#Good Laboratory Practice course

[igmpi]

Enroll in IGMPI’s Pharmaceutical Good Laboratory Practice (GLP) Course to gain expertise in laboratory compliance, quality assurance, and regulatory standards. Enhance your career with industry-recognized GLP certification.

[shikiii-skadi]

What is Wrong with being a little Bad? || Prologue

SUMMARY: After a potion incident caused by your three disaster-prone friends, you're now stuck with an accidental villain arc.

WARNINGS: none

NAVIGATION: Twisted Wonderland Masterlist

PARTS: Prologue | Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia

As usual, the three idiots you called friends had gotten you into trouble. It could have been an ordinary alchemy lesson with Professor Crewel, but Ace just had to make fun of Grim, comparing him to the shriveled gray tuber you were supposed to use for your potion.

Of course, Ace kept provoking Grim until he snapped and tried to burn the tuber. Only to accidentally set a table on fire. Professor Crewel was not pleased, to say the least. So now, as punishment, you, Grim, Ace, and Deuce had to stay after class and finish the potion within the next hour and present it to Professor Crewel. Which was a tough task in itself, even without the troublesome behaviour of your friends.

You were discussing the next step with Deuce when, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Ace trying to silently sneak toward the door.

"Ace!"  you scolded, causing him to freeze mid-step. "Don't even try to sneak off on us, or you will be glued to the cauldron."

"Geez, I wasn't even trying to go anywhere. Just wanted to check if we need anything from the shelf over there," he lied very unconvincingly.

"We already have all the ingredients we need," you reminded him, before practically feeling the mischievous energy emanating from the cat monster somewhere behind you. "Grim. Don't even think about trying anything."

Deuce shook his head, exasperated after witnessing you scold both Ace and Grim. "Seriously, it's the fault of both of you that we are in this situation."

"The Great Grim ain't done anything at all. Everything is Ace's fault!" Grim shot back immediately, puffing out his chest.

“You set a table on fire,” you reminded him.

Grim stomped his little feet in protest, while Ace only snickered. "Only because Ace made fun of me!"

You were about to launch into another lecture about why that was absolutely no excuse to use fire, but Deuce interrupted, his voice suddenly bright with excitement. “Wait—I think I’ve got it!”

Curious, the three of you crowded around the cauldron to see what Deuce had concocted. But something was off. The potion was a watery, reddish color. Nothing like the shimmering blue one Professor Crewel had demonstrated in class.

“The color’s way off,” Ace said, wrinkling his nose. “Even a blind guy could tell.”

After looking at the liquid in the cauldron for a few more seconds, you nodded. "Yeah, I have to agree... It was more blue and had this red shimmer."

"And Crewel's potion was more bubbly," Grim commented, but you had the feeling it wasn't really an observation and more a case of Grim just saying something to sound smart.

Ace shot Deuce a look. “Great job, Deuce. Now we have to start all over.”

"Excuse me? You didn't even do anything."

"Don't start another argument," you said, trying to be the voice of reason in all of this. And also to prevent any more tables from potentially landing in the crossfire. "Let's just try to get this over with."

While the three of you were distracted, Grim saw the perfect opportunity to "fix" your potion. He didn't want to spend hours making a new one, and a talented mage like him could fix this no problem, he thought wrongly.

Grim confidently grabbed a jar filled with bright green liquid and generously poured it into the cauldron. You only noticed what Grim was doing because his actions resulted in a dark green smoke that filled a good chunk of the laboratory in a matter of seconds, shrouding you in a green vision.

You coughed, waving your hand in front of your face, and stumbled blindly toward the window, trying to remember the way. Behind you, Deuce’s voice rang out, muffled by the haze: “Grim, you’re ruining the potion!”

"Don't just randomly mix stuff together," Ace said, followed by a cough, as if he wouldn't do the exact same thing.

You could barely see, but you heard Grim’s triumphant voice: “I’m fixing it! Just wait and see!”

"Stop mixing things!" you called out after hearing what sounded suspiciously like Grim throwing something else into the potion.

You reached the window and opened it, but it wasn't really effective in getting rid of the smoke. The sound of something heavy being dropped into liquid could be heard. The smoke thickened, then, just as suddenly, began to swirl and collapse, sucked back into the cauldron in a single, unnatural breath.

“There! Fixed!” Grim declared, sounding far too pleased with himself.

"You caused the smoke," Deuce retorted, before grabbing Grims' paw, stopping him from making things worse. Grim tried to wiggle free.

"Just stop, Grim," you said as you made your way over to them. But Grim didn't listen to anyone. He thrashed, and in the commotion, the little stepladder he was standing on, so he could reach the cauldron, tipped over. The ladder collided with the cauldron. Grim leapt away just in time, or he would have landed in the potion, but the ladder crashed into the cauldron, sending it toppling toward you.

You, on the other hand, were not so lucky. Instinctively, you tried to catch the stepladder falling your way, which meant you couldn’t get out of the way in time. The cauldron tips to one side completely, spilling its contents onto you.

You gasped in shock as the cold mixture made contact with your skin. Unlike before, it was no longer watery but gloppy, almost rubbery, as it stuck on you and your lab coat. Fortunately, your eyes were spared thanks to the protection of the goggles. You could feel an unpleasant prickling sensation on your skin just as the liquid suddenly evaporated. It was as if you had absorbed it.

Your friends asked you if everything was alright. You wanted to tell them that nothing was wrong. But suddenly, your annoyance about the situation turned into pure anger. "You incompetent fools! You should be skinned alive and eaten by feral animals! Why do I even keep you around?” you snap, barely recognizing your own voice.

Your three friends looked at you with startled faces. They certainly weren't expecting this reaction. Ace was the first to say something. "Ouch, where is that suddenly coming from?"

Deuce tried to help you up from the ground, but you ignored his hand, standing up on your own. "Don't touch me with your unwashed hands."

"I always wash my hands!" Deuce replied immediately, but you weren't interested in his words.

"Are you sure you are fine?", Ace asked, while Grim added, "Yeah, you are acting really weird."

You glared at them. "I was fine until we crossed paths."

Ace exchanged a nervous glance with Deuce, edging away from the cauldron as if whatever had effected you, might spread to him. “Okay, seriously, what was in that potion?” he whispered.

Deuce frowned, studying you with concern. “You don’t look hurt, but… you’re acting all… villainous.”

“We need to tell Professor Crewel,” Deuce said quietly. “Something’s really wrong.”

Ace hesitated. “Are you kidding? If we tell him, we’re doomed for sure! He’ll have us scrubbing cauldrons until graduation.”

“But my hench-human is clearly broken! We can’t leave them like this," Grim protested.

"I didn't say we should leave them like that. You can stop looking at me like that,“ Ace said, ”We shouldn't tell Crewel, we should tell the Headmage."

Even though Ace, Grim and Deuce were whispering among themselves, you could clearly hear every word. "Are you seriously going to the most irresponsible adult on campus with this?" you said, sounding almost offended.

"That's exactly why we should go to the Headmage. Crewel will only punish us more for this. The Headmage on the other hand..." Ace trailed off, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. You didn’t need him to finish the sentence; his expression said it all.

