it up.
There’s something stiff, painful, about how he moves. You wonder if it’s the cold.
“What?” He watches you with appeased amusement.
Caught red-handed, you jump, still halfway clad in your coat.
“Nothing,” you reply, scraping for a way to deflect from your obvious staring. “Not a big fan of the cold?”
“Never.” He says it like it’s a very serious matter. “I still don’t know how I made it through my first eighteen winters in St. Petersburg.”
“You grew up in Russia?”
He laughs through his nose like you’ve told him a half good joke. “What gave it away? The accent? The surname?”
“No, I just thought… Svoboda is a Czech surname.”
With how his smile turns knowing, self-satisfied, you’re suddenly back in his office again, uncertain and nervous and asking for a job as his assistant. He could taunt you with the knowledge that you’ve looked up his last name, embarrass you a little, play with you.
But he isn’t that man anymore — not to you. This time, he feeds your curiosity, albeit just with crumbs.
“My mother’s,” he clarifies. “Sidorov is Russian — my father’s.”
Oh.
“It’s nice that they used both their names. I’m assuming that wasn’t… common, back then, and back there.”
“It wasn’t, and they did not.” Viktor waits for you to hang up your coat, watchful gaze making your every movement feel loaded with static that’s about to snap. “I added hers when I changed my name.”
Changed his name?
The image of the sticker on his thermos turns up fresh in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder…
“Well? I was hoping we could discuss more in the lab, but if you prefer the coat hanger…”
Goddamn it. Focus. You need to focus.
“Sorry.”
You catch up, then slowly follow Viktor down the hallway, into the small lab he has been assigned. It’s one of the less grand ones, but it has all it needs — from a pretty new hexion accelerator to a humble whiteboard. It smells sanitized, sterile, ozonic.
You assume your usual seat by the whiteboard while he sets up. It still doesn’t feel… right to let him do all of that by himself, but he insists upon it, so, you stay out of his way. Viktor tidies up the space just a little, finding his goggles among the mess. He slips them onto his head, elastic pulling back his soft hair into a fluffy grey and brown mess. His cane thumps against the linoleum with every hurried step — though he doesn’t seem to be hurrying on account of you being there as much as excitement to show you.
Once he’s done, he sits in front of the accelerator, slipping his goggles on, and nods for you to come. Which you do — you’d be at his beck and call beyond just the academic context. For a moment, you pluck the inviting tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips out of their context, and you plant it atop your own bed, him in just a loose shirt, underwear, lax with freshly received pleasure. More comfortable than he’s ever been, all because of you. Beckoning for you. Come here. Smiling at you when your knee dips into the mattress, tucking his index under your chin as you crawl to him, reeling you in for a kiss.
“Come closer.”
God help you.
You comply with a wildly beating heart, stepping forward until you’re close behind his sitting form, watching the accelerator over his shoulder.
He smells nice. Like an indistinct, aromatic cologne, covering up the natural, gentle musk of his skin. You have to resist the urge to dip your head down and trace the tip of your nose along his spine, from where the bones of his neck show to where the scruff at the back of his head goes thicker, fuller. You wonder if he’d shiver as you let the scent of him imbue you… you wonder if he’d lean into it, if he’d tilt his head for you, let you dip your face into the slope of his shoulder, where his scent’s more potent.
The mere thought of him, vivid in your nostrils and clinging to your palate and the floor of your brain, rattles you with a shiver.
“I thought I’d rather show you than tell you,” he explains, wrapping both pale, bony hands around the handles of the accelerator. Steam hisses from the exhaust, flooding the room with more ozone, and gently, but certainly, the gem starts to spin behind the glass panel, beginning to levitate out of its socket, illuminating the room.
God, you should have put on goggles too, it’s making your eyes hurt. It’s a welcome reminder as to why you chose to spend most your days staring down a blackboard rather than the thing itself. The screen right above it is more of a familiar sight to you: numbers, reading the rotations per minute, as well as energetic output, steadily increasing.
It whirrs, magic static whirling up around the blue orb, electricity crackles.
You can see the appeal of this over a blackboard. But you’d still take the chalk. Especially considering the deafening noise.
Nevermind the damn goggles. You need to remember to bring some ear plugs.
“Watch the panel.” Viktor raises his voice over the hum of the machine, and turns to you, watching you from behind foggy lenses with a smile. You wish you could see the way his crow’s feet deepen. It rumbles harder, so much so Viktor almost has to shout the next thing he says, which is a shame, because his usually playful lilt is lost in the noise of it. “Not to… spoil the outcome of this experiment for you, but I implemented the conclusions we came to last week, and, it is safe to say…”
With a well-timed click and tug on a lever, the machine disengages, and the gem drops back into its socket under the influence of gravity. Its violating light returns to a faint, blue glow, like an artificially lit aquarium; fluctuating and undulating gently in its intensity. The potential energy indicator’s numbers climb back up, steadily, but faster than what you’ve seen before.
Much faster.
You can’t help but grin with excitement. “It’s regenerating fast.”
Viktor smirks at you over his shoulder like you’re sharing a sacred, intimate inside joke.
“It is.“
You await the verdict with a bated breath.
“How much?”
Viktor’s smile only grows, like he’s about to give you a present. And, all things considered, this is going to be one, in months’ or maybe even years’ time.
“A thirty-seven percent recovery after usage within an hour.” Viktor spins in the lab stool to face you with the theatrical self-satisfaction of a magician who just sawed his assistant in half and is waiting for the applause. You nearly forget to step back to give him the space for it, so much so your knees knock together. But there is no chance for you to apologize, Viktor is unbothered, sliding the goggles up his forehead enthusiastically, his show of complacency ditched in favor of pure excitement. “That is more than I’ve ever achieved thus far. Thanks to y—”
His voice sticks in his throat, turning into a pained hiss.
His hair’s tangled in his goggles.
“Oh, wonderful,” he grits out sarcastically.
A frustrated half-sigh half-groan rumbles in his chest as he pulls again and only makes things worse.
“Could you get me a pair of scissors? I should have some in the third drawer over there.”
“Wait. At least let me try first,” you insist. Reluctantly, you step closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, Viktor lowers his head for better access like a feral animal letting itself be pet for the first time. He sits still, the sound of both your breaths suddenly loud in the tall, quiet room as you’re forced to step even closer. “Could you…”
You nudge his ankles apart with the tip of your shoe.
He listens.
After a stuttering, fragile exhale, Viktor spreads his thighs.
You take the space offered. And you try not to think about kneeling, about making a home for yourself between his thighs.
“Do you think you can do it?”
You wish he’d asked you that about any number of things, except for the goggles tangled in his feathery, soft hair.
But yes. You think you do.
It would have been a terrible shame to cut it — though some shorter, bluntly cut hairs that sit a little further back near the top of his head tell you his suggestion was not the product of a new idea. Carefully, you pull whatever hairs are looser from between the lens and the bridge of the goggles, though a strand remains stubborn.
You try to ignore the warmth of his breath on your shirt, the intoxicating, soapy, yet distinctively human smell of his scalp, and the mesmerizing ratio of grey to dark brown, the subtle heat on the sides of your palms and wrists, resting on his head for stability.
As you separate another few hairs from the stuck strand and accidentally tug at them, Viktor has no reaction. Beyond swallowing thickly, and sitting through it dutifully.
You wonder if he’d act just the same, had you bunched his hair into the spaces between your fingers and tugged — simply biting his tongue and chewing through the pain — or if he’s leaned into the force, moaning with it, and god, you’ve hurt him, and you haven’t even apologized.
“Sorry.” You sound twice as genuine — mainly because you apologize for much worse than the inflicted pain. “Almost done.”
“The scissors would have been faster,” he half-jokes.
His voice sounds different. A hint more… strained. He shifts in the seat, wipes his hands on his slacks.
“Would have been a shame, though. You have pretty hair.” The last part of the sentence positively escapes you, and once you hear it, you freeze. Your brain scrambles itself trying to add something that will fix the inherent following awkwardness, the horrifying realization you just called your boss pretty, the fact that it’s true, the fact that—
Viktor flinches with another accidental tug of his hair, and so do his thighs — jumping with the surprise, clenching together until they squeeze around yours. But they’re gone just as fast, flinching away with horrified urgency. Before you get to savor the supple flesh pressing into your own in another new perverted way, before you get to imagine his ankles locking behind you, tilting and rubbing your hips into the hug of his thighs.
You need. To get. A grip.
“Sorry.”
You continue on in silence, and thank everything above he at the very least can’t see the way your hands shake, because he’s staring at the floor like he could drill a hole into it with just his eyes.
You should have gotten the damn scissors. As if through divine intervention, the rest of his hair comes loose not soon after.
“Okay. All done.” You smooth the slightly crinkled, but now free strand back down into the rest of his soft hair.
Viktor’s dainty features come into view from below his face framing pieces as he tilts his chin up. His lips quirk into a gentle smile, his eyes sparkle in the faint blue glow, soft shadows under the hollow of his cheeks and the swell of his lip and the tip of his nose and the bone of his brow. You wish you could immortalize him in whatever way he’d let you — a sculpture, a painting, a poem. He looks ripe for kissing, eyes half-lidded and twice as dreamy as he peers at you.
You’re going to see him like this in your mind’s eye later tonight.
Nestled between your thighs, or kissing down your stomach, molten gold under long, dark lashes, sitting atop carved marbled bone.
“Thank you.” He says it quietly — like it would break the sudden holiness of the moment to say it any other way.
He’s so warm.
You could kiss him. See what the ozone of the room tastes like in the slick of his mouth. You wonder if he’d let you, if he’d suckle your tongue into his mouth in a show of submission, or if he’d bite your lip, licking your teeth, pressing, pushing, make you earn the privilege to taste him.
You wonder if he’d hold you, or if his curious hands would roam, tracing the front of your stomach, or your spine, or press to the middle of your breastbone like he wants to see where you’d split open for him down the middle like a ripe peach. You wonder if he’d let you dip a hand down the front of his slacks, you wonder if he’d tilt his hips into it like he’d been aching for it, aching for you. Scorching your hand with want, materialized in slick or straining hardness. You wonder which it’d be.
From where you’re standing, the distance between the apex of his chin and the space where his slacks stretch between his thighs is small — and your gaze takes the leap, searching. But the material dips and curves in such a way that you’re left none the wiser, and with nothing but a disgusting realization.
You’re staring at your boss’ crotch.
You step back from the heat between his thighs, painfully awake, aware. It squeezes and wriggles in your chest like you have a parasite lodged in the chambers of your heart.
You’re disgusting.
You need to put an end to this.
“You’re welcome, professor.”
With that, you’re practically bolting from between his thighs, to stash the scissors away again.
You’re neglecting your job, you’re putting it in jeopardy. Putting yourself in jeopardy, risking all the rumors circulating becoming a shameful truth, you’re risking the first man who ever kept up with you, followed you where you wanted to go and took you further — you’re risking it all because he makes you unbelievably fucking horny.
And it’s absurd. Embarrassing. You need to get a hold of yourself.
“I was… thinking, actually,” you begin, and want to punch yourself over how Viktor perks back up from where you’d left him. “About some things regarding my thesis that I’d like your thoughts on.”
“Oh. Of course.” You have got to be imagining the subtle disappointment in his tone. The second you let yourself believe it’s more than just a figment of your make-believe, is the second you will be doomed.
Viktor, with all his years and experience, would and does know better than to fall for his assistant. You know he does.
“What’s on your mind?” He prompts after your prolonged silence.
If he knew the half of it.
—
You’re late.
And it’s a direct, shameful consequence of last night’s lusting, the time you’d spent frustratedly tossing and turning and thinking of his mouth and his eyes and his scent, before you’d given in past midnight, and humped your hand into completion.
Thinking about him under you, about pressing your face into his neck, about pressing him into the mattress and rutting into him until he gushes and his tired body sings for you and his voice cracks. Until he breaks for you, until pleasure itself oils and unscrews all the biological cogs of his body and he comes out unstrung, reborn.
Viktor’s in a wheelchair.
And he looks worse for wear than you’ve ever encountered him before, slumping in the chair and massaging his eyelids with his thumb and index, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He’s dressed even warmer than usual, in a loose but thick, dark red sweater. There’s a colorful knitted blanket folded and set over the tops of his thighs.
Viktor doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in and sit near the whiteboard, simply resumes his lecture as he regains his mental footing. And he goes on for a while, not sparing you a single glance, as he goes through powerpoint slides today, instead of his usual writing and hand drawn diagrams.
He’s at it for a while, not as fast as his usual pace, but undeniably concise, certain. Until…
“The energy output increases proportionately to the spin, and, with powerful enough matrices, some hexgems can create force fields of their own. This is a particularly common phenomenon in unstabilized gems as well, though with the activation of their force field, those tend to also create… eh…”
Viktor stops, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. He frowns, mumbling something in another language, which, judging by the heavy consonants and squeezed vowel, you’d assume it’s Russian. The word must be slipping his mind, so you decide to help out.
“A shock wave.”