At that moment, you realize, with a new, almost sinister clarity, that the three accomplices you had gathered here were perhaps not such a bad choice after all. Ace was devious, Deuce mostly naive, and Grim a cat arsonist. And all three of them were dumb enough to be easily manipulated.

Together with your minions, you were on your way to the Headmage. Not because you listened to Ace's instructions, but simply out of curiosity as to what Ace, Deuce and Grim would screw up next. It's going to be interesting.

You're not necessarily looking forward to seeing the Headmage, though. He was odd in your eyes. You were pretty sure he was still waiting for a Father’s Day gift from you. Even though it's been months. He probably didn't even want it because he saw himself as your father figure, but just to get something free. Which, admittedly, you could respect. But did you look like someone who has the money to give people free stuff? No. You live in a shithole together with ghosts.

You walk down the corridor, the other three trailing behind you in a disorganized cluster. Grim is muttering to himself about “fixing” you with a spell he saw in a comic book, while Deuce keeps glancing at you as if you might sprout horns at any moment. Ace, as usual, is walking around like he owned the place, whistling a tune that’s a little too cheerful for someone responsible for nearly burning down a classroom an hour ago.

You watched as Ace walked past you. For this transgression, you shot him a sharp glare, allowing him to correct his behaviour, but Ace didn't notice or maybe didn't think much of your glare. You couldn’t let that slide without punishment. No one was meant to walk in front of you, as if you weren't the boss of this group.

Ace’s whistling was cut off by a yelp as your hand connected with the back of his head. "Ouch! Why are you slapping me? It was pretty hard too...!"

You smacked him again for daring to question you, making him yelp again and stepping back so you couldn't reach him. "A minion is not supposed to strut in front of their master. Much less is said minion supposed to ask stupid questions after his behaviour has been corrected!"

Ace rubbed the back of his head, grumbling under his breath, but wisely kept his distance. Grim snickered, clearly enjoying Ace’s misfortune, while Deuce shot you a wary look, as if trying to gauge whether he should intervene or just keep his head down and hope for the best.

Eventually you reached Crowleys office. With a dramatic flourish, you pushed open the door, not bothering to knock first.

Crowley looked up from behind his desk, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you barge in with your entourage. He straightened his hat, smoothing his cloak with a hopeful expression.

"Ah! My, my, what a surprise!" he exclaimed, voice dripping with anticipation. "And with all of you here together… Could it be? After all these months, have you finally come to deliver my long-overdue Father’s Day gift?" He clasped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement.

"No," you replied flat.

The hope in Crowley’s eyes crumbled like a poorly baked soufflé. "No? Oh, the cruelty! The heartbreak! To be denied yet again by my own beloved, nay, most cherished, student!" He sniffled loudly, dabbing at imaginary tears with a handkerchief he seemed to produce from nowhere.

Grim rolled his eyes, looking at you. "He’s even more dramatic than you."

Crowley peeked at you from behind his hand. "Are you certain? Not even a little something? A card? A drawing? Perhaps some heartfelt words of gratitude for your ever-doting paternal figure?"

"Doting paternal figure?" you repeated, "You do nothing but constandly dump your work onto me."

"Delegation is the mark of a great leader. I am simply preparing you for the trials of adulthood. Responsibility, initiative, the crushing weight of expectation!" Crowley answered.

"Don't give me the its building character nonsense."

While you and the Headmage talked, Ace whispered to Deuce; "Should we just leave and come back when they are done?"

"We can’t wait," he whispered back to Ace. His voice was low but urgent. "This is serious."

Deuce glanced nervously between you and Crowley before realizing that someone had to take charge before the conversation spiraled further into melodrama. He cleared his throat, stepping forward with a determined voice. “Um, Headmage Crowley? We actually came here because something weird happened in alchemy class,” Deuce began, "There was… an accident with a potion, and now, uh, the prefect isn’t acting like themselve."

"Oh? An alchemical mishap, you say?" Crowley repeated, stroking his chin. "And what, pray tell, does this have to do with me? Or, more importantly, with my Father’s Day gift?"

Grim groaned. "Forget the stupid gift! The prefect is acting all weird and villain-y!"

Ace snorted. "Looks more like they’re auditioning for a cheesy play."

You glared. "Silence, minion."

Deuce, sensing the situation spiraling, tried again. "Headmage, we think the prefect got hit with a potion that’s changed their personality. We need your help to fix it."

Crowley was thinking silently for a moment before coming to an utterly ridiculous conclusion. "Ah, yes, of course! That is why i have yet to receive my Father's Day gift from you. It makes perfect sense."

"I was never planning to give you anything. Stop bringing it up!" you answered.

Crowley clutched his chest as if your words had physically wounded him. "Are you sure a potion is the cause for this?" he asked, voice cracking with theatrical sorrow. "Has the scheming of the other students perhaps corrupted you this much? That’s not how I raised you!"

You crossed your arms. "Excuse me, you didn’t raise me at all. And I turned out just fine, thank you very much."

The Headmage sighed, shaking his head as if he’d just witnessed the greatest tragedy. "And here I thought my only concern was going to be Draconia, who whisks you away to wed you," he sniffed, dabbing imaginary tears again. "Oh, the worries only a father has."

"You aren’t my father, Headmage," you replied. "I already have one. And what are you talking about anyway?"

"Headmage, please! This isn’t about Father’s Day or… or marriage proposals!" Deuce said his voice firm but respectful, "The prefect was hit by a potion, and now they’re acting completely different. We need to know how to fix it. Before things get worse."

After that Ace, Deuce and Grim explained what had happened in the alchemy lesson with as much detail as possible, but it was hard to say what Grim actually put in the potion. They launched into a chaotic retelling the disaster. Ace was blaming Grim for tampering with the potion, while Grim protested that he was only fixing it. Deuce, meanwhile, tried to keep the story on track, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the bickering.

"Anyway, the potion exploded, and the prefect got covered in it. That’s when they started acting… well, like this." Deuce gestured to the spot where you had been standing.

Except… you weren’t there.

Ace blinked. "Wait. Where’d the prefect go?"

Grim spun around, eyes widening in alarm. "Eh? They were right here! Did they turn invisible? Did the potion do that too?!"

Deuce’s eyes widened in panic. "Did they sneak out while we were talking?"

"You’ve lost the prefect? My most cherished and responsible student? This is a disaster! What if they’re off plotting villainous schemes? What if they’re," Crowley gasped, "buying Father’s Day presents for someone else?"

Ace groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can we please focus? The prefect’s probably just wandering around being… weird. We need to find them before they get into real trouble."

[reasonsforhope]

"In the Canary Islands, in Barcelona, and in Chile, a unique fog catcher design is sustaining dry forests with water without emissions, or even infrastructure.

Replicating how pine needles catch water, the structure need only be brought on-site and set up, without roads, powerlines, or irrigation channels.

Fog catching is an ancient practice—renamed “cloud milking” by an EU-funded ecology project on the Canary Islands known as LIFE Nieblas (nieblas means fog).

“In recent years, the Canaries have undergone a severe process of desertification and we’ve lost a lot of forest through agriculture. And then in 2007 and 2009, as a result of climate change, there were major fires in forested areas that are normally wet,” said Gustavo Viera, the technical director of the publicly-funded project in the Canaries.

The Canaries routinely experience blankets of fog that cloak the islands’ slopes and forests, but strong winds made fog-catching nets an unfeasible solution. In regions such as the Atacama Desert in Chile or the Atlas Mountains of North Africa, erecting nets that capture moisture particles out of passing currents of fog is a traditional practice.

LIFE Nieblas needed a solution that could resist powerful winds, and to that end designed wind chime-like rows of artificial pine needles, which are also great at plucking moisture from the air. However, unlike nets or palms, they efficiently let the wind pass through them.

The water is discharged without any electricity. There are no irrigation channels, and no machinery is needed to transport the structures. The natural course of streams and creeks need not be altered, nor is there a need to drill down to create wells. The solution is completely carbon-free.

WATER IN THE DESERTS: 

China Announces Completion of a 1,800-Mile Green Belt Around the World’s Most-Hostile Desert

Billions of People Could Benefit from This Breakthrough in Desalination That Ensures Freshwater for the World

Scientists Perfecting New Way to Turn Desert Air into Water at Much Higher Yields

Sahara Desert Is Turning Green Amid Unusual Rains in Parts of North Africa

Indian Engineers Tackle Water Shortages with Star Wars Tech in Kerala

In the ravine of Andén in Gran Canaria, a 35.8-hectare (96 acres) mixture of native laurel trees irrigated by the fog catchers enjoys a survival rate of 86%, double the figure of traditional reforestation.

“The Canaries are the perfect laboratory to develop these techniques,” said Vicenç Carabassa, the project’s head scientist, who works for the Center for Ecological Research and Forestry Applications at the University of Barcelona. “But there are other areas where the conditions are optimal and where there is a tradition of water capture from fog, such as Chile and Morocco.”

In Chile’s Coquimbo province, the town of Chungungo is collecting around 250 gallons a day from a combination of locally-made fog catchers and LIFE Nieblas’ pine needle design, the Guardian reports."

-via Good News Network, December 30, 2024

[myfictionaldreams]

Day 18: Sex Pollen - Bucky Barnes

Summary: It was your first mission out with your mentor, Bucky, but not all goes to plan when you stumble across an old Hydra laboratory and accidentally trigger a trap.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dubious content (kinda), mentor/protege, grumpy/sunshine trope, sex pollen, fingering, begging, crying, rough sex, multiple orgasms, praise kink, creampie

masterlist 📚 

kinktober masterlist😈 

AO3 Link 

“Can you stay close to me?”

“Bucky, if I was any closer to you, I might as well be your shadow. Will you chill out, please?”.

All the response that you are given is an exasperated sigh from your team leader, who was directly in front of you, his gun raised and pointing in whichever direction his eyes followed. You were so close to him that the head of his body seeped through his uniform and into your back as you followed his steps, almost like a choreographed dance with the synrosy.

It was technically your first mission today; even though you’d been over comms for Bucky countless times, he finally gave in and agreed that you could join. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you; in fact, he trusted you more than most. It was more due to his intense mentorship and protectiveness that he’d developed for you over the years, which had everything to do with your clumsiness.

Yes, you were an agent, but there were only so many times that you could accidentally hurt yourself before they called in your experience and practice. You were moved to a behind-the-desk job, which pained your heart, but soon, Bucky was your partner, digitally through the headset and then in person, as you begged him daily for training and a chance to prove yourself.

He was reluctant, but you were like an incessant fly, always buzzing around him with that chirpy personality that even managed to draw a smile to his grumpy old - yet handsome - face. The more time he spent with you, the more you could chip away at his heavy exterior and mask, which only hindered your chances of returning to the field again, as the thought of having you so close in the danger zone had him near palpitations.

He blamed it on your clumsy nature, tripping over your own feet or dropping vital machinery, but in truth, Bucky had wanted to prioritise your safety, which was hard when he had a job to do. However, after months of pestering, you wore him down enough to agree that you could attend the Avengers to a sweep of a supposed deserted Hydra base.

“If you continue down this corridor, I can check the rooms”, you say quietly, hardly audibly over a pin drop, but with Bucky’s increased hearing, you knew he could hear.

“Absolutely not; you’re staying with me; we’ve discussed this. We’ll check the rooms together and finish the rest of the corridor”. Bucky’s word was final, so you didn’t argue back, restraining violently to not eye roll at his authoritative tone.

“You two are like an old married couple”, Natasha quips over the comms, which was enough for both you and Bucky to roll your eyes. It was a comment frequently shared with those around you, and it warmed you to hear such pleasantries, and then the realisation that Bucky would never go for someone like you had the sensation of ice coursing down your spine.

“I think you’ll find he’s the old one, not me”, you retort sarcastically as Bucky leads the way into the first room. “This looks like Bruce’s office or something. Do you recognise any of these experiments?”

It was an old, decrepit office laced with dust and thick cobwebs, similar to something from Frankenstein with the number of attempted experiments that seemed littered around the room. Endless stacks of paper, vials of dusky-coloured liquids, and photographs stapled to the walls that were decaying with age.

“No, I don’t recognise any of this, but whatever it is can’t be good news. Stay close and don’t touch anything”. You once more refrain from the eye roll, knowing he means well, but you’re not a child who needs to be reminded to hold their parent's hand all the time. Taking a step away from him, your eyes scanned the various objects, noticing that it was in a language you didn’t quite recognise.

“Thor, I think we have some voodoo stuff here that’s from your neck of the woods”, Bucky announced through his earpiece. 

“You think so?” you ask over your shoulder towards the man with his back to you.

“Yeah, I recognise some of these markings from his hammer”.

“Huh. maybe it’s one of the bases Loki was hiding in; he did like dark and damp places- SHIT!”

To your credit, you hadn’t touched anything or even tripped and knocked something over; potentially, a trip wire or a sensor was trapped in the room, but a light drizzling mist sprayed into your face halfway through your sentence. As you were talking, the concoction settled on your tongue but also seemed everywhere else: your eyes, nostrils, and ears felt wet.

“What? What happened?!” Bucky snapped, standing in front of you in seconds as he assessed you, wiping your eyes.

“I…I don’t know, something sprayed me in the face”. As soon as you’d explained what had happened, Bucky was cradling your face more harshly than you’d have liked, tilting your face in all directions, even sniffing close to see what had covered you, but it had already absorbed into your skin.

Bucky’s eyes were frantically searching over every pore of your face like it would give him answers about what had sprayed you. His gloved finger and thumb holding your chin tightened as he swore. “Fuck! I told you to be careful and stay by my side! Why would you touch anything?!”

Pushing his hands away from your face, you gave him an incredulous gaze, “I didn’t touch anything! I’m not an idiot, so you don’t have to talk to me like I’m one, bucky! Stop- stop trying to touch me, I’m fine,” he had been reaching for your face to examine it again, ignoring your sassy, angry tone. Still, you stepped back out of his reach, becoming frustrated with his lack of trust.

As Bucky’s mouth opened to probably further chastise you, the door ricocheted off the wall as The Avengers swarmed into the uncomfortable small room. Natasha was by your side first, examining your face just as closely as Bucky, but at least she had listened when you explained that you felt completely fine. Tony then scanned your vital signs, which were also fine.