Viktor’s gaze cuts. He’s looked at you with disinterest before, sure, but this…
He doesn’t even turn his head to look at you, just eyes you from the corner of his vision like something unworthy of acknowledgment. You wish you could swallow your words back up.
“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. A shock wave.”
You don’t say anything again for the rest of the lecture.
Once the door falls shut behind the last few students who have left the room, Viktor turns to you. You wish you could shrink; and it feels like you do, when he finally speaks.
“I appreciate your intention to help — but do not interrupt me again. I know what I’m trying to say.” He sounds utterly unlike himself, both spent and angry. “I don’t need help. Especially not in the middle of a lecture.”
“Sorry.”
That alone softens him up a hint. He looks away, rubbing his thumbs against the wheels of his chair, before he speaks again. Calmer.
“Just… do not let it happen again.”
As he slumps in his seat, massaging at his temples, you understand that his anger… might not have been as directed at you as you’d initially thought. He’d been snippy when his back hurt — having switched to a wheelchair must mean he’s in a lot more pain now.
And you understand his frustration. He’d just gotten himself an assistant a few months back, and started a new project — looking like he requires help in front of his students is certainly not doing his reputation right now any favors.
“But if there’s other things I can do to make your day a little easier, I’d like to do them.”
“No, thank you.” He shakes his head, before he grabs both wheels and advances to where he’d left his bag. As he starts packing his things, he stops again, quietly groaning somewhere in the back of his throat. “Where did I put my pen…”
Viktor eventually finds it right behind his water bottle on the table, tossing the both of them into his bag, shutting it tightly. You expect him to wheel himself over to the ramp that leads to the exit, but he just hangs his head, massaging at his temples again, before he looks at you.
“Actually, I’d like it if you went to my office and got me a silver tin box in the… fourth drawer on the left side of my desk. Do you have the key with you, or should I give you mine?”
“I have it. I’ll be quick.”
“Thank you.”
And you deliver on your promise. You don’t run, but you power walk there, and you’re back with (hopefully the right) tin box in the same lecture hall before his break ends.
Viktor takes it from you gladly, popping it open. It contains two foils of painkillers, one already half empty, a small ziploc bag of… gummies, and at the very bottom, some dark chocolate.
You must have pulled a bit of a face at the contents — particularly the gummies — because Viktor cocks a brow at you, before he faintly chuckles under his breath and pops three painkillers in one go.
After depositing the foil back in the box, he fishes out the dark chocolate bar. It looks to be the expensive kind, something Belgian — Viktor breaks off a piece, putting it in his mouth, before he holds it out to you.
“Peace offering,” he clarifies when you hesitate.
You’d be a fool to turn him down. You take some — it’s rich, buttery, and melts on your tongue. It coats your mouth with its taste, dark and aromatic and unfortunately not as sweet as you thought Viktor preferred. He’d always favored the almost disgustingly sugary cakes.
“Didn’t think you’d like something so bitter,” you say.
“I do not. It sometimes helps with my migraines,” he tells you. “Sugar makes them worse. A very… devastating discovery to make, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
You wonder if right now is the right time to be curious — and you decide it might be.
“Do the migraines also affect your leg? Or the other way around?”
“No.” Viktor shakes his head, popping off another piece of dark chocolate. “This,” he gestures at himself, the wheelchair, “was just a very unfortunate… overlapping.”
“Oh.” You grimace in sympathy. “Fun.”
“A punishment for it, more like.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Let’s hope my migraine eases up on me throughout this lecture.” He smiles at you — and for the first time you’ve known him, he looks old doing it. Exhausted. The face of a man who’s seen enough hardship for a lifetime, but has yet to cave under it.
You wish you could hold him. You wish you could melt it away, kiss it better, love it better. Whatever he’d let you.
You surprise both him and yourself when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and let your thumb rub a small circle over the wool.
Though he flinches at the first contact, once something in his brilliant mind unfurls and settles, so does he. Through the cracks, tenderness shines under the fatigue. Viktor can be soft — in spite of everything im his body and his past that protests against it. “Thank you.”
You take your hand away sooner than you’d like — but at the ideal time to keep it from being anything more than a friendly touch.
“I’m glad I could help,” you say.
—
Viktor isn’t there at all next week.
You come in on Monday to find his office empty during lunch break, and when you attend his lecture, it’s another professor from his department teaching it. The students don’t seem all too excited about the change either — and you leave before it even starts.
Heimerdinger is none the wiser about Viktor’s situation when you talk to him — in spite of their shared history. He simply tells you he’d taken the week off and had arranged for substitutes.
You consider messaging him… and ultimately end up doing so, after some internal debate. You simply text him to get well soon and that you hope he’s getting some well-deserved rest. He replies with just a plain thank you.
Tuesday is quiet. You receive a stack of midterms you need to get through from the substitute, and you do, by Thursday morning. Which is when Heimerdinger messages you.
Dr. Prof. Cecil B Heimerdinger
Good morning! I’m well aware this is on very short notice — but the substitute professor has unfortunately suffered a minor car accident. Not to worry; they only sustained small njury. However, I am finding myself forced to task you with Viktor’s lectures today. Do you think you could take care of that? Thank you.
-Cecil B. Heimerdinger
9:32
Just the thing you needed — teaching two full lectures, entirely unprepared.
Alright. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You just need to find out what’s even on the agenda for today. You could text Viktor, right? If he answers on time, that is… he’s sick, he might as well be asleep right now. You could call, but… he said only to do that in the case of an emergency when he gave you his phone number.
Would this count as an emergency?
Your phone beeps.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
There should be a black flash drive in the third drawer on the left in my desk. It has all my lectures.
9:34
Today’s topic is LHC segments naturally occurring in unstabilized gems. Feel free to use my work laptop to familiarize yourself with the presentation before the lecture.
9:35
Me
Thank you so much!
9:35
His answer comes a few minutes later, just as you fish the flash drive out of his drawer, and plug it into his laptop.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
Good luck 👍
9:42
It would be a lot easier to get caught up in the desire to snoop around on his laptop if you didn’t have less than 20 minutes left until the lecture. His background is disappointingly the default image, but some of his folders look undeniably tempting — not just the scientific ones, which take up most of the space. There’s some photo albums titled with the year and location: Germany 2011, Czech Republic 2009, among many others. There’s also a photo album titled Persichka.
Who is that?
You almost click it. But then you check your watch again and realize you only have 15 more minutes until the lecture, and decide against it.
—
For how utterly unprepared you are, it goes surprisingly well. You stumble, once or twice, but you’re glad to see that even by the end of the lecture, you still have most students’ attention.
After you dismiss the class, you don’t expect questions. But a good handful of them, a little under ten, approach your desk, whispering among themselves, before a hastily appointed representative emerges.
“We were just wondering,” she awkwardly begins, “if professor Sidorov-Svoboda is alright. And when he’s coming back.”
“Oh.” You hope they’re asking because they understandably prefer him, and not because you did a particularly shabby job. “He texted me just today — he’s doing alright. But I can’t give you an exact estimate for when he’s coming back just yet.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
With that, all of them turn to go. After the last student has left the room, you reach for your phone, and pray you don’t see any other day-altering messages today.
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I did not mean for you to have to do this.
10:11
You unlock your phone and jump straight into the chat.
Me
Don’t worry, it’s alright. I handled it :)
12:02
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I knew you could.
12:02
Thank you.
12:02
Me
Focus on resting up and getting well soon!
12:03
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
I have been. I actually feel well enough for company now. Coincidentally, I’ve gotten some ideas for your thesis and I would like it if we discussed them sometime. Would you be free this weekend?
12:05
He wants to meet? Outside of the university? Undoubtedly for academic purposes still, but your heart squeezes and bounces and pops with the implications.
No. You shouldn’t let yourself hope for more than just a few formal, at best friendly hours spent together.
Viktor doesn’t want you. He would never want you — he knows better. You know better.
Me
I’d like that! Saturday works for me. Where would you like to meet?
12:05
Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda
If you’d prefer somewhere on academy grounds like my office or the coffee shop, either would be fine.
12:06
My apartment is also an option.
12:06
The choice is obvious.
#viktor arcane#viktor arcane x reader#arcane viktor x reader#arcane viktor#viktor arcane x you#reader insert#my writing
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Hi yes,i completely understand as to why someone might feel uncomfortable writing a fic abt jimmy in a romantic aspect,which is exactly why i asked for angst. ( I'm a sucker for angst )
I was asking for a scenario where the reader and jimmy had already been in an established relationship with Jimmy wayy prior than boarding on the tulpar, i was wondering that the reader has positive views on jimmy but after finding out what he did to anya the reader completely breaks down and loses every ounce of love/compassion/respect for jimmy. And how curly/swansea and daisuke would try to comfort the reader.
Jimmy tries to convince the reader to give him another chance but the reader rips him a new one,like just jimmy being pathetic and miserable like he deserves to be.
I've been sent requests and messages that everyone can't wait for this fic, now I'm scared I'm going to disappoint 😔
BUT WHO CARES, I'M STILL WRITING IT, RAAAHHHH 🦅💥💥🦅🦅🦅💥💥💥
Edit: I'm done with writing it and right as I was about to post it, I realized that I forgot to put the actual comfort in the fict... Yeahh....
Warnings: mentions/hinting of sexual assault, Daisuke and the reader having a parent/son relationship, mentions of paper cuts, mentions of guns, drug overdose, murder, blood, hurt/no comfort, not proofread
I looked at Jimmy in absolute horror. No tears, no sobbing, nothing left my lips. There was only one feeling remaining though...
Disgust.
He called out my name, and I couldn't stop the shiver of fear that rushed through me.
"Please... Let me explain."
Three days before boarding ᯓ★
"One year?!" I gasped out in disbelief, eyes widening in shock at the news my boyfriend just dropped. One year out in space? Why would he even accept that offer?!
"I know, I know... But we need the money." He breathed out, not looking so pleased with the outcome either.
I sighed, knowing that he was right. I relaxed back onto the couch, crossing my arms in disappointment.
One year without him here with me? No contact at all? I barely survived his last shipment, and that only lasted three months, and now I had to wait a year? they were asking too much. What do they even ship out?
"... I'm sorry." He breathed out, and his expression only made me feel worse.
"You don't have to apologize... It's your job." I sighed, a small smile on my face to reassure him. Sure, it would be a loonnngg year for me, but it was for the money, for our future... for us.
"I'll go start dinner for us... Okay?" He gave me a sad smile, walking over to me and resting a gentle hand on the back of my head, placing a light kiss to my temple as he made his way towards the kitchen.
I smirked, watching him walk off with a playful roll of my eyes.
"And by that I'm guessing you're ordering pizza?" I teased, causing him to let out a quick laugh before disappearing into the kitchen.
With him gone, I was now alone with my thoughts.
I mean- a whole year away from Earth? That's sure to leave some impact on both me and him.
... My saddened expression slowly started to fade as a thought crossed my mind.
What if I applied for the job with him?
A smile grew on my face, but I couldn't tell him now, it should be a surprise! Yes! Imagine his joy when he finds out I get to tag along with him, and for a whole year at that!
Oh, the overjoyed look on his face-
"You want plain peperoni again or do you want to switch it up for tonight?" I jumped a bit; my thoughts being interrupted as Jimmy yelled from the kitchen.
"Uh- Yeah! A peperoni will do!" I yelled back, smiling to myself. Maybe I should apply after dinner.
One week before boarding ᯓ★
I giggled to myself quietly as I watched Jimmy pack his bags. He always liked to pack early, says he has time to check everything and pack anything that's missing.
"Jimmy..." I dragged out his name, trying to contain my excited expression as I watched him.
"Yes, Y/n? I'm busy, I wouldn't want to miss anything." He mumbled out, rummaging through his things. My smile felt slightly, but I decided to shake that uneasy feeling away. He was just stressed.
"I've got some exciting news." I stated, my smile and excitement returning as he peaked at me over his shoulder and gave me a confused glance, "I applied as a Pony express nurse and... I got in!" I almost squeaked out in excitement, but... my excitement died down when he didn't return it.
He stayed in silence for a little while, still looking over his shoulder but not looking at me.
"... Why would you do that?" He asked me, his voice cold as he still didn't look at me. Did I... do something wrong?
"Well... I'm sure that us being apart would make both your journey and my stay would feel way longer than it was supposed to, so... I thought going with you would make both of our stays fly by faster." I stated sheepishly, now unsure of myself. I looked down at my hands, feeling an intense sense of guilt wash over me as the two of us stayed in silence.
I heard him sigh and his clothes ruffle, soft footsteps walking towards me and soon enough his arms were wrapped around me in a warm embrace.
"I'm sorry I reacted like that... I just didn't want you to get hurt." He mumbled into my hair, one of his hands resting on my lower back while the other ran through my hair.
Every ounce of dread faded away with those simple words, hugging him back with a smile on my face.
"... I should've told you earlier, I'm sorry too." I mumbled back. I felt his grip get a bit tighter, which made me feel comforted. He mumbled something underneath his breath that I couldn't comprehend, but I didn't question it.
Two months before the crash ᯓ★
Life on the ship was... Weird. I mean, I knew I was away from Earth, but it felt like we didn't even take off, which I guess is better than floating around.