“I told you! It’s probably some mouldy old water or something; I feel fine now can you all give me some space? You’re making it hot in here”. You were fanning your face to try and cool yourself like someone had just turned on the heating, but it was primarily because the small room was full of warm-blooded people.

“Let’s head back out, and we’ve nearly finished the sweep on the North side”, Tony began, the face plate of his suit sliding back into place. “We’ll continue and finish the rest.” He lifted his metal-covered hand and pointed a finger towards Bucky. “Barnes, take her back to the Quinjet, keep an eye on her”.

“No! Don’t send me back to the jet like a child. I told you, I feel absolutely fine!” you quickly tried to rationalise with Tony. Still, he ignored you, hovering off the ground and flying out into the corridor. You looked to the other Avengers with the hope that one of them may find some pity for you, but all you had in response were close-lipped smiles that notified you that there was nothing that they were going to do.

Letting out a frustrated shout, you stopped, admittedly like a child, in the direction you and Bucky had walked down. Even though his steps were silent, you knew he was behind. You could feel his stare burning into the back of your head.

As you returned to the Quinjet, Bucky continued to stay silent as you both sat on opposite sides of the seating bay. Your anger spiked as you shrugged off your jacket, still feeling slightly warm and needing air to reach your skin.

“Where are you going?” Bucky asked as you moved across the jet with determined steps.

“The toilet, or do I need you to hold my hand as I’m doing that too?” you snap, cheeks heating as anger bubbles deep in the centre of your chest. Bucky, for once, looked taken aback by your tone as he shook his head and allowed you to go to the bathroom.

Once inside the small compartment, you rushed to the sink, turned the tap onto its coldest setting and began to scoop it over your skin, sighing in contentment as your skin began to cool down. Pressing your fingers against your face, you felt uneasy with the temperature of your skin, and it was like you were starting to get the flu but also not quite at the heat that concerned you. You decided it was probably from rushing back to the jet after a few minutes of deep breathing.

A rush of guilt settled heavily in your stomach as you thought about how you’d spoken to Bucky. You’d never broken rank and been that rude to him before. Not once had you ever raised your voice or even been angry with him, even through all the times that he’d declined your joining for a mission; it was always for the best, but now, everything just seemed to have escalated. You couldn’t calm yourself down like you were buzzing from the inside out, affecting your temperature and mind.

Three swift knocks on the bathroom door had your head snapping in that direction. “Everything ok in there?” Bucky asked tentatively.

“Yes! Can’t a girl pee without being interrupted?” you snapped, and immediately, you regretted the nasty tone you’d spit out.

There was a pause from Bucky before he continued to speak, but this time, he had lowered his voice in a soft and calming way. “It’s been half an hour, and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, Sweetheart”. 

Half an hour?! You could have sworn it was only a couple of minutes. Rubbing your hands over your face and shaking away the tension, you nervously opened the door, tentatively looking up at Bucky through your lashes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just didn’t want to let you down, and I promise I didn’t touch anything in the lab-”.

Bucky pulled the door open entirely, his eyes roaming over your body to check you were still in one piece before he sighed. “It’s fine, Doll. I just wanted to make sure you’re ok… Are you… ok?”

His blue eyes flicker over your face as he notices that there's something not quite right with you, but all you can manage is a shrug of your shoulders, wiping your eyes that were feeling a little irritated. “I feel mostly fine. I think I need a lie-down, though”.

Bucky looked unsettled by your words but didn’t stop you from walking over to the onboard bunker, where you rolled onto the thin mattress and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

“So, are we just going to leave her here?” Tony sarcastically asked the other Avengers members, who were now watching you sleep.

“No, asshole. I’ll take her”, Bucky grunted, moving past the billionaire to squat beside your body. You’d been in a deep slumber since collapsing onto the bed. Bucky had stayed by your side the entire journey home, which was a fair length, so he was surprised to see you still asleep. Tony had set up the screen to display your vitals, which he watched like a hawk and other than the fact that you weren’t waking, everything remained normal.

The other Avengers didn’t argue with Bucky, knowing how protective he was over you, as they shuffled out of the loading hatch. Bucky shimmied one arm underneath your knees and the other to support your back as he carried your bridal style. You moaned at the disruption, arms circling around his jacket-covered shoulders.

Bucky contemplated taking you to the medical bay for a thorough check, but seeing your peaceful face, he didn’t want to disturb you. He’d stay with you to ensure you were checked as soon as you woke up. It wasn’t like it was the first time he’d stayed with you as you slept, as there were many times you’d either fallen asleep on his arm during a movie or gotten too drunk during an Avengers event that he stayed just to make sure you didn’t choke on your vomit.

As he walked through the Avengers headquarters, he ignored the call for a debrief by his teammates and continued until he arrived at your bedroom, booting the door closed behind him.

Your bedroom was just as messy as he had anticipated it to be, stepping carefully over the shoes, clothes and books that you liked to say were carefully placed into piles on the floor, but you’d simply just left them there to clean up another time. Your bed was just as bad with mountains of pillows that you insisted on having, even though Bucky thought it was severely excessive.

Trying to reposition his hold on you, he hoisted you higher to spare one of his hands to throw the numerous pillows you owned onto the floor. In doing so, your forehead rested against his cheek, and you released an unsettled whine on the impact of his skin touching yours.

Bucky froze at the noise, trying to look down at your face, but in his position, he couldn’t see properly as you were thoroughly tucked under his chin. Finally having enough space, he ever so carefully led you out onto the soft mattress.

Your eyebrows were furrowed as if you were having a nightmare. Bucky sat beside you on the bed, counting your breaths and frowning when he noticed that you were breathing more rapidly than you had been when he was in his arms.

Sweat began to gather along your temple, causing your hair to stick to your forehead, which he quickly moved to move away. As the tip of his fingers connected with your skin, many things seemed to happen simultaneously.

For one, you released a deeply pained groan as you curled your body into a ball on your side, beginning to breathe in quick succession like you were hyperventilating.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky asked with rising concern, now cupping the side of your face with his flesh hand, but this seemed to trigger the pains enough that you awoke.

Your eyelids fluttered open just to clamp shut again, squeezing as you cried in unbelievable agony. Your skin was burning as if all your nerves had been individually set on fire, causing sweat to come to the surface of your pores drenching your clothes, which was still mostly your uniform.

“It hurts. It’s too hot”, you whimpered, lower lip wobbling as eyes effortlessly tracked down your cheeks. With trembling fingers, you attempted to undo your trousers, but the stabbing pain in your abdomen caused you to curl further into a ball like you were trying to shield your stomach from anyone touching it.

“Let me help. We need to get you to cool down. JARVIS, inform the medical bay that we need some assistance”, Bucky shouted Tony’s AI that ran throughout the building.

As Bucky managed to undo the button to your trousers, JARVIS responded with news that had Bucky’s heart almost stopping. “They are aware of the situation as Mr Stark has requested that I record her vitals from returning to Avengers headquarters. You are both officially in quarantine until they can find out what it is that was sprayed and affecting her”. 

The sound of the bedroom locking echoed louder than any of your sobs as Bucky cursed, running up to the barricade and attempting to break out. “You can’t just lock us in here! She’s going to die, Stark, you piece of shit! Open the door!”

“Bucky!” you cried pathetically, still attempting to remove your clothes even though all that remained was your t-shirt and underwear. Bucky didn’t immediately rush back to you as he removed his jacket, giving him more freedom to swing his metal arm back and punch his way through the bedroom door, but all it did was bend; it still wouldn’t open.

“Fuck!” Bucky shouted, seething with unending rage as he rushed back to your side, helping to pull the shirt over your head. “Christ Doll, your skin is warmer than mine. Come on, I’m going to carry you to the bathroom; we need to cool you down”.

Bucky carefully carried you to your en suite bathroom in the same bridal style as before. He tried not to grunt at how warm your body was against his flesh arm as he carefully placed you into the bath, but as he tried to move away to turn on the shower, you screamed out, grabbing onto his arm to keep him close.

“Don’t leave me; it feels good to have you close, please!” Bucky frowned, not entirely understanding what you meant, as surely his higher-running body temperature didn’t feel good when you were burning up so significantly.

“I need to turn the shower on. I’ll be two seconds, and I’ll be back, I promise”, he explained and then didn’t wait for your response as he pried your nimble fingers off your bicep. As soon as some of him didn’t touch your skin, the symptoms worsened.

Bucky flinched at the pitch and volume of how you screamed. He scrambled to reach over the bathtub to switch on the shower head high above the wall and hastily turned the temperature down until cold water was running out.

“Sweetheart, you need to move further under the water; please work with me here. You’ll feel better, you just need to move for me”.

Your whole body was shaking with such force that you found it difficult to suck in air as the heat of your skin was the last of your worries. The pain in your abdomen had turned into pure agony, and if you were to describe it, it was almost like you were cramping, waves of stabbing pain but exaggerated to a level that made it impossible to breathe, think, or even want to survive. It was so severe that you couldn’t hear what Bucky was begging because you were desperate to try and hold your abdomen as it would in some way ease the pain, but not only this, your body was reacting in an extreme way to try and fight the unknown sensation coursing through your veins.

As if to relieve the cramps, your cunt produced an obscene amount of fluid to the point that it was dripping out of your hole and pooling beneath where you sat. If Bucky turned off the shower, you’d probably appear just as wet with how much of your juices were coming out.

“Fuck this”, Bucky whispered under his breath as he failed to get you to move by yourself. Awkwardly, due to the limited space, Bucky climbed into the bath, hoisting you forward to sit behind you and force your body further under the cold water. This, in turn, means that he began to get soaked, including the tactical gear he still wore on his legs, his combat boots and the black t-shirt. He didn’t care though, not when you were deteriorating so significantly.

Bucky put it down to the water, but as soon as he was in the bathtub, his body pressed against yours and arms wrapped around your waist so that the bare skin of his arm and metal touched yours, the screams reduced to stuttering whimpers.

Your head rested back on his shoulder, out of the way of the flowing water, but as your forehead turned and met his chin, you turned further to nuzzle closer.

“More”, you whispered, fingers digging into his forearms to hold him closer.

Bucky readjusted your body so that it sat fully between his thighs. “More what, Doll?” he asked gently, his thumb rubbing in circles along your rib cage. It was only now that he contemplated that you were in your underwear, but it was an emergency, even though some part of him deep down was awakening in some deep-seated emotions he’d been trying to keep locked away.

For the first time since you’d been in pain, you responded to his voice by turning your head slightly but only to rest your lips against his neck. “More!” It was like a siren was sounding through your mind, and the sensation of Bucky’s skin against yours was quietening it to a soft buzz; even the cramping had eased somewhat to a dull ache.

Bucky frowned, confused by your demands, but he squeezed his arms around you further, deciding that maybe it was the comfort that was helping you.

“It hurts”, you sobbed against his neck, “wanna feel more of your skin”.

“My…my skin?” Bucky asked, completely confused by your request and deciding that you’d probably entered the delirious stage of whatever illness you were experiencing.

“Mr Barnes? Are you there?” came a voice from the speakers in the ceiling.

“JARVIS? Is help coming?” Bucky asked with hope pleading in his voice.

“No, sorry, Mr Barnes, but we have an update. It seems that Mr Odinson has read through some of the markings found in the footage taken from the lab. The mist sprayed was, in fact, from Asgardian origin. Mr Odinson informs me that it is most likely planted there by Mr Laufeyson as a trick he has played many times in their lifetime.”

A prank? It sure didn’t look like a prank with the way you were trembling and crying in Bucky’s arms. “So what the hell is it? How do we stop this from getting any worse?”

“This is of a delicate matter, Mr Barnes, so forgive me. Mr Odinson informs me that the chemicals used in the mist are an aphrodisiac used during specific parties in Asgard to increase the user's arousal. Still, due to the amount of time that this substance had been left in this hydra facility, it has caused the ingredients to age and the symptoms to increase in intensity. However, Mr Odinson has reassured me that the symptoms should reduce if you were to consummate”.

Bucky was speechless as he looked down at your precious, unwell body in his arms. “You can’t be fucking serious”, he’d meant to shout, but all that came out was a doubtful whisper. “What would happen if we left her? Would the symptoms lessen? She doesn’t seem to be in as much pain when touching my skin”.

“Unfortunately, after some time, the symptoms will reduce. The chemicals used are designed to last as long as possible, and as they are all out of date, Mr Odinson is unsure how long this may last, but with her vitals as abnormal as they are now, it is unwise to leave her. Mr Stark has suggested that if you cannot fulfil the role of consummation, then he would find someone who could”.

Bucky’s reaction to Stark's comment was to shout in rage, and he could picture him now smiling at his sarcastic comment. There was no way he was letting anyone else touch you. “What if she doesn’t want that? I’m not touching her if she doesn’t want-”

“I do”, you gasp whilst still resting your face on his neck, calming your cries enough that you could hear JARVIS. “I want it so bad; I need the pain to go away. Please help me Bucky”.

Whether it was the way that you begged him for the intimate act or the thought of potentially what was happening, Bucky regretted to say that his cock twitched in the confines of his underwear as he sat up further. “Sweetheart, do you understand what’s being asked? To do this-”

“I want you to touch me, Bucky; I don’t need to tell you how long I’ve wanted this. I know you know how I feel, but please, I can’t feel like this anymore; it hurts everywhere”.

Bucky’s eyes glazed over. All the time of knowing you, he had somewhat of an inkling of the shared feelings. Still, it was firstly unprofessional of him to act on any feelings, but his self-conscious bias of being undeserved of love due to his past as the Winter Soldier stopped him further.

However, now, you were led out before him, ready to live the dreams and fantasies he’d been stuck on for so long, but what’s worse was the pain you were experiencing. It seemed he took too long to answer as he could feel the shift of the heat radiating from you once more.

Your back arched as your fingers delved between your legs, cupping your mound as the pain increased; this time, it wasn’t just the cramps but also white-hot tingles beginning in your clit, over every little sensitive nerve that ran throughout your core.

“Please help me!” you cried, tears lining your eyes.