Everyone on the ship was nice as well. Anya, my coworker was really sweet and really competitive when it came to boardgames, but she's been oddly quiet around my boyfriend, Jimmy... maybe because she found out he was my boyfriend she didn't want to seem like she was going to steal him away from me, which I find very sweet.
Daisuke was interesting. He was a bit nervous for the first few days, but I couldn't really do anything since he didn't really want to talk to anyone. He quickly opened up to us though, and it's always interesting to hear him talk, he does say some weird stuff sometimes though.
Swansea was the same as boarding day, acting very serious and only talking about work, but I sometimes get to hear a little about his past. He has a wife and two kids! How nice.
Curly was a nice captain, I don't see him nor talk to him often, but the times that I did he was nice.
And of course there was my boyfriend, Jimmy. He focuses on his work a lot, which is good don't get me wrong! But I sometimes want him to spend time with me or even visit me in the medical bay...
All of the relationships to the side, work wasn't really that hard. Everyone made sure to take care of themselves, Daisuke got hurt every once in a while, but even he knew not to waste supplies over something as little as a paper cut (I still sneak him my own band-aids every once in a while, though).
---
I smiled to myself as I read through the reports, Anya and I split the 'interrogation' part of the psych test, I was the one to deal with Daisuke since he was the only one to actually drag out the psych test with his little stories. Anya complained to me about it, so I offered to take the test instead of her.
I sat in the room with the young intern, finding myself actually interested in his stories. He somehow managed to find a story with every question that I asked... And when he didn't have an opportunity to rant about a story, he just extended his answer.
He was just done with his rant about how he managed to hit his pinkie toe when he was trying to pass a screwdriver to Swansea, hilarious really.
"Hm..." I hummed a bit, tapping my bottom lip with my pen as I inspected the questions. "... How would you say your relationships with the crewmembers are?" I read off the question, ticking it off the list for myself.
"Awh, absolutely great!" He began excitedly, and just as I thought he was going to leave it at that, he continued.
"Curly is an awesome captain! Sure, I don't see him often, but he's so cool! He always knows how to fix a problem.
Anya is sweet too, but I don't see her as often like I do you. While we're on the topic of you, you've also been pretty awesome, you didn't have to give me your band-aids though.
Swansea is rude, but he can be cool from time to time. I'm still proud that I managed to make him laugh the other day with one of my jokes. But he can tone it down on the yelling sometimes...
Jimmy is also pretty cool! Being a co-pilot must be really hard, and I appreciate that he's in the cockpit most of the time to make sure we don't crash. But he could come out every once in a while... Last time I saw him was a day or two ago when he visited Anya in the medbay though." My smile fell at that small comment, my writing stopping abruptly as I stared down at my notes for a moment.
Jimmy visited Anya. Why wouldn't he come to visit me? I mean- maybe he walked into the medbay to look for me and I wasn't there, even then why would he ask Anya where I was or at least wait for me to come back. So why did he leave the cockpit and not come to visit me first. I'm his damn partner!
Daisuke noticed my silence, his own happy expression turning awkward and on edge.
"Uh... Did I say something wrong?" He asked sheepishly, almost sinking into his seat while clutching the edges of his seat awkwardly.
"Oh... No, Daisuke. Don't worry, I just got lost in thought." I smiled warmly towards him. That small act made him relax. Jimmy is not important currently; I'll talk to him after the psych eval with Daisuke.
I looked back at the paper to see the rest of the questions, only to be surprised that we were done with the last one.
"Looks like we're done here." I sighed, setting down the papers on the small table. Daisuke let out an overexaggerated sigh of relief, slumping in his seat.
"Ugh, finally!" He chuckled, "I thought the questions were never gonna end!"
I chuckled at his antics, standing up from my seat and picking up the papers once more.
"I suggest you get back to work, don't want Swansea worrying now, do we?" I chuckled, opening the door and waiting for him to walk out.
"No! That's even worse! Please continue with the questions!" He whined, getting up and walking out despite his words, although with a bit of a slump.
I walked out right after him, closing the door right after walking out.
"Good luck." I sighed, watching him walk away to where Swansea supposedly was.
"You, too!" He yelled back, smiling brightly, waving goodbye while turning the corner.
I exhaled through my nose, making my way towards the medbay. You know what? I don't have time to argue with him right now about him visiting Anya, he always thinks he's in the right, so the argument won't really lead to anything.
A week before the crash ᯓ★
Anya looked... on edge recently.
She has been jumpier than before... Now that I think about it, I don't remember her being jumpy in the first week.
I did ask her if something was wrong and that she could talk to me if needed, but she just brushed me off and told me that she was fine. People deal with their problems in different ways, and I get that, but... I'm worried about her.
Right now, I was sitting on the kitchen counter, poking at my food a bit as I was lost in thought.
My thoughts were interrupted by footsteps. I turned around only to spot captain Curly. I smiled at the man, turning fully to greet him.
"Morning, captain." I smiled, "Came for some breakfast?" I asked, as if it wasn't already obvious. The man gave me a tired smile and walked to the kitchen, grabbing the already prepared meal like I had. Anya was kind enough to make us a plate each because I slept in and Curly doesn't come out of the cockpit often, same as Jimmy.
"Yup." He tiredly answered my question, sitting down beside me as he began eating. I observed his tired manors for a couple of seconds, giving him a sympathetic look.
"Need a nap, Curly?" I asked him, taking a bite of my own food as I waited for his response.
"Desperately, but it's not like I can." He sighed, the small smile on his face turning into a small frown. I furrowed my brows at his words.
"How so? Jimmy is there to take over when you're too tired, right?" I questioned, setting down my fork. He furrowed his brows, closing his eyes for a moment. He looked like he had been caught in a lie.
"It's not that... simple." He dragged out his words, which only made me even more confused.
"What do you mean?" I cautiously asked, eying him suspiciously. He exhaled through his nose, setting down his fork as well as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"He just... doesn't look like he's in the right place to maneuver the ship properly." He said, trying to end the conversation with that. But I didn't want to back out that easily.
"He's been in that cockpit almost 24/7 since we boarded. I don't understand how he couldn't control the ship properly." I tried to argue, getting a bit agitated. Why would he think my boyfriend was incompetent? He can take responsibility.
"Just... leave it to me, okay?" He sighed, obviously not wanting to argue, and I respect that.
"... Alright, captain. I trust you." I backed out, standing up to wash my dishes.
"Leave the dishes to me." Curly spoke up, standing up himself to wash his own dish, grabbing mine before I could protest. I smiled, mumbling a quick thank you before making my way towards the medbay.
Zero days before the crash ᯓ★
I was patching up another one of Daisuke's paper cuts. He claims that he doesn't know how to use a band-aid correctly, but I think he just wants to rant to me.
"I wonder what I'm missing back on earth..." He sighed after finishing his long rant about some hard level that he barely passed on his Gameboy.
"You'll be so far back on the trends." I chuckled, patting his paper cut to convince him that it was on correctly.
"Don't you worry about me; I'll easily catch up." He tried to flex his muscles for the dramatic effect. I rolled my eyes at that, patting his shoulder and standing up.
"Well, your injury is taken care of, you can head back to work-" I was interrupted by blaring red lights and alarms.
my heart dropped at that, looking around the room as if I was going to find the source. I looked back towards Daisuke to see his panicked expression.
"Stay here, I'll go look to see what's wrong-"
"Are you insane!? Don't go out, please!" Daisuke pleaded, clinging onto my uniform sleeve to make me stay. My heart ached at his desperate please.
But, then again, it could just be a fake alarm... But that also doesn't mean I should leave him alone-
The whole ship started to shake; the alarms started to blare more loudly and so did Daisuke.
He kept repeating "Oh my god!" and "Please, no!"
I clung to him tightly, covering his head as a sort of instinct as I pulled us down onto the floor. The things on the desk we were next to started to fall onto us and I covered Daisuke from everything. Everything moved and trashed around in the medbay and the only thing I could do is cling to him.
What was going on?
Two months after the crash ᯓ★
I sat next to Jimmy, trying to comfort him by resting my head on his shoulder and slowly petting the back of his hand with my thumb. But he was still tense, his expression looking permanently sour.
"... Talk to me, Jimmy. Please..." I tried to get him to open up. I heard him scoff and moments later he shoved me off of him.
"Fuck off, leave me alone." He grumbled, standing up and storming off. I didn't chase after him.
I let out a long exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose and resting my elbows on my knees. I understood why he would be on edge, I mean, one of his closest friends literally drove the ship into an asteroid, who wouldn't be upset?
But he could at least talk to me about it, I'm his partner after all.
"Are you okay?" I heard a soft voice behind me. I turned around to spot Anya. I put up a fake smile to comfort her though.
"I'm okay, Anya, really." I breathed out, straightening up my posture to mimic a confident look, although failing.
She gave me a pitiful look, taking a seat in the armchair next to me.
"... How have you been holding up?" I asked her after a couple of moments of silence. She was quiet for a little while, making me think it wasn't as well as I previously presumed. I mean- the ship crashed, and Curly is basically lacking skin and limbs but... she strong... Gosh, now I sound like a piece of shit when I really think about it.
"Poorly, I can't..." She closed her eyes, resting her head on the back of the couch. It felt like she was keeping something from me.
"... Nevermind." She muttered, standing up to walk away. I opened my mouth to call out to her, for her to tell me what she wanted, but I held back. Maybe it was better if I didn't know.
Four months after the crash ᯓ★
Everything and on the ship felt eerie.
Daisuke was quieter, which absolutely broke my heart. Anya looked weaker, she couldn't even glance towards Curly or his general direction. Swansea was getting absolutely drunk out of his mind on mouthwash. And Jimmy was... distant.
How could Curly even do this? The last time I talked to him he seemed completely fine, why would he change up so suddenly?
I heard a rough voice call out my name, I turned quickly to spot Swansea.
"Yes?" I hummed. The old man grabbed my forearm roughly.
"We need to talk." He stated, dragging me away from everyone in the main area. Jimmy gave the two of us a glare but stayed in his spot.
After the two of us were out of eyesight and earshot, Swansea let go of me. I was quick to massage the spot he grabbed, giving him a glare.
"There was no need to drag me." I grumbled. Swansea ignored my words and began to talk.
"I already talked to Anya about this beforehand, so this is mostly me telling you the plan." He pointed an accusing finger at me. I stayed quiet, waiting for him to begin talking as I massaged the spot he grabbed.
"There is only on cryogen pod left. And Anya and I agreed to give it to Daisuke." He stated. I gave him a look of confusion.
"I thought the room to the cryogen pods was completely blocked off by foam...?" I muttered in confusion. Why would he lie about something like that?
"I said that because Jimmy would've made it a big deal and it would've been a damn free for all in here." I was offended by his words, giving him a look of disbelief as I took a step back.
"Jimmy? Why would he do that?" I grumbled, making sure to keep my voice quiet. I didn't want him to hear, how offended and utterly hurt he would be if he heard Swansea's accusations.
"He- Never mind..." He gave up on an explanation, and I decided to not push it further. "What I'm trying to say is... We're saving the last pod for Daisuke." He said and I didn't protest, giving him a nod of approval and letting out a sigh of relief.
"Alright... but I should really tell Jimmy tha-"
"One word to him about this and you're dead." He grunted, pointing a finger to my chest before storming off.
I lightly massaged the area where he poked me, watching him walk away with a frown and furrowed brows as I composed myself in silence.
Why are they so against telling Jimmy, their now captain, about the cryogen pod? I don't understand...
---
I was panicking.
Daisuke and Jimmy were nowhere to be seen, Swansea also, and Anya had locked herself in the medicalbay.
"Anya, please open the door, talk to me!" I yelled at the door, my voice shaky and my breaths quick as I leaned against the door, staring at it like I was going to pass through it.
She called my name weakly, making me even more anxious than before.
"I'm... I'm so sorry." She sounded like she was crying, which only made my worries worsen.
"Sorry? You- you don't have anything to be sorry for, Anya. Please open the door for me." I laughed awkwardly, like when you're caught sneaking out by your parents and are trying to make up an excuse.
"Jimmy... he..." Her voice was weak, and the mention of my boyfriend's name made me swallow thickly, afraid of what she would say.
"He what, Anya, please... Say something." I whispered, caressing the door, pretending like I was comforting her.
"I didn't want to... He made me." She called out my name, "He forced me- I'm sorry, I really am..."
I was confused.
"Forced you? Anya, please unlock the door and we'll talk, I won't be mad. Whatever you say I'll understand." I tried talking to her, but she became unresponsive. It stayed like that for a little while before I began banging on her door.
"Anya? Anya please respond-" My blood ran cold as I heard an echoing scream come from within, but it wasn't Anya's... No... Please-
Before I could think of anything else, I felt a sharp pain on the back of my head, and everything went black.
One hour until Judgement ᯓ★
My eyes fluttered open, my breathing slow as I tried to remember what happened. I tried moving but I realized I was tied down onto something.
I blinked rapidly to get used to the new lighting, looking around to see where I was. I was in the common area, living room as Daisuke called it.
Speaking of him, where was he? I remember hearing something... He screamed, he got hurt
I squinted as I looked around rapidly, where was everyone?
"Daisuke? Anya? Jimmy? Swansea? Anyone! Can anyone hear me?!" I yelled, my voice raspy and my head throbbing. It was hard to adjust to the red lighting, but once it did, I tried looking for clues.
"Can anyone hear..." My voice trailed off as I spotted someone lying on the ground, it was heard to see who it was. I squinted and tried to focus.
"Daisuke?" I questioned, but the boy didn't budge.
"Daisuke! Don't fuck with me! Are you alright?" I yelled at him, tugging at my restraints. His lack of a response left me frustrated. I groaned, trashing around to try and loosen up the ropes a bit. Who would even tie me up in the first place?
I managed to loosen up the knots, finding them and untying them in the process. Whoever did tie me up sure didn't pay attention in whatever knot tying class they took.
I sat up straight, looking down to see I was tied up on the coffee table. I stretched a bit, finding the silence awful, but I continued.
I walked towards the laying boy cautiously, my eyes adjusting the closer I got and... Oh... Oh god-
"Daisuke..." I breathed out, eyes wide in horror as I stared at the interns split face.
I quickly ran towards him, crouching down as I didn't want to touch him, feeling like my filthy hands would ruin him.
"What... how-" Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the lifeless body of the intern. I looked back to where I was tied up, jumping and feeling petrified as I saw Swansea's limp body tied up in a chair, how had I not noticed him before?
I switched my gaze between the young intern and the older mechanic, not sure what to do. Is there even anything I can do? Daisuke's skull is literally split open and, by the looks of it, Swansea has two bullets in his head.
I stood up, legs shaking as I walked back, looking down the hall hesitantly and into the medical bay.
I slapped my hand to my mouth as I saw Anya, lifeless with blood seeping from her mouth from what I could see. Quiet sobs left my lips as I tried not falling to the ground. There was only one person who could've done this...
But... Jimmy would never do such a thing! Yes, he may seem a little cold and distant at times but that doesn't mean he's a murderer! He's my boyfriend, he's... he's supposed to be the good guy...
Who else could have done that though? What else could've done that? I looked back at Daisuke.
His head was open, I stated that multiple times... But with what? A pipe couldn't have done that, and the axe was in Swansea's care... Then that would explain him being tied up in a chair.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
The harsh reaction I had when I told him I got the job, Anya's usual attitude falling when he was around, looking scared and over all staying quiet... Her words. It all made sense
Not only did he go on a killing spree, but he cheated, he forced himself onto Anya, he traumatized her. He didn't kill her, she killed herself because of him, and that was far worse.
The love I previously had for him seemed to just disappear at that moment, being replaced with guilt, anger.
I heard shuffling, my head snapping to see him.
I looked at Jimmy in absolute horror. No tears, no sobbing, nothing left my lips. There was only one feeling remaining though...
Disgust.
He called out my name, and I couldn't stop the shiver of fear that rushed through me.
"Please... Let me explain."
"Explain what?" I questioned, voice barely audible.
He opened his mouth to speak, but he stuttered, not knowing how to even start his sentence. Pathetic.
"I... I had to! Anya fucking killed herself because of a stupid depressive episode she had! Daisuke got injured in the vents while trying to save her, I tried to save him too, but he was badly injured and Swansea fucking killed him! I had to shoot Swansea in self-defense because he wanted to kill both of us. He tied you up and wanted to kill me because he wanted the cryogen pod all to himself! That was his plan all along! He wanted to leave all of us for dead." His excuses only made me hate him more.
Anya killing herself because of an episode? Swansea killing Daisuke because there was no hope? Him shooting Swansea in self-defense? His story had shitty plot holes, and even I could see that with the two minutes I had to look around.
"..." I stayed quiet, just staring at him in disbelief that he could make up such a statement. How many excuses and lies did he tell me while we were dating?
"... Baby, please-"
"Don't call me that." I hissed, cutting him off mid-sentence, I didn't want to hear any more excuses, any more pleas, nothing. "I'm done." He stared at me in confusion, but I could see his usual irritation growing.
"Done with what?" He hissed back, voice lower, brows knitting together in irritation.
"I'm done with you." I grumbled. I watched him as his grip on the gun got tighter. "I'm done with dealing with your temper tantrums, I'm done with being patient, I'm done with listening to your every order, and I'm done with your cheating."
"Cheating? What are you talking about-"
"I don't want to listen to your annoying voice anymore, Jimmy. I have tried time and time again to ignore your flaws, I tried to see the best in you, but I can't anymore." My heart was beating in my ears. From fear? From anger? I couldn't tell. "All this time while I was on the Tulpar- No, while I've been dating you, you have shown that you don't care about me, and I don't even know why I decided to stay with you for this long."
I could hear his angered breathing even from this far away, which made my fears worsen, but at this point I'd rather be shot than survive.
"Shoot me. I'd rather be dead than carry the burden that I chose to be with you." I mumbled, my voice quieter now as I gave him a challenging look.
The two of us were consumed by silence once more, the sparks of faulty wiring and his intense breathing giving me a sense of anticipation.
I watched him as he raised the gun, a look that I could only describe as disappointment resting on his face.
"You don't understand." He grumbled, the gun aimed at my head. I only glared at him, daring him to pull the trigger. "And I know you never will."
With that, I watched him pull the trigger the last thing I heard was a loud bang before my body hit the floor.
#x reader#anon ask#anonymous asks#mouthwashing game#mouthwashing#anonymous#mouthwashing jimmy#mouthwashing daisuke#mouthwashing anya#mouthwashing curly#mouthwashing swansea
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okay under the readmore is part 1 of a oneshot i wrote about an autistic miles morales for fun, but overlapped pretty conveniently with disability pride month at the time. Really self-indulgent, and i got some nice reviews on it and wanted to test sharing my writing on here for autism acceptance month ^.^
Content Warning: Miles does self harm a good amount in both parts without realizing, and thinks some pretty ableist thoughts (at least I think they would be considered that) about himself every now and then.
Word Count: 5k+
Pairings: Minor Milesganke, everything else is platonic!
Miles lets his feet dangle off the side of the building, his heel hitting the brick wall to a rhythm in his head. One two, swing out, one two, swing out, one two, shake-swing out, and start all over. He layed back on the roof, soaking up the last of the warmth from the sun and heated concrete. It was a common thing he did, this rhythm and movement, it helped him calm down or keep him from getting too bored. Too bored was bad, too bored was almost physically painful, but it’s not like he’d tell anybody that. Well, anybody besides Ganke. The other boy understood that perfectly well, it’s one of the many reasons they’re best friends.
He wasn’t sure why he actually did this though. But he didn’t like to think too hard about it, and he’s always got a lot of other stuff to do anyway!
Speaking of, Miles sits up, still letting his feet hit the wall and bounce off, when there’s a pained shout from below. Seeing a man in a dirty chef’s apron bending over with a hand on his back and a pained expression, Miles jumps down from the roof and lands quietly on the street in front of him.
“Do you want some help?” He asks him. The man nods his head to the paint buckets on the ground next to him, and Miles easily picks them up, barely registering the weight. The man walks stiffly and a bit hunched inside his shop, telling Miles to set the paints down on an empty table.
The inside was a mess. Napkins littered the floors and tables, sauces on the seats and counter, and a whole uneaten meal sat alone on the far end of the counter. Miles glances again at the man. He’s sweaty, exhausted looking, all alone in here going by how Miles can hear only his heartbeat, and he just hurt his back. There’s no way Miles would leave this man to deal with this mess himself.
“I’m gonna clean up these napkins so we don’t slip,” Miles tells him, already picking up the pieces. He wouldn’t slip of course, but the man definitely would if he wasn’t careful. “So, Mr…”
“Call me Bob,” the man says after putting the paints away somewhere in the back of the kitchen.
“Mr. Bob, how’d this even happen?”
Mr. Bob sighs and runs a hand through his short hair. “My kids invited their friends over, made a huge mess, left before I saw it, you know how it is.”
“Yeah,” Miles agrees, not knowing how it is at all. He throws all the napkins in the trash and was about to ask where a towel was so he could clean up some of the sauce mess, but Mr. Bob places his hands on his back again.
“Hey Mr. Spider-Man, how about you run along? My back is killing me, and I don’t wanna make you clean up alone,” he says, eyebags somehow becoming more prominent by the second. Miles winced under the mask and hoped it didn’t translate through.
“That’s nice of you, but are you sure? I really don’t mind,” Miles offers, making a sweeping gesture to the rest of the mess still in the store.
“Nah nah nah, it’s fine. It’s my kids who should be cleaning it up anyway. I’ll make them do it when they get home,” Mr. Bob explains.
Ah, okay. That’s better than the man just working in pain.
“Alright. Bye sir!” Miles leaves Mr. Bob inside the shop, and swings away to another rooftop. He wishes he knew more about treating bad backs though, he might have been able to help more! Maybe he could ask his mom? But wait, would that be an overly familiar thing to do for a stranger? Surely not, helping someone in pain is what he does nearly everyday anyway…but some people get real upset if he has to help them, and he just doesn’t know why. Ugh, so complicated, and for what?
Doing a few extremely low swings that end up sending him high into the air, he lets the wind press against him with each rise and fall. It’s like being smushed, or hugged just tight enough to make you so relaxed that you feel weightless. He gets dizzy sometimes, but in a good way, he promises. He wishes Ganke could feel this. He wishes a lot of people could feel this, actually. They’d be much happier, he’s sure of it!
___
It’s not like he’s… embarrassed, he guesses is the right word, to have to keep shaking his hands at his sides. It’s just that he gets weird looks sometimes when he does it. It’s not often at all, it’s actually pretty rare, but when it does happen, it makes a weird feeling curl in his stomach and around his throat, making it hard to speak, which is embarrassing. It makes him stutter, pronounce words wrong, makes him unable to focus on whatever’s happening, it even made him tear up one time. It’s different, when he just doesn’t speak for a while, because at those times there’s nobody pressuring him to talk or for an answer on why he’s “being weird”.
“Well?” the officer asks. She pointed out his shaking hands, and asked him why he was doing that. And Miles was going to answer her, he was! It’s just… the way she said it. It was like when he got caught drawing on his worksheets and the teacher made him throw the entire paper away and start over. Or his parents caught him sneaking small animals under his clothes into their apartment. Or when the kids at school would try and see what he was drawing by looming over his shoulder.
His chest felt kind of tight. Why did he even let her approach him? He tries to avoid as much interaction with the cops as much as he can besides calling them to places
“I… uh…” was all he could manage to utter. It felt like everyone was staring at him, even when he knew that it wasn’t true.
“Spidey’s still around?” Oh god, of course his dad is here. And approaching rapidly.
“Yeah, was trying to ask about the hand shaky thing, but he just froze up,” the officer explains, turning away briefly- Miles can feel the tightness just a little- shrugging with a raised eyebrow. She tucks her hands in her pockets and turns to look back at Miles. Great. The feeling was back.
“Oh, this?” His dad asks, copying the moment, making it much harder for Miles to not shake his hands. Thanks a lot! “My son does that, lots of kids do that. You don’t do that?”
Miles wants to run, so he does. Not like he needed to be there anymore anyway. He’ll go somewhere that calms him down so much to the point where he doesn’t even need to shake his hands.
___
Pavitr tightens his hold on him, arms a comfortable pressure on his waist. He nuzzles into the crook of Miles’s neck, humming when Miles lets out a happy sigh.
They do this, sometimes, when the stress is becoming too much. Just hold each other. It works out great, because Pavitr loves giving hugs, and Miles likes getting hugs, and they have no problem being this close to each other.
Miles traces a figure eight onto Pavitr’s back, fingers feather-light on him. He doesn’t like pressure the way Miles does, says it makes him feel trapped and anxious, but Miles couldn’t disagree more if he tried. Besides the obvious bad-pressure, like a building and debris falling on you, there’s good-pressure, and that pressure is what Miles craves almost daily. It makes him feel much closer to whatever’s going on around him without making him hypersensitive to it- he can focus better, basically. The weight on his body is like a firm reassurance that he’ll be fine, that he’ll be safe, and that he’s… real. Not some mistake and about to float away into non-existence, or whatever.
He’s heard of weighted blankets, and has been wanting one for a few years now, but he’s always chickened out when it came to asking his parents. And it’s not like he can ask any of the other spiders, then he’d have to lie to his parents how he got it, and he’s trying to keep the “lying to your loved ones” part of being Spider-Man to a minimum. Plus, he just doesn’t think it’s that serious. It’s not like he’ll die without it.
Miles stops drawing the figure in Pavitr’s back and simply rests his hand on the back of his neck.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Pavitr mumbles into his neck.
Miles wishes they weren’t wearing their suits. He’d much rather feel the vibration directly on his skin.
“Nothing,” Miles answers automatically. The two are silent for a bit before Miles continues, “Oh, there was this cop. She kept asking me about this thing I do with my hands-”
“The stimming?”
Miles ignores the interruption and continues, “-where I shake my hands when there’s too much energy somewhere and I get all antsy.”