Bucky had to decide then and there if he would potentially watch you suffer with unimaginable pain or help in the only possible way. He’d agreed, had from the second Jarvis had suggested it, knowing that he couldn’t lose you.

Sitting up slightly, Bucky reached behind his head to pull the black t-shirt off and onto the floor, the wet material squelching on impact. With his chest bare and kissing the skin of your back, you sighed in relief, but the throbbing between your thighs didn’t cease.

“Off, I need these off!” you referred to your underwear, the bra and panties restraining the areas that hurt you the most. Using his metal hand, bucky quickly tore through both garments and discarded them onto the floor to join his shirt.

The sound of relief that you made caused his heart to beat with a more affectionate rhythm as he looked down at your now naked body. The shower continued to coat you with cool water that glistened off you. Your nipples were the first thing that he noticed, impossibly hard and aching to be touched, and it seemed he was reading your mind as you grabbed his metal hand and used it to cup the squishy mound, directing his thumb and forefinger to pinch the sensitive nub.

You released a heavenly cry, back arching and thighs clamping shut at the lightest of touches. With his warm hand, he did the same to your other breast as he carefully squished both in his palms before rolling your nipples between his fingers.

“Yes! Feels so good, just like that”, you beg, eyes still shut, but your head had rolled back onto his shoulder, giving him the space to respond to his desire of gently kissing the column of your throat. Even this sparked more moans from you, needing to feel the plumpness of his lips, needing the electrical tingles that came from his touches to continue.

The kisses were soft, like he was scared to touch you, but as your sounds of pure elation continued, so did his confidence as his mouth opened, applying wet, open-mouth kisses to your skin.

As if on instinct, responding to these touches, your hips began to rotate, pushing down harder against his groin until Bucky was moaning in pleasure.

“More, touch me more”. Bucky responded to your demands by smoothing his flesh hand down your abdomen, feeling the skin taunt, reacting to him. He moved over your mound as he watched closely from over your shoulder. This was when he felt it, the wetness that was continuing to be produced and pour out of your cunt. Even though the shower was still coating you, the substance was different, verging on feeling slimy, more slippy and seemed to cover everywhere from the waist down.

Bucky contemplated licking his fingers to taste you, especially as his mouth filled with saliva with the need pulsing through him. Still, it wasn’t about him, so he continued lower until his fingertips were parting your labia.

The second his middle finger stroked your clit, it seemed a wild animal took over you like you knew how close you were to receiving what you truly wanted but not quite going at the speed you wanted.

One flick of his middle finger against your swollen, throbbing clit was all you allowed before you were turning in his arms, pushing his arms away momentarily as you raised onto weak knees.

“Need you now. I can’t wait; it hurts so much Bucky”. As you explained your reasonings, your shaking fingers were reaching for the waist of his tactical trousers, trying to undo the belt but grunting when you struggled to do so. Bucky thankfully helped you then, ignoring the evident trembling in his fingers from all of the adrenaline as he unfastened his belt, button and zipper.

With this new freedom, you were able to reach inside the space and grasp his hard dick, pulling it out of the confines of his clothes. You marvelled at it for a single second, enjoying the softness of the skin but the firmness of the shaft, the bulging veins and tip that was bulbous and aching to be stroked. It was like your prize, your pot of gold at the end of the tunnel, and you needed it inside of you right that moment.

Seeing and hearing your desperation to be as quick as possible, as the cramps continued to pulse through your abdomen, Bucky quickly grabbed your hips, pulling you over his lap to straddle him, even with the awkwardness of the squished space in the bathtub.

Your hands rested on his shoulders as you lowered yourself. Neither you nor Bucky had ever experienced anything like it. The agony catapulting through your veins completely shifted to one of pleasure, like a switch had been flicked throughout your body as you took inch after inch of his delicious cock. Bucky, on the other hand, was having to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from cumming, but he did moan in an animalistic way. He’d never been inside a cunt that was so perfect before, so deliciously warm and unnaturally soaked; you squeezed his cock in pulses that he soon realised was the thump of your heart.

“That’s it, you’re taking me so well.” Bucky couldn’t help but praise, wrapping his arms around your back to provide further support.

As your body naturally seemed to adjust to the size of his cock, you didn’t waste any time before beginning to ride him with the help of Bucky’s strong arms.

The shower still coated you both in refreshing cold water for the heat, devouring the two of you. Bucky is still wearing his tactical trousers and boots, and you are completely nude and riding him like your life depended on it. Well, it did, in a way.

Up and down, you bounced, your tits jumping on your chest, which caused your pebbled nipples to rub against his, giving extra stimulation. You were so incredibly out of breath with the momentum of fucking him, but you didn’t stop, only occasionally softening the bouncing to a soft roll which always caused Bucky to moan and squeeze the cheeks of your arse together.

In no time at all, you were finding your peak, cunt pulsing dangerously tightly around his cock as you came, face hiding on his shoulder as you slumped against him for a second. Bucky thought this would be over, that he would have to carry you to bed and hope you felt better soon, but then he began to feel the wetness flowing around his cock and the throb returning. Shortly after, you were whimpering.

“It hurts again, please Bucky, I need you again”.

Bucky didn’t need telling twice as he thrust his hips up to snap into yours, causing your delicious moan to echo around the room. He needed to hear it again, so he repeated the action, but it was difficult to find any sort of leverage in this position, so with his metal arm positioned beneath your arse, he supported your weight and stood. His boots were now the objects to be squelching as he moved towards the shower wall.

There, he pushed your back against it and began to fuck you with deep, fast penetrations. Your head fell back against the tiles, nails digging into the skin of his shoulder blades as you didn’t want this pleasure to end.

“Harder, Bucky fuck me harder!” you cried out, knowing he was still holding back. Bucky grunted, shifting so that both of his hands were beneath your arse cheeks, holding you more securely so that he could fuck you without any restraint.

Each thrust had you almost blacking out; they felt so good. The tip of his cock smashing into your cervix, which any other time would have potentially hurt, but for now, it was just what you needed.

You came again, spluttering and quivering from your mouth and cunt as he helped you over the edge. However, once more, the pains returned.

Bucky had once thought that his increased libido due to the super serum was a hindrance, but for the only time in his life, he was thanking whatever asshole had experimented on him for this moment.

His trousers and boots had been removed as he had carried your dripping body out of the shower when he realised your temperature remained low if he was fucking you. Into the bedroom, he continued his impressive and thorough fucking. Pushed onto the bed on all fours, in the spooning position, even missionary, and he wouldn’t change positions until you were a cumming bumbling mess. Wherever he decided to bend you over, it was always him on top; your legs were shaking too much to support your weight anymore, but he didn’t mind, not when he could take full control and draw orgasm after orgasm from you.

After god knows how many orgasms, Bucky finally couldn’t edge himself anymore and came with a gruff moan against your collarbone from where he lay over you, his seed seeping into your swollen hole, warming and massaging internally. This finally seemed to settle you, like it was the one missing ingredient your body needed, as you slumped onto the bed without any more cries of pain.

Bucky collapsed next to you, pulling your exhausted, limp body on top of his, your face resting on his chest as you both tried to calm your breathing.