“Should’ve brought Hobie. He would’ve dealt with her,” Pavitr says, shoulders shaking lightly with silent laughter.
Miles rolls his eyes and raises his chin to rest it on Pavitr’s head. His hair was so soft, it was another thing Miles liked about these cuddle sessions, he guesses he’d call them. Pavitr was a good mix of soft and firm, like a foam cube in a gym or children’s play area.
“Wasn’t really her fault, I just got nervous. Thought she would call me weird or something,” Miles mumbles.
“Don’t they already do that? In the uh- the uhh… The news company with the musical instrument.”
“The Tuba?”
“Yes! That is the one, haha,” Pavitr giggles, “remember when they called you a clone of Peter?”
God, does Miles remember. Not only was it completely out of nowhere, it just didn’t make sense for so many reasons. One, how could a clone be a different race? Two, why would a clone be way younger and have no idea what he’s doing? Wouldn’t you want your clone to be just as smart as you and the same age, so when you died, it’s like nobody would notice? They even sounded different! People called him down just to try and rip his suit to see his face for days, causing fights to break out between civilians when someone tried to defend him. He couldn’t just fight back like usual, so all he could do was lightly slap their hands away or shove them off and swing away, and then just deal with his lowering reputation that came with “self-defense.” He was glad that there were a good few people, his parents included, ready to defend Spidey if they saw that happen in front of him, but it didn’t really matter. He really hated, still hates, the Tuba for that.
He can’t see the humor in it, but a lot of other people found it funny, so maybe it was just a him thing like it sometimes is… yeah, he's probably just missing something. Miles closes his eyes and says, “Yeah,” and relaxes again when Pavitr’s sensed his hold had gotten too loose and tightened it around Miles again.
He’d have to leave eventually, but he’ll enjoy this time while it lasts.
___
“Miles, stop that, you’re gonna get a cramp in your legs,” his mom scolds him lightly as he passes by her.
Miles looks down, and hurries to flatten his feet from walking on his tip-toes. That was always embarrassing to have pointed out, but at least he wasn’t in public doing that.
___
It was all too much. He thought coming to Gwen’s dimension would calm him down, it was much prettier than his and a huge inspiration when it came to art, so he thought he could come here after a particularly bad fight to just enjoy the sights and maybe draw them. But now, he can’t stand the sight of most things. He can’t even stand the feeling of anything. He was huddled on a roof, a dirty, disgusting roof, there’s probably dirt all over him now and his stupid suit- it’s too on him, he can feel it and the sweat scratching at him and trying to seep into his pores. The creases causing awkward pockets where the suit isn’t actually touching him, but he can still feel it, the thought of all the germs and dirt and god , the trash, the wet trash --
how would that feel?
--his body jerks violently and he falls to his knees.
He wants to yell. But even that would feel wrong. He’d feel his voice in his teeth for god’s sake.
He takes off his gloves, but he isn’t even able to enjoy the cool breeze hitting his now exposed hands because his nails, his fucking nails , they hit the concrete and scrape lightly. The feeling sends shivers down his entire body and makes him rip his hands away as if he had been burned, and bite down hard on his fingers. He can’t fucking stand it. He- it’s too much. It’s all too much.
nails on chalkboard
silverware scraping
that man coughing down the street
the smell of approaching rain
metal on your teeth
blood under your nails
flesh squelching in the rubble
sickening crunch
his breath on your face
digging in your skin
too heavy too close he’ll kill you he’ll kill you
His thoughts spiral, he can’t control it. One bad feeling, and he can’t stop thinking about the other bad feelings just like it, and it keeps going until his brain reaches the end of its list.
He hates this. He hates that his brain even does this, that it even thinks it’s the right course of action. Nobody else’s brain does this, he bets. Why is his so dumb that it can’t even realize it’s only making things worse?
Miles keeps biting on his fingers and starts biting on the rest of his hands when the feelings aren’t going away. He tries to him to his favorite song to calm down, but it doesn’t work- nothing is working-
Gwen is here, he vaguely registers in his mind when a black and white blur lands in front of him. She’s here, and she’s grabbing his wrists and pulling his hands out of his mouth, and she’s trying to hold him. He scrambles back, but she catches him and lifts him bridal style. Miles tries to kick out and shoves his hand in her face to make her drop him, but she holds on as tightly as possible. The pressure from her fingers digging into him is- good. Bad. It’s just more touch - he doesn’t want touch right now, he wants pressure-
holding you down you’re a mistake breaking your neck is so easy keep fighting keep fighting
“I know,” he hears faintly. Was that him, or Gwen?
He keeps thrashing in Gwen’s hold, almost escaping once when he bit her shoulder and started to scratch, as she hopped from rooftop to rooftop. It was all a blur, he could only focus on how her heartbeat was too loud, and the feeling of her fingers and just her being so close was confusing his stupid fucking brain, it was all good, but it was actually all bad because he didn’t want that now, it made it worse actually.
“I’m sorry, I know,” he hears Gwen apologize to him.
God. Someone end it. Someone cut him out of his skin. He can’t be here. He tries to wiggle out of her grasp one last time before he gives up and brings his hands back up to his mouth to bite down, to have any sort of control over anything he’s feeling.
“It’ll be okay,” Gwen whispers- still too loud.
He doesn’t really remember much else.
___
Miles rouses slowly. His eyes don’t open immediately when he tries, the crust is uncomfortable on his skin, and his limbs feel like they were made of stone. He turns his head to the side, only to be met with webbing. He moves his body slightly, feeling himself swing. So he’s in a hammock then. That’s fine, it’s better than waking up on the floor. Or that rooftop.
Wait, the roof, Gwen, he bit Gwen-
He sits up and looks out of the hammock as best as he can, quickly spotting the girl gently rubbing her now bandaged shoulder with a solemn expression. Quickly scrambling out and crawling down to be next to her, apologizing before he even hits the ground.
“Gwen, I am so sorry, I have no idea what came over me, I don’t know why I did that to you, I’m so sorry-”
Gwen stops him, “Miles, calm down, I’m fine, see?” She gestures to her shoulder, and his eyes trail down and catch her bandaged hand.
He doesn’t even remember that one, and that makes him feel even worse. Shame curls in his gut, makes his fingers twitch, he feels disgusting.
“Listen, you aren’t disgusting,” Gwen says gently, “you were scared and in pain, you might have been overstimulated. I know it gets really hard to control what you do. I’ve done, like, the same thing.”
Miles nods, not believing her.
“Seriously Miles. I’m not mad or anything.”
Yeah right. Who wouldn’t be mad after being bit and just… being forced to deal with whatever that was. Even he’s mad about it, because it never lasts. It always ends eventually, he doesn’t know why he was being so dramatic and violent when he could have just stayed still and dealt with it until it passed.
It’s whatever. It’s over now, and Gwen is clearly trying to move on from it. He shouldn’t make her more upset. Talking with her is already like walking a tightrope, lately.
“I uh, I wrapped you up in that hammock. Did that help? You said- well, not really said, it was more like… mumbling, that you just wanted pressure. So did that help at all?” Gwen stumbles through asking, fiddling with her hands and furrowing her brow.
Her question takes him out of his thoughts for a second. “I guess it did,” Miles says after a moment of consideration. He honestly wasn’t sure how he was feeling, but he certainly wasn’t feeling bad, so that’s definitely an improvement. He’d have to keep this hammock idea in mind, how did he never think of that?
And like the strings controlling her had been cut, her shoulders drooping and lenses closing as she breathes out a sigh of relief (look at what you did to her, Miles), Gwen reaches out to him. She stops right before they make contact, allowing Miles to move forward and finish the hug. Gwen hugs tighter, but in weird waves, like she doesn’t actually know how long a hug is supposed to last and keeps trying to part when she thinks she should. Miles loves it anyway, because it’s Gwen, and the last time she hugged him this tight was when… oh, nevermind that. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.
Gwen’s hug tightens again, and he feels the tension in his body slipping away.
___
The one thug that’s still conscious decides to try his luck at talking with him.
“So I noticed something…”
Congratulations , Miles doesn’t say. He doesn’t have the energy to speak to anybody for the night, and while people didn’t really like that because it also tended to mean Peter was ready to beat someone to a pulp, they’ve learned that sometimes the new Spider-Man was just… didn’t speak.
“Why are you organizing us by shoe size? And you got Har- um, gray tennis shoes wrong. He wears a size 11.”
A good save on the name reveal AND a correction so his order is perfect? Well mister, looks like you’re walking away scott-free tonight!
Just kidding . Miles smiles to himself as he picks up “Gray Tennis Shoes” and places him in between Blue Nikes (size 10) and Black Boots (size 12 and a half). He turns back towards the talking thug, pointing to his shoes, who sighs before answering, “Size 7. And a half.”
Miles smiles wider as he drags the cocooned man to the right spot, and begins walking away to investigate the den.
“Wait, you didn’t answer my question! Why are you organizing us like this?” The man calls out to him, trying to sit up but failing.
Because he overheard cops on duty making fun of the way he organized people by their hair color last time. He had to go for something a bit less noticeable. Obviously.
But Miles doesn’t say any of this, because he just doesn’t want to. Not like he had to answer that guy anyway.
___
Now, don’t get him wrong. He doesn’t have complete control over when he wants to speak or not, as much as he’d like to pretend he does to save himself some embarrassment from admitting it. And it seems to be both random and stress-induced, which is already bad when you’re Spider-Man. Most of your days are extremely stressful with worrying about the best outcomes, the best and most effective ways to save people in danger, time management because of school or a job interview or a party your parents threw that you cannot be late for again, the usual. The simple moments to help around are like a mini-break where he can take his time to breathe and get a second wind, so they’re greatly appreciated. Don’t even get him started on the power-naps he can sometimes sneak in if it’s a calm enough day with just the right temperature and breeze…
Off track. Basically, he can’t always control if he goes silent or not.
Right now, during the cleanup after a fight, where all the debris is moved to small piles for him and others to clean up, and any civilians injured are given medical attention immediately or taken away to hospitals, he can’t speak. The villain- which looked surprisingly too high definition- only stopped attacking after it heard a little girl screaming, and it was pulled through a portal by a red, blue, and white hand. Miles didn’t even care about a Rhino from a different dimension somehow turning up here, and what that could mean about the (worsening) stability of his dimension, he just wanted to curl up somewhere nice and dark, and sleep for fifteen hours.
But Spider-Man has a duty to the people.
He removes the last bit of rubble from on top of a woman’s car, tears in her eyes as he guides her away from the smashed vehicle. She’s certainly going to have to replace it, but she definitely has bigger things to worry about, like the glass sticking out of her arm from jumping through the storefront window to avoid the Rhino’s rampage.
That was pretty badass of you, he can’t say. He frowns. He wanted to make her feel a bit better. That’s one of the many drawbacks of this unwilling silence, it prevented him from comforting people in the way he knows best: talking their ear off until they’re too absorbed in (or annoyed by) his ramblings to freak out.
He sits with her in an ambulance that’s treating the people with more minor injuries. The paramedics are stretched thin, so he’s here taking the smallest pieces out of her arm while the paramedic is on her other side and checking for a concussion.
The woman winces.
Sorry, he can’t say, but he looks up with a sad expression to meet her own exhausted and tear-streaked face, and knows the message isn’t getting across.
He goes back to pulling the glass out. He can’t even apologize for all the pain he’s causing her.
Focus, Miles.
“Spider-Man, you’re alright?” The paramedic asks after the woman is cleared and sent off. The hospitals have been at their highest capacity since… ugh. He doesn’t want to think about it when he has something to focus on now. “Not a talking day?”
Miles shakes his head, already making his way to help other people.
The entire time he’s pulling more glass shards out, holding more hands through painful processes and anxious checkups, hugging more children and holding more babies as the parents are found and reunited, simply sitting with those too shocked to even understand what had just happened, not once does the barrier come down. The people look to him for words of encouragement, assurances that it’ll be okay, they cling tighter to him and hope he’ll say something kind to ease their fear, that the person on the stretcher will survive and heal just fine.
And it breaks his heart when people see he won’t say anything, it makes him feel so useless, what is he even sticking around for? He sees the hope leave their eyes, sees it replaced by grief, by horror, by nothingness. Nothingness is the worst, if you ask him. They’ve given up because he can’t even muster up enough strength to say a few simple words. It shouldn’t be this hard for him, Spider-Man, to say “you’re okay” or “take a breath” for god’s sake! If he could, he would yell until his throat was raw about how he was sorry for all this pain he’s only made worse. How everyone would be fine, just don’t look at the bodies! How they just needed to follow his breathing, and to follow him to the ambulance! Don’t worry about your destroyed car! How he’ll do better, he won’t let something like this happen again, how didn’t want this, didn’t choose this, he wants to tell them so bad-
But he can’t. So he doesn’t.
The probably-now-orphaned girl clings to his legs as they stand in front of a pile of rubble Miles hadn’t moved yet. He knew there were bodies (or what used to be bodies, anyway) under there, heard the heartbeats instantly stop while the Rhino threw the hunk of concrete so he could hold Miles down and slam his fist into his entire body. He thinks she was the one who screamed and stopped that Rhino for enough seconds to be taken away. There was blood splattered on the bottom of her frilly green dress, and all over her legs and shoes, and Miles just hopes she has family somewhere that’ll take her in.
He really should move her away from this. At least cover her eyes.
You’re a hero, he can’t say. And I know it doesn’t mean anything right now, but you’ve saved a lot of people, he hopes his look to her gets across. You saved me.
The girl looks up at him with angry eyes and a dirty face, clean lines created by her tears going down her cheeks. Some good that did, she’s saying.
Miles says nothing, because of course he doesn’t, and holds her hand as they walk to an ambulance. She needs that blood cleaned off her.
___
Miles sobs into Ganke’s pillow, wishing the boy would return from the nurse’s office quicker. It’s been a week since then, and now he’s finally able to talk. So of course the first thing his brain makes him do is cry so hard he can’t even breathe properly. Ganke was appropriately freaked out by his sudden crying spell, and went to go get an ice pack for him for the headache that was sure to follow.
The hiccups are bordering on painful now, his teeth and jaw aching from grinding his teeth so he doesn’t cry too loud when he needs to take a break from practically suffocating himself in the pillow. He can still see the blood on the ground, on the rubble, and on the little girl’s dress.
He closes his eyes and covers his ears, for a reason he doesn’t understand, curling up and sobbing some more into the pillow. He tries to dig his toenails into his other foot’s skin, the pain doing nothing but making him flinch. Maybe it just wasn’t the right spot to get rid of it, these thoughts. If he found the right spot, maybe even combination, his brain would focus on the pain instead of these horrible memories.
He removes his face from the pillow and bites down on his hand and scratches at the side of his face, his thighs, his neck, any skin he can reach. He finally feels the switch from “slightly painful and annoying” to “very painful, we’re in danger” like a gentle wave, and releases his hand from his jaw, letting out a weak cough of relief as he falls limply back onto the bed. His breathing makes it sound like he just ran a marathon, and It aches and burns like he just did too. A lot. His mind is blessedly empty and numb, he realizes, as his eyes struggle to stay open. What’s he fighting it for again?
Ganke. Right. Ganke was coming back with an ice pack for the headache that hasn’t hit yet. Stay awake for Ganke.
He inhales his friend’s faint scent from the pillow and sheets, and feels the dip in the mattress from where Ganke sleeps, a bit off center. Miles always tells him to flip his mattress, but he never does.
He faintly hears the door opening over the blood rushing in his ears, and feels a hand grab his own. The touch is gentle, but is gone before he has the chance to lean into it. There’s a welcomed cold sensation on his forehead, making him shudder and sigh.
And he’s waking up, the alarm screeching into his ear and making him groan in annoyance. He goes to smash the alarm clock, but a hand catches his before it could do any damage.
“Not this time man,” Ganke’s sleepy voice scolded from above, “we aren’t replacing that thing again.”
Above?
Miles opened his eyes, realizing he was in Ganke’s bunk. Oops. An apology was already on his lips as he peeked out from under the bunk, but it died on the tip of his tongue at the sight of Ganke’s bed-head, squinted eyes, and scrunched up nose.
“You good? Because I had to take care of your hand last night,” the boy asks with a yawn.
Miles looks down at his hands and his eyes widen in shock. His right hand was bandaged up in a white gauze, albeit a little sloppily, like Ganke was in a rush or something when he did it.
“Yeah, sorry if it looks bad. It’s just that I wasn’t really expecting you to break skin,” the boy tells him, “have you seen my glasses?”
“They’re on your forehead,” Miles tells him in a fond tone, “and thanks man. I know it’s weird-”
“Uh uhn, don’t start that now. It’s too early in the morning for me to talk with you about if anything’s weird or not.”
Miles shrugs and rolls his eyes. “It’s always too early in the morning for you,” he says as he tries to find his clothes to get ready for the day.
___
Dear Diary,
Haven’t been the best lately. It’s like i’ve only been hurting people and myself. I bit Gwen a few weeks ago, then i couldn’t speak and help people when that Rhino dude came, and last night i bit my own hand. I know it’s bad and gross, but it feels like it’s the only thing i can do sometimes even when i can’t really control it. And it works for me most of the time so it’s real confusing. It’s like i don’t have control, and then next thing i know i’m biting myself, and i’m calmer. Ganke says it’s not weird, just worrying, but i’ve never seen anyone else do it. Guess i never really bothered to look it up either because i know it’s bad. wanted to end this entry on a good note but i can’t think of anything. tomorrow is another day though so there’s that.
Part 2 >>>
#miles morales#spider man#spiderman#my writing#spiderverse#atsv#what tags do i use for this. like. i guess uh#atsv fanfiction#???#m&m posts#oneshot#not beta'd
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Hi!
I know i don't make uh. personal posts super often? Long story short I need some help to make sure my cats got food. currently I'm super low on funds, I'm a disabled student and I don't have the money to cover my bills and feeding the old lady.
You can help out by grabbing a commission from my Kofi, or even just. Tossing a few dollars my way?
Anything helps!
^ the old lady
#chatter#i... dunno what to tag this?#i uh. Wanted to wait a bit before launching my commissions but uh. needs must i guess.#i can manage for a bit...?#but like. i do legit need help I think ^^'#mutual aid#thats a tag people use right?#she's got about two meals worth of food left#maybe three if I stretch it a bit
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New game interest unlocked
(crow in bottom right belongs to @patchwork-crow-writes)
#ramarl#phantasy star online#long tag warning lol i rambled#so i was introduced to phantasy star online#i think its safe to say i really enjoy the game#thank you mr crow for showing me this game :D i have new creatures to scribble now#there shall be more of these doodles#i promise you that#meant to post this wayyyyy earlier today but uh#my car broke down :') ....again :')#last week it wouldn't turn on and the headlights weren't working so we were like ''ok this is a battery issue and i need a new one''#because jumping the car didnt fix it#so we took my old battery to a shop and they tested its charge before showing us which new one we should get#but the battery had charge???????? so we went back home to troubleshoot#and then found the hooks(?idk what they're called) that connected the battery to the car had something corroded on them#so we grabbed a can of coke and scrubbed away#hooked the battery back up and bam car was working#so the issue was those hooks#until two days ago when my car didnt work again#looked at the battery again and the hooks came loose; tightened them up and bam car working again#and now at this point I'm scared to go anywhere cause what if i get stranded on my own??#so this morning i said ''alright I'm gonna drive myself to church just to be sure that my car works''#AND WOULD YOU GUESS WHAT HAPPENED#at this point i just wish the damn battery was dead and that i could replace it and move on from this#i know they're a bit pricey but jesus this is exhausting#but i can't just buy a new battery if im not sure that's the actual problem because then I'd have a battery and nothing to do with it#i hate having a car sometimes i just want a bus system#or a jeep#but preferably a bus system#sorry rambles thats a long way of saying i didnt post this earlier because ive been working on my car lol
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Hi tumblr, I'm back!
Spent the past month glaring at people in bg3 and it was glorious
#time to do a scroll and fill up my queue again!#I'm also on vacation for a bit and feel the writing bug starting to return which is nice#This has been the longest break I've taken from that in two years and I uh needed it#I guess this is also a “there's going to be a lot of bg3 here from now on too” notice#still not sure what to do about the branding of my fandom accounts#but I like it when people are the entire contents of their brain online so I guess that's me now too hi I have two fandoms now#(and I'll get better at tagging for each/will continue to use the bg3 spoilers tag when relevant)#in that vein:#bg3#valas devir
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WAVES H10 YURAND
[Prompt Game]
Me: No fear
Waves palette: *exists*
Me: One fear
there ya go. Have some whump
#art prompt meme#artists on tumblr#digital painting#my ocs#clone trooper oc#ct 1410#44th infantry squad#tw blood#better to tag than not#This palette scares me. It's a nice palette that has it's uses but this is definitely not one of them XD#also he needs a shave. And uh to not lose more blood#I don't know how to feel about this pc honestly like if it was less blue I'd like it more I guess. it took me way too long xddd#but alas what's the purpose of prompt memes if not making me do stuff I normally wouldn't do#but alas here's some whump because apparently it's everyone's favourite thing#idk the context of what happened but it was rough anyways#almost fell a victim to the rotary cannon curse as colateral. because he doesn't have a rotary cannon. that's why almost not fully#if you meant the waves palette as a way to tell me to just make him sopping wet well sorry xdd
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Does anyone else hate writing the beginning of fics??
Like I know where I want the story to go, sometimes I even know where I want it to start, but trying to figure out how to open it?? Introduce the scene??
I just feel this pressure that it needs to have a good hook (thanks school-essay writing for that one) that HAS to catch the attention RIGHT away.
Maybe this is just me but it's my least favourite part of writing ;-;
#waterfalltalks#not snz#just complaining <3#sometimes!! i do know what i want!!#but most of the time im just sitting there like... uh... these characters are in a situation... i guess...#reading other fics all you people start them SO well#but i always feel like im either doing WAY too much or not enough#anyways im just complaining over here feel free to ignore this hahaha~#just ~writing burn out things~#i use the word anyways too much in my tags ive just noticed that#id say i'll use it less but i know i wont <3 im a roomba brain person <3#im always jumping from one thought to another to another to anoth-#ANYWAYS (sadjiolgkm) I will end this little vent session here~ apologies hahaha~#gonna start a trend where people send in intros and then you build a story to finish it#easy solution~ (im kidding... exceptmaybeI'mnot guess we'll see-)
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The people have spoken...
Cobs would respect your gender neutral pronouns!
#inanimate insanity#ii steve cobs#ii cobs#writing is hard#rant in tags#did I expect this outcome when I made the poll? no...#but after a like 2-to-3-day-long argument with a friend#ok yeah- I can see where people were coming from#a piece of me still believes that like#this guy uses it/its pronouns for the mephones and such-#and not in a reclaiming way or anything-#so like... idk kinda hard for me to see him respecting people#But yeah- uh I guess that-#you could then argue that he just doesn't see his creations as like people?#so I'm just like 'well he's a dickhead in many ways so what's a little sprinkle of lgtbphobia gonna do?'#idk#I just kinda see him as a homophobic gay man#which is probably from ao3 brainwashing- but whatever#my friend was saying he probably would since he's a fan of progress so he'd be like 'Oh cool new gender unlocked' than be against it#which is like- sure I guess? idk#I'm halfway convinced#this is kinda why I wished more people would've explained in the tags but I'm really stubborn so :/
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i just finished saw v and i don't have high hopes for the rest of the franchise (based on what ive heard) but im in too deep to stop now
#no i haven't enjoyed the last two no i don't expect to get much out of the next five or so movies. but i need to know.#i guess saw v mightve suffered bc i watched it basically immediately after iv#something i didnt do with any of the others#but i was told v was one of the good ones so i was looking forward to it. i dont think it was burnout yknow#but uh. i didn't like it. i think i liked iv more honestly. strahm and hoffman do absolutely nothing for me#i liked the traps. that was it though#it felt so pointless and empty. it was the first one where i genuinely wondered why they made it. why did they decide to keep going with#this. i think ii and iv both function more/better as setup for their following films but like. at least iii was pretty good yknow#like both amanda and hoffman's accomplicing feels kinda retconned in but at least amanda's an interesting character#what does hoffman have. what does strahm have. nothing. and no i don't think they have much in the way of homoeroticism either.#i don't tend to be so negative and im sorry if someone goes in the saw tags and feels bad about me talking shit about something they like#because i know that doesn't feel good. honestly i'd love to hear why people like v. maybe it'll change my opinion of it if i look at it a#different way yknow? but for now im just annoyed by it. iv was engaging in the moment but very forgettable#i liked riggs well enough but we barely learned a thing about him. he wasn't a deep character at all and i think that's a shame#but v was just a paperwork-based cat and mouse chase. 90 minutes and it still felt like they were wasting my time#why did strahm go to the old trap locations? i don't think he found anything out there. likr it was just a framing device for the flashback#but he didn't actually have a reason to go there. waste of my time#not an original critique im sure but saw ii on seems to be more focused on scale and layers of shit (i.e. having two games going at once)#than using the traps to examine the characters. i mean you go from two guys in a bathroom for a couple hours#learning about who they are gradually at a slow pace vs like 8 people in a house plus cop stuff plus 90 second traps of dubious fairness#hoffman has no real relationship with kramer (unlike amanda) and basically everyone who'd been following jigsaw is dead and so are jigsaw#and (presumably) amanda. what am i supposed to be here for? the vague outline of a saw trap? the type of torture happening?#im not even opposed to that per se but frankly the more they focus on the cops surrounding this shit the less fun it is#why are you making all the traps like 15 seconds long and tied to characters who aren't the primary focus. it's saw#ughh i miss adam. i miss amanda. hell i miss kramer and he was pretty present in this one (flashbackwise)#whateverrr. anyway that poll comparing chainshippng shotgunnshippng and coffinshippng where shotgun was last? lesbophobic.#im only half joking about that. im sure ppl have their reasons for coffin but i also think it's the tendency fandom bias for “two white guy#ships. but hey maybe vi and onwards will add more context to that that'll make me reconsider. i mean i wouldn't have liked the amanda#accomplice thing That much if i'd only seen ii. i think iii really makes it mesh better and it leads to fun character stuff#(though i still think i would've liked it more bc like. amanda was always grateful to jigsaw right? again hoffman comes outta nowhere)
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have a horrible headache and usually headaches are a combo of things (esp not eating/sleeping enough) which could be the reason i have one today but. also i smoked thu which was 2 days ago and usually i get a headache 2 days after smoking. and im just. i already wrote a diary entry talking abt it and how i feel guilty and bad for like a million different reasons but now i'm also just incredibly frustrated w myself bc why do i do this!!!!!!!!!!!! i can go weeks and months w/o smoking i don't NEED to do this!!!!!