He thought you’d fallen asleep, but then your face was tilting up to look at his, which, in turn, he looked down to look at yours. Even though you looked thoroughly exhausted, he could see that you were beginning to return to your usual self as you smiled so gently that it caused his heart to beat harder. Something you could hear as your ear rested over his heart. Tilting your head up further, your lips caressed his before Bucky could contemplate what you were doing.

The kiss was light and delicate, and it finally dawned on Bucky that this was the first kiss shared between the two of you, having been so distracted with fucking your brains out that he thought kissing would be too intimate. Neither of you said anything, just continued to smile before sleep finally captured your conscious minds.

[rabotimagines]

Request for G1 Perceptor smut for @legendarycherryblossomlove

"Interest" GN BOT Reader x Perceptor

Summary: You tell your conjunx to keep info dumping while you keep your servos busy.

Genre/Theme: Smut scenario 🔞

Warnings: Semi public sex, Handjobs, MDNI

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours

Notes: Reader harasses their conjunx (Perceptor) just a bit

"Ah- it's good to see you this time of day." Perceptor smiled when you made your way into the group laboratory.

You come over to where he was working and leaned over his pauldron to stare at his petri dishes. Your frame gently pressing against his back, and your arms wrapping around him. Perceptor lets himself lean back against you, very much enjoying the soft touch of your affections. "I'm seeing how these samples react to our different solvents. So we can see what our approach towards cleaning different obstructions should be inclined towards."

Your servos had begun to idly trace the dips of his armor.

Your digits left soft warmth as they trailed along the lines that made up his boxy frame. "Of course, we can naturally use the information in case someone gets a bit of some natural material stuck in their struts. Or any of the other small areas that may be difficult to brush out the natural way. Like between the plating seams of your armor."

Your servos found his waist and moved to trace shapes on Perceptor's hips. "So if we simply figure out what solvents work the best, I'd like to craft a sort of spray nozzle that can cycle through the different solvents. For whenever one of us mechs gets unlucky and will need to be thoroughly clean- mph!" Perceptor abruptly jolts at the quick zap of light arousal, nearly biting down on his own glossia.

Perceptor hadn't realized your servos had trailed towards his modesty panel till you'd rubbed firmly against it. "Oh- What-?" You just tell Perceptor to keep talking. Your servos are now dragging along the dips and curves of his modesty panel.

"Oh... um, well yes-" Perceptor resets his vocalizor, his attention now drawn to how your servos and digits would trace the make up of his covered array. "So- to um, make a proper prototype, I need to test all the samples against all the solvents. And... as I stated, see which ones work the best against the other-" Perceptor's voice clips when you rub firmly against the flat of his modesty panel. Heat already circling boldly in his own array under the rather teasing act.

You were in the collective laboratory! Primus-! Anyone could rightfully just walk in on you two! Wheeljack could walk in behind the both of you, and you'd have no warning for it either!

Your frame presses flat against his back, and Perceptor's posture straightens out even more than it had been. Perceptor wordlessly watches your digits hook against the flat of his Modesty panel- heat swimming and pooling against his pelvis the longer you continued to tantalizingly grope at his covered array.

You ask him to open up, and Perceptor has to swallow the extra oral lubricant accumulating in his mouth.

.... Wheeljack wouldn't be too mad if he happened to stumble upon you two.

(At least Peceptor hoped he wouldn't-)

Perceptor's modesty panel pulls back, and his spike slowly pressurizes while you rub circles around his hips. You tell him to keep talking again when you cup his spike. Perceptor gasps and rushes to find his thoughts once more. "And it's quite fascinating that most the solvents don't have Ha-!" Your servo languidly begun stroking his spike. Perceptor's frame touches the front of the table edge, and he moves to grip it for stability.

"Most- most the solvents don't have a visible- a valid visible affect on the samples- ah, but when they sit soaked in them... they usually all seem to practically fall off the sample armor-" You grind your still closed modesty panel against Perceptor's aft, and he gasps.

Then you stopped moving when Perceptor had taken a klick to focus on venting.

Keep talking, you tell him once more.

Perceptor huffs before taking a moment to find his thoughts. His glossia sits heavy in his mouth. The last point he'd made of the experiment was much further from his processor than a few nano-klicks of silence.

But he did eventually find it again. "And- only one of the solvents-" Your servo speeds up, causing his pre lubricant to slick the inside your servo and begins to make an audible sound every time you'd pump your fist. "Hmph! Only one- one of the solvents has actually shown to- oh dear-!" Perceptors thighs pitch inward, and he leans against the table further.

You begin to slow when Perceptor stops and Perceptor rapidly moves his mouth to rectify that "One- One of the solvents has actually shown to break down the-" Perceptor grunts and moans when your other servo grabs onto the indent of his front chassis glass. And you physically used it as a hold to pull him back against your own frame. While you rocked your hips forward again against him.

"Break- break down all of the samples I have available on- oh Primus! On the sample armor!" You hum casually against him as if you were actually finding his findings intriguing and not- Perceptor pants and sighs leaning back against your also heated frame. You just rock against him harsh enough that he's practically forced to buck into your servo. Your servo dragging his own spike oh so hotly- Perceptor's own pleasure begins to bump up a level higher every time you pump his spike.

And you ask him how he's going to make the spray nozzle.

Perceptor can barely recall his plans for the spray nozzle, but he attempts to start explaining regardless, "I'm going to- Gha!" Your servo picks up, and any coherent thought relating to his findings gets pushed right out of Perceptor's processor. "I'm going to-!"  His hips buck against your servo, making more of his pre lubricant coat your servo. Your servo hooked on his chassis glass squeezes tighter and you use your hold to firmly tip his frame back against your own even further. You hold him against you when Perceptor started overloading onto the table.

Your designation ends up tumbling out of his mouth with a gasp. His overload hits him, and he's moaning against you and gasping for vents while you just continue to jerk his spike through his own high. "Oh- dear- oh Primus!" Perceptor mutters and arches against your frame and hold. His pedes twist against their placement on the ground, and his digit pads rank over the tables edge. His overload coursed through his frame with a pressing need, and Perceptor was unable to deny it the heady satisfaction.

Perceptor relaxes when his spike stops throbbing and charges stop shooting through his plating. "Primus." Perceptor pants and readjusts his grip on the tables edge to stand correctly once more. You hum and thank him for keeping up with your interest.

Perceptor can't help chuckling  "Yes well- now the price of your interest is you're going to have to get me a new sample of beach sand." Perceptor states before picking up the petri dish with the now ruined sample of sand to show you.

Ruined by his transfluid.

You sigh at the sight and say you'll go. And untangle yourself from Perceptor very obviously not excited by the task.

Perceptor supposed he could indulge his perverted conjunx just a touch more...

"I'll reward you when you get back if you do it quick enough." You perk up at Perceptor's words and make a dash for the door, saying you'll be back before he knows it.

Perceptor smiles, watching you rush for the door- only to jump when you barrel directly into Wheeljack, who was about to enter. Promptly sending the two of you tumbling down in the hallway. The laboratory door automatically shuts behind you both.