#smoking#tw smoking#havilah's thoughts#addiction#tw addiction#nicotine#like i feel like i Know that i can just not smoke idk why i sometimes do it anyway bc it's literally only negatives#i've never had a.... i guess a 'strong' smoking habit? like usually it is weeks and v often it is months btwn cigs#i just sometimes get mad and wanna do Smth that will make me feel more bad but also kinda better????????? it doesn't make sense i know#this time i felt Particularly guilty bc just a little bit ago i was hanging out w my friend and he hugged me and told me he's glad i haven'#been smoking a lot lately and a buncha nice things i'll keep to myself but. i just. and then i got home and had a letter from my grandma#that was so so sweet and my grandma used to smoke and she quit before i was born and she used to tell me when i was a kid how horrible it i#and now i have a headache and i /hate/ headaches and it felt dirty and i felt slimy for hiding it from my roommate n for feeling like i was#lying to ppl that care abt me#i know i felt calm too. i know it somewhat feels nice. the sensation is diff from anything else and i like it. i know i sometimes need to d#smth that feels. like. drastic and like it's gonna kill me w/o killing me#but it just. i KNOW that it's not worth it later!!!!!!! i know that i feel horrible and the negatives outweigh the positives by a lot!!!!!!#but i never throw away the pack. it's like. idk. idk what to do to just Not do it.#anyway uh. lemme put additional warnings for what i ended up saying in the tags#suicide#suicidal ideation#depression#i guess idk. just covering my bases i guess so ppl don't see smth they don't wanna see
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i tried to remember and now i have a headache
#a lot of my mental goes towards guessing wth happened to me and why do i act like this#*mental energy#and i need a nap now#and an advil#what tags could i possibly use#uh#dissociating#maladaptive daydreaming#schizoid personality disorder#again maybe#and uh#trauma#? probably
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Kingdom of Ash Chapter 66
Chapter; Highlights, etc. (you know the drill😂)
Aelin awoke to the scent of pine and snow, and knew she was home.
Not in Terrasen, not yet, but in the sense she would always be home, if Rowan was with her.
His steady breaths filled her right ear, the sound of the well and truly asleep, and the arm he'd draped across her middle was a solid, warm weight. Silvery light glazed the ancient stones of the ceiling.
Morning—or a cloudy day. The halls beyond the room offered shards of sound that she sorted through, piece by piece, as if she were assembling a broken mirror that might reveal the world beyond
Apparently, it had been three days since the battle. And the rest of the khagan's army, led by Prince Kashin, his third-eldest son, had arrived.
It was that tidbit that had her rising fully to consciousness, a hand sliding to Rowan's arm.
A caress of a touch, just to see how deeply the rejuvenating sleep held him. Three days, they'd slept here, unaware of the world. A dangerous, vulnerable time for any magic-wielder, when their bodies demanded a deep sleep to recover from expending so much power.
That was another sliver she'd picked up: Gavriel sat outside their door. In mountain lion form. People drew quiet when they approached, not realizing that as soon as they passed him, their whispers of That strange, terrifying cat could be detected by Fae ears.
Aelin ran a finger over the seam of Rowan's sleeve, feeling the corded muscle beneath. Clear her head, her body felt clear. Like the first icy breath inhaled on a winter's morning.
During the days they'd slept, no nightmare had shaken her awake, hunted her. A small, merciful reprieve.
Aelin swallowed, her throat dry. What had been real, what Maeve had tried to plant in her mind-did it matter, whether the pain had been true or imagined?
She had gotten out, gotten away from Maeve and Cairn. Facing the broken bits inside her would come later.
For now, it was enough to have this clarity back. Even though releasing her power, expending that mighty blow here, had not been her plan.
Aelin slid her gaze toward Rowan, his harsh face softened into handsomeness by sleep. And clean—the gore that had splattered them both was gone. Someone must have washed it away while they slept.
As if he sensed her attention, or just felt the lingering hand on his arm, Rowan's eyes cracked open. He scanned her from head to toe, deemed everything all right, and met her stare.
"Show-off," he muttered.
Aelin patted his arm. "You put on a pretty fancy display yourself, Prince."
He smiled, his tattoo crinkling. "Will that display be the last of your surprises, or are there more coming?"
She debated it-telling him, revealing it.
Maybe.
Rowan sat up, the blanket sliding from him.
Is this the sort of surprise that will end with my heart stopping dead in my chest?
She snorted, propping her head with a fist as she traced idle marks over the scratchy blanket.
"I sent a letter-when we were at that port in Wendlyn."
Rowan nodded. "To Aedion."
"To Aedion," she said, quietly enough that Gavriel couldn't hear from his spot outside the door. "And to your uncle. And to Essar." Rowan's brows rose. "Saying what?" She hummed to herself. "Saying that I was indeed imprisoned by Maeve, and that while 1 was her captive, she laid out some rather nefarious plans."
Her mate went still. "With what goal in mind?"
Aelin sat up, and picked at her nails.
"Convincing them to disband her army. Start a revolt in Doranelle. Kick Maeve off the throne. You know, small things."
Rowan just looked at her. Then scrubbed at his face. "You think a letter could do that?"
"It was strongly worded." He gaped a bit. "What sort of nefarious plans did you mention?"
"Desire to conquer the world, her complete lack of interest in sparing Fae lives in a war, her interest in Valg things." She swallowed. "I might have mentioned that she's possibly Valg."
Rowan started. Aelin shrugged. "It was a lucky guess. The best lies are always mixed with truth."
"Suggesting Maeve is Valg is a fairly outlandish lie, even for you. Even if it turned out to be true."
She waved a hand. "We'll see if anything comes of it."
"If it works, if they somehow revolt and the army turns against her..." He shook his head, laughing softly. "It'd be a boon in this war."
"I scheme and lie so grandly, and that's all the credit I get?"
Rowan flicked her nose. "You'll get credit if her army doesn't show up. Until then, we prepare as if they are. Which is highly likely." At her frown, he said, "Essar doesn't wield much power, and my uncle doesn't take many risks. Not like Enda and Sellene. For them to overthrow Maeve ... it would be monumental. If they even survived it."
Her stomach churned. "It's their choice, what they do. I only laid out the facts." Carefully worded facts and half guesses. An absolute gamble, if she was being honest.
Rowan smirked. "And other than attempting to overthrow Maeve's throne? Any other surprises I should know about?"
Her smile faded as she lay back down, Rowan doing the same beside her. "There are no more." At his raised brows, she added, "I swear it on my throne. There are no more left."
The amusement in his eyes guttered. "I don't know whether to be relieved."
"Everything I know, you know. All the cards are on the table now."
With the various armies that had gathered, with the Lock, with all of it.
"Do you think you could do it again?" he asked. "Draw up that much power?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. It required being ... contained. With the irons."
A shadow darkened his face, and he rolled onto his side, propping up his head. "I've never seen anything like it."
"You never will again." It was the truth.
"If the cost of that much power is what you endured, then I'll be glad not to."
Aelin ran a hand down the powerful muscles of his thigh, fingers snagging in the rip of fabric just above his knee. "I didn't feel you get this wound through the mating bond," she said, grazing the thick ridge of the new scar. A trophy from the battle. She made herself meet his piercing stare. Did Maeve somehow break that part of it? That part of us?
"No," he breathed, and stroked the hair from her brow. "I've realized that the bond only conveys the pain of the gravest wounds."
She touched the spot on his shoulder where Asterin Blackbeak's arrow had pierced him all those months ago. The moment she'd known what he was to her.
"It was why I didn't know what was happening to you on the beach," Rowan said roughly. Because the whipping, brutal and unbearable as it had been, hadn't brought her to the brink of death. Only into an iron coffin.
She scowled. "If you're about to tell me that you feel guilty for it—"
"We both have things to grapple with—about what happened these months."
A glance at him, and she knew he was well aware of what still clouded her soul.
And because he was the only person who saw everything she was and did not walk away from it, Aelin said, "I wanted that fire to be for Maeve."
"I know." Such simple words, and yet it meant everything-that understanding.
"I wanted it to make things ... better." She loosed a long breath. "To wipe it all away." Every memory and nightmare and lie.
"It will take a while, Aelin. To face it, work through it."
"I don't have a while."
His jaw tensed. "That remains to be seen." She didn't bother arguing. Not as she admitted, "I want it to be over."
He went wholly still, but granted her the space to think, to speak.
"I want it to be over and done with," she said hoarsely. "This war, the gods and the Wyrdgate and the Lock. All of it." She rubbed her temples, pushing past the weight, the lingering stain that no fire might cleanse. "I want to go to Terrasen, to fight, and then I want it to be over."
She'd wanted it to be over since she'd learned the true cost of forging the Lock anew.
Had wanted it to be over with each of Cairn's lashes on the beach in Eyllwe. And all he'd done to her afterward. Whatever it might bring about, however it might end, she wanted it to be over.
She didn't know who and what it made her.
Rowan remained silent for a long moment before he said, "Then we will make sure the khagan's host goes north. Then we will return to Terrasen and crush Erawan's armies." He brought her hands to his mouth for a swift kiss.
"And then, after all that, we'll see about this damned Lock." Uncompromising will filled his every breath, the air around them.
She let it be enough for both of them.
Tucked away his words, his vow, all those promises between them and extended her palm in the air between them.
She summoned the magic-the drop of water her mother's bloodline had given her.
Mab's bloodline.
A tiny ball of water took form in her hand. Over the calluses she'd so carefully rebuilt.
She let the gentle, cooling power trickle over her. Let it smooth the jagged bits inside herself and sing them to sleep. Her mother's gift.
You do not yield.
When the Lock took everything, would it claim this part as well? This most precious part of her power? She tucked away those thoughts, too.
Concentrating, gritting her teeth, Aelin commanded the ball of water to rotate in her palm.
A wobble was all she got in answer.
She snorted. "Faerie Queen of the West indeed."
Rowan huffed a quiet laugh. "Keep practicing. In a thousand years, you might actually be able to do something with it."
She whacked his arm, the droplet of water soaking into the sleeve of his shirt. "It's a wonder I learned anything from you with that sort of encouragement." She shook the wetness from her hand. Right into his face.
Rowan nipped at her nose. "I do keep a tally, Princess. Of all the horrible things that come out of your mouth."
Her toes curled, and she dragged her fingers through his hair, luxuriating in the silken strands. "How shall I pay for this one?"
On the other side of the door, she could have sworn that cat-soft feet quickly padded away.
People gawked in the halls, some whispering as they passed.
The queen and her consort. Where do you think they've been these past few days?
I heard they went into the mountains and brought the wild men back with them.
I heard they've been weaving spells around the city, to protect it against Morath.
Rowan was still smirking when Aelin emerged from the communal ladies' bathing room.
"See?" She fell into step beside him as they aimed not for their room and ravishment, but for the hallway where food had been laid out.
"You're starting to like the notoriety."
Rowan arched a brow. "You think that everywhere I've gone for the past three hundred years, whispers haven't followed me?" She rolled her eyes, but he chuckled. "This is far better than Cold-hearted bastard or I heard he killed someone with a table leg."
"You did kill someone with a table leg." Rowan's smirk grew.
"And you are a cold-hearted bastard," she threw in.
Rowan snorted. "I never said those whispers were lies."
Aelin looped her arm through his. "I'm going to start a rumor about you, then. Something truly grotesque."
He groaned. "I dread the thought of what you might come up with."
She adopted a harsh whisper as they passed a group of human soldiers. "You flew back onto the battlefield to peck out the eyes of our enemies?" Her gasp echoed off the rock. "And ate those eyes?"
One of the soldiers tripped, the others whipping their heads to them. Rowan pinched her shoulder. "Thank you for that."
She inclined her head. "You're very welcome."
Aelin kept smiling as they found food and ate a quick lunch-it was midday, they'd learned-sitting side by side in a dusty, half-forgotten stairwell. Much like the days they'd spent in Mistward, knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen while listening to Emrys's stories.
Though unlike those months this spring, when Aelin set down her plate between her feet, she slid her arms around Rowan's neck and his mouth instantly met hers.
No, it was certainly not at all like their time at Mistward as she crawled into Rowan's lap, not entirely caring that anyone might stride up or down the stairs, and kissed him silly.
They halted, breathless and wild-eyed, before she could decide that it really wouldn't be a bad idea…
… If Aelin was being honest with herself, she was still debating hauling him into the nearest closet when they set off to find their companions at last. One glance at Rowan's glazed eyes and she knew he was debating the same.
Yet even the desire heating her blood cooled when they entered the ancient study near the top of the keep and beheld the gathered group. Fenrys and Gavriel were already there, Chaol with them, no sign of Elide or Lorcan.
But Chaol's father, unfortunately, was present. And glowered as they entered the meeting that seemed well under way. Aelin gave him a mocking smile and sauntered up to the large desk.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood with Nesryn, Sartaq, and Hasar, handsome and brimming with a sort of impatient energy. His brown eyes were welcoming, his smile easy.
She liked him immediately.
"My brother," Hasar said, waving a hand without looking up from the map. "Kashin." The prince sketched a graceful bow.
Aelin offered one back, Rowan doing the same. "An honor," Aelin said. "Thank you for coming."
"You can actually thank my father for that. And Yrene," said Kashin, his use of their language as flawless as his siblings'.
Indeed, Aelin had much to thank the healer for.
Nesryn's sharp eyes scanned Aelin from head to toe. "You're feeling all right?"
"Just needed to rest." Aelin jerked her chin at Rowan. "He requires frequent naps in his old age."
Sartaq coughed, keeping his head down as he continued studying the map.
Fenrys, however, laughed. "Back to your good spirits, I see."
Aelin smirked at Chaol's straight-backed father. "We'll see how long it lasts."
The man said nothing.
Rowan motioned to the desk and asked the royals, "Have you decided-where you shall march now?"
Such a casual, calm question. As if the fate of Terrasen did not rest upon it.
Hasar opened her mouth, but Sartaq cut her off. "North. We shall indeed go north with you. If only to repay you for saving our army-our people."
Aelin tried not to look too relieved.
"Gratitude aside," Hasar said, not sounding very grateful at all, "Kashin's scouts have confirmed that Terrasen is where Morath is concentrating its efforts. So it is there that we shall go."
Aelin wished she had not eaten such a large lunch. "How bad is it?"
Nesryn shook her head, answering for Prince Kashin, "The details were murky. All we know is that hordes were spotted marching northward, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake."
Aelin kept her fists at her sides, avoiding the urge to rub at her face.
Chaol's father said, "I hope that power of yours can be summoned again."
Aelin let an ember of that power smolder in her eyes. "Thank you for the armor," she crooned.
"Consider it an early coronation gift," the Lord of Anielle countered with a mocking smile.
Sartaq cleared his throat. "If you and your companions are recovered, then we'll press northward as soon as we are able." No objections from Hasar at that.
"And march along the mountains?" Rowan asked, scanning the map. Aelin traced the route they'd follow. "We'd have to pass directly before the Ferian Gap. We'll barely clear the other end of this lake before we're in another battle."
"So we draw them out," Hasar said. "Trick them into emptying whatever forces wait in the Gap, then sneak up on them from behind."
"Adarlan controls the entire Avery," Chaol said, drawing an invisible line inland from Rifthold. "To pass north, we have to cross that river anyway. In picking the Gap as our battleground, we'll avoid the mess that would come with fighting in the midst of Oakwald. The ruks, at least, would be able to provide aerial coverage. Not so with the trees."
Rowan nodded. "We'd need to march the majority of the host up into the mountains, then—to come at the Gap from where they'd least expect it. It's rough terrain, though. We'll need to pick our route carefully."
Chaol's father grumbled. Aelin lifted her brows, but his son answered, "I sent out emissaries the day after the battle-into the Fangs. To contact the wild men who live there, if they might know of secret ways through the mountains to the Gap."
Ancient enemies of this city. "And?"
"They do. But at a cost."
"One that shall not be paid," the Lord of Anielle snapped.
"Let me guess: territory," Aelin said.
Chaol nodded. Hence the tension in this room.
She tapped a toot as she surveyed the Lord of Anielle. "And you won't give one sliver of land to them?"
He just glared.
"Apparently not," Fenrys muttered
Aelin shrugged, and turned to Chaol. "Well, it's settled, then."
"What is settled?" his father ground out.
Aelin ignored him, and winked at her friend. "You're the Hand to the King of Adarlan. You outrank him. You're authorized to act on Dorian's behalf." She gestured to the map. "The land might be a part of Anielle, but it belongs to Adarlan. Go ahead and barter it."
His father started. "You—"
"We are going north," Aelin said. "You will not stand in our way." She again let some of her fire kindle in her eyes, set the gold in them burning. "I halted that wave. Consider this alliance with the wild men a way to repay the favor."
"That wave destroyed half my city," the man snarled.
Fenrys let out a low, disbelieving laugh. Rowan snarled softly.
Chaol growled at his father, "You're bastard."
"Watch your tongue, boy."
Aelin nodded sympathetically to Chaol. "I see why you left."
Chaol, to his credit, winced and returned to the map. "If we can get past the Ferian Gap, then we continue northward."
Past Endovier. That path would take them right past Endovier. Aelin's stomach tightened. Rowan's hand grazed her own.
"We have to decide soon," Sartaq declared.
"Right now, we sit between the Ferian Gap and Morath. It would be very easy for Erawan to send hosts to crush us between them."
Hasar turned to Chaol. "Is Yrene anywhere near done?"
He leaned an elbow against the arm of his wheeled chair. "Even with the few survivors, there are too many of them. We'd be here weeks."
"How many injured?" Rowan asked.
Chaol shook his head. "Not injured." His jaw tightened. "Valg."
Aelin frowned. "Yrene's healing the Valg?"
Hasar grinned. "In a manner of speaking."
Aelin waved her off. "Can I see?"
They found Yrene not in the keep, but in a tent on the remnants of the battlefield, leaning over a human man thrashing upon a cot. The man had been restrained to anchors in the floor at his wrists and ankles.
Aelin took one look at those chains and had to swallow.
Rowan laid a hand on her lower back, and Fenrys stepped closer to her side.
Yrene paused, her hands wreathed in white light. Borte, sword out, lingered nearby.
"Is something wrong?" Yrene asked, the glow in her hands fading. The man sagged, going boneless as the healer's assault on the demon inside him halted.
Chaol steered his chair closer to her, the wheels equipped for rougher terrain. "Aelin and her companions want a demonstration. If you're up for it."
Yrene smoothed back the hair that had escaped her braid. "It's not really anything that you can see. What happens is beneath the skin—mind to mind."
"You go up against Valg demons directly," Fenrys said with no small amount of awe.
"They're hateful, cowardly wretches." Yrene crossed her arms and scowled at the man tied to the cot. "Utterly pathetic," she spat toward him—the demon inside him.
The man hissed. Yrene only smiled. The man—the demon-whimpered.
Aelin blinked, unsure whether to laugh or fall to her knees. "Show me. Do whatever it is you do, but show me."
Borte said, "It's not very exciting with them tied down, is it?"
Sartaq threw her an exasperated glare. As if this were a conversation they'd already had many times. "You can be on mucking duty, if you'd prefer."
Borte rolled her eyes, but turned to Aelin, looking her over with a frankness that Aelin could only appreciate. "Any other missions for me?"
Aelin grinned. "Not yet. Soon, perhaps." Borte grinned right back. "Please. Please spare me from the tedium of this."
"And you believe them?" Fenrys asked.
Hasar patted the hilt of her fine sword. "Our interrogators are skilled at retrieving the truth."
Aelin ignored the roiling in her stomach.
"So you free them," Gavriel said, silent for minutes now, "and then torture them?"
"This is war," Hasar said simply. "We leave them able to function. But we will not risk sparing their lives only to find a new army at our backs."
"Some willingly joined Erawan," Chaol said quietly. "Some willingly took the ring. Yrene can tell, when she's in there, who wanted it or not. She doesn't bother to save those who gladly knelt. So most of those she does save were either fools or taken forcibly."
"Some want to fight for us," Sartaq said.
"Those who pass our vetting process are allowed to begin training with the foot soldiers. Not many of them, but a few." Fine. Fine, and fine.
Yrene gasped, her light flaring bright enough that Aelin squinted.
Yrene slumped back, Chaol shooting out an arm to brace her. The healer only took a perch on the arm of his chair, a hand on her heaving chest.
Aelin gave her a moment to catch her breath. To manage such a feat was remarkable. To do it while pregnant ... Aelin shook her head in wonder.
Yrene said to no one in particular, "That demon didn't want to go."
"But it's gone now?" Aelin asked
Yene pointed to the man on the cot, now opening his eyes. Brown, not black, gazed upward.
"Thank you," was all the man said, his voice raw.
And human. Utterly human.
#Chapter 66#Aelin Galathynius#Kingdom of Ash#Sarah J. Maas#First Read along with me NO SPOILERS PLEASE though warning for post & tags up to KoA 66 & more reacts/notes/quotes in tags below#KoA part of chapter 66 (one/two more till Pt. 2)-HomepinetalksknownPeaceCloserBetter-Did it matter now?Revealing what?#A guess lol-She'd known-THE LETTERS-that’s what she had been waiting for-what’s the last card?-Never again it would wreck her only that-#-pain brought that power-AELIN STOP PLANNING A DEATH-Break US-He’s aware-So she said it-I know-I want it over-so it will be-he’ll find a wa#Who and what it made her-A coward-no. Can nehemias ghost pop up and fix that please?-Just over by any meansNot death just not this#Uncompromising will-Enough-Promises-A hand again-Her mothers gift-The most precious part-OW WHY WOULD YOU turn it into that line#putting the AH in Sarah-Given to him again-lol again Gavriel leaving lol-very Feyre of her-wait Is she pregnant? Nope lol-Gavriel arranging#-everything he’d be a great wedding planner-them sharing food I want us to eat well-good ole Mistward days-lol literally no care#Use the elevator folks-THE BIRD RUMOR-and another broom closet lol-YESSSKashin (never thought we’d be here but okay)#naps needed-they are centuries old-okay wait Maeve all of them how old is she?-hearth mothers?-Her faceAn ember-The gap DAMN-#-The river DOUBLE DAMN-The fangs SHIT-Endovier NOPE!-damn the Valg rings I’m so paranoid-They learned-the ChainsThey both held her they kne#Laugh or cry idk-Show me how?War.Fine.What next?!-Erawan AND Maeve NO UGH-Needed to walk & get away uh yeah-damn magic gods-#Yrene and the baby though…what if-he couldn’t for her-The marks-Love is a weakness matches the old script flipped-what it meant-#Only Gavriel would have arranged them with such care.#THE RUMORS SCENE IS EVEN BETTER THAN I THOUGHT LOL#who did he kill with a table leg?😂#HoF full circle lol#His brown eyes were welcoming his smile easy. She liked him immediately.#He requires frequent naps in his old age#Aelin let an ember of that power smolder in her eyes. Thank you for the armor she crooned.—coronation#YES CHAOL standing up for him her everyone—Yrenes feist has taught him well#Rowan's hand grazed her own.#Rowan laid a hand on her lower back and Fenrys stepped closer to her side.#with a frankness that Aelin could only appreciate—Borte had dropped her off before—Nesryn saved#Yrene wreathed in white light-remarkable. To do it while pregnant ... Aelin shook her head in wonder.#And human. Utterly human.
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just came home after being at the ER for 7 hours and all they did was tell me what i already knew (that i have lower abdominal pain and if i get nausea, chills, or lower back pain i should return. i had that all day, even when they discharged me)
#they lost my urine cup 🧍🏽♀️ that was prime urine#i really did need them to see that bc i started bleeding last night 🧍🏽♀️#they drew my blood so i guess it'd show similar stuff...#i felt like i was dying i used at least 12 heat packs#scarlett.txt#tmi /#blood /#uh....#urine /#????????#sorrycif you saw this and didn't want to#feel free to lmk how to tag this better cuz idk wtf im doing#negative /#??????????????#U.S. healthcare system win :)#i need to find my heating pad asap where tf did i put it in august#also the man doctor i saw at 3pm pissed me off bro is supposed to say if he's gonna touch a patient and he was also so rough i hate men#i still have issues with being touched by doctors after what happened with the male dr i had when i was 16 i hate male doctors i hate them#i didn't get to hang out w/ deja today which sucks and i also feel too nauseous to write#we don't have any ginger 😫#at least the nurses were nice
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#my posts#trying to do the usual thing i do so that if you happen to see this post you dont read whah#what* im actually saying unless you click read more tags or whatever that thing says#idk if this is enough. it probably is. ive done this enough times and i still never know lmao#which makes sense bc i always do this when i feel like shit so of course i dont remember im not thinking exactly what the limit is#but man i do feel like shit im so tired#i went from feeling like a miserable piece of shit to being sick for a week and when i got good enough i went back into feeling like shit#i thought maybe it was done and over with but guess what!#im tired man idk.#i feel like anything else i may add to this post could make me reach the point where i end ip deleting the entire thing lmao#im just tired of feeling like im never doing better but also im pretty sure i deserve that#which like. i am aware its illogical but it doesnt make it better lmao#ive been trying to ignore the feelings these past few days and its not trully working also so uh. yeah#gonna keep using my phone for shit until i fall asleep ig
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