Oh dear- Perceptor moved to go help only to remember what you'd just done. His optics brighten, and instead, Perceptor subspaces his ruined sample and grabs a lab cloth to wipe the mess left on the table. He then makes sure he's modest before he goes to help you off of Wheeljack.

What was he going to do with you?

[reveryfics]

Half A Man

Bob Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: Despite the inhumanity inflicted upon you, you discover someone who inspires you to embrace the humanity that still resides within.

A/N: I was down in the bowls of hell writing this, so enjoy over 4.7k words of angst with comfort. I don't see a lot of Bob being the one to comfort, so I had fun doing that for this. As promised the fic that tied with Bucky.

TW: Angst - Hurt/Comfort - Super soldier reader

You remember the cold. Always the cold. Not just the sterile chill of the laboratory, but the deeper, bone-aching cold of knowing you weren't human anymore. They stripped you down, piece by piece, until all that was left was a weapon. The super-soldier program, they called it. You remember the burning, too, as the serums coursed through your veins, rewriting your very DNA. Muscle grew taut and dense, senses sharpened to a painful degree, and your mind… it became a labyrinth of tactical data, a machine for death.

The imagery of your past is stark. Steel walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the glint of instruments. The faces of your handlers, always expressionless, clinical. They taught you to kill with precision, to dismantle threats without hesitation, to be a ghost in the shadows and a thunderclap in a fight. You were the culmination of their dark desires, a living embodiment of war. Every mission was a blur of violence and adrenaline, leaving you with a hollow ache where your heart used to be. You were a walking, breathing paradox: immensely powerful, yet utterly empty.

Now, the world you inhabit is different, though no less dangerous. You’re a Thunderbolt. The name itself is a contradiction – a team of former villains and morally ambiguous operatives, now tasked with doing the dirty work the established heroes won't touch. Your uniform is dark, practical, designed for efficiency, much like yourself. The base, a repurposed facility, still hums with a familiar undercurrent of power and purpose, but there’s a flicker of something new here: a sense of… team. Or at least, something that resembles it.

You’re in the briefing room, the holographic display showing schematics of a target compound. The air is thick with the scent of old coffee and a faint metallic tang from the tech. Your teammates are a motley crew – then there's Bob.

Bob Reynolds. The Sentry. When you first met him, the sheer intensity of his presence was almost overwhelming. Golden light seemed to emanate from him, a stark contrast to the shadows you’d always inhabited. He’s all warmth and quiet strength, a gentle giant in a world that often feels too harsh. His eyes, a startling blue, hold a depth you find yourself drawn to, a kindness that you’ve long forgotten existed.

He catches your gaze across the table, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. Your enhanced senses pick up on the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when your eyes meet. There’s a silent understanding between you, a shared burden of immense power and the weight of past choices.

Later, after the mission debrief, you find him in the training room, a place you often seek solace in the rhythm of combat drills. He’s lifting weights, effortlessly, his muscles coiling under his skin. The air hums with the soft thud of the weights and the low, steady hum of the ventilation system. You watch him for a moment, the fluid grace of his movements, the quiet concentration on his face.

He notices you, of course. His enhanced senses are as keen as yours. He sets the weights down with a soft clang and turns, a genuine smile now illuminating his features. “Rough day?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a surprising tremor through you.

You shrug, the movement stiff. “Just… the usual.” You’re not good with words, never have been. They were deemed unnecessary for your purpose.

He walks towards you, his presence filling the space with a comforting warmth. He stops a few feet away, his gaze steady on yours. "You know," he says, his voice softer now, "you don't have to carry it all alone."

You look away, towards the scarred punching bag in the corner. The super-soldier program had taught you self-sufficiency to an extreme degree. Reliance was weakness. But with Bob, it feels different. It feels… possible.

He reaches out, and for a split second, you brace yourself, a lifetime of programmed defenses flaring. But his touch is gentle, his fingers brushing against your arm, a feather-light contact that still sends a jolt through you. “You’re more than what they made you,” he says, his voice a quiet affirmation. "You’re a good man."

You feel a flicker, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the training room’s temperature. It's a fragile, unfamiliar sensation, like a seed sprouting in barren ground. He sees it, you know he does, in the subtle shift of your gaze, the slight relaxing of your jaw.

Being a Thunderbolt means facing shadows, both external and internal. But with Bob by your side, a golden light in your perpetually gray world, you begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance to build something new from the wreckage of your past. You’re still a weapon, yes, forged in fire and ice, but perhaps, with him, you’re also starting to become something else. Something… whole.

You stand there, a silence stretching between you, broken only by the distant hum of the facility. His hand remains on your arm, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your thoughts. For so long, touch had been associated with pain, with forced transformation, with the brutal realities of your existence. But this, with Bob, is different. It’s gentle, affirming, a conduit for something you can’t quite name but desperately crave.

"It's... a lot," you finally manage to say, your voice rougher than you intended. You’re not used to speaking about what's inside, about the quiet desperation that often gnaws at you. The program had trained you to compartmentalize, to bury emotion deep beneath layers of tactical data and combat protocols.

Bob’s thumb gently brushes your bicep, a small, comforting gesture. "I know," he replies, his voice soft, understanding. "Believe me, I know. It's a heavy burden, the things we've done, the things we are." He pauses, his gaze unwavering. "But it doesn't have to define you. Not completely."

You look into his eyes, those startling blue depths that seem to see right through your hardened exterior. There’s no pity there, no judgment, just a profound empathy that resonates with something buried deep within you. It's a reflection of his own struggles, you realize, the weight of his power, the constant fight to keep the Void at bay. He understands the struggle to be more than just a force of nature, more than just a weapon.

The days that follow fall into a rhythm, a fragile balance of duty and quiet moments with Bob. You find yourself drawn to him, gravitating towards his presence. During briefings, you unconsciously seek him out. On missions, his golden aura is a beacon in the darkest environments, a silent promise of support. You notice the small things: the way he hums softly when he’s deep in thought, the genuine laugh that escapes him when someone tells a particularly bad joke, the quiet strength in his hands.

One evening, you're both in the communal lounge, a surprisingly comfortable space with worn couches and a large screen flickering with some old movie. Most of the other Thunderbolts are either out on assignment or holed up in their rooms. You’re sitting on opposite ends of a sofa, a comfortable silence between you, punctuated only by the movie’s dialogue.

Suddenly, a nightmare flashes across your mind’s eye – a memory from the program, a mission gone wrong, the screams of innocents you couldn't save. Your breath hitches, and your hands clench into fists, your enhanced senses suddenly overwhelmed by phantom sounds and smells. You feel the familiar cold dread creeping in, threatening to consume you.

Before you can fully withdraw, before you can build your walls back up, you feel a presence beside you. Bob. He’s moved silently, his movements as graceful as a dancer’s. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. He simply sits closer, his warmth a subtle anchor. Then, gently, he places his hand over yours, his fingers intertwining with your clenched ones.

The simple touch is a lifeline. The cold recedes, replaced by the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse against your own. You relax, slowly, the tension draining from your body. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps watching the movie, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. It’s a silent acknowledgment, a profound act of comfort that speaks volumes more than any words ever could.

You realize, in that moment, that this feeling, this fragile connection, is something new, something precious. It’s not about power or control, not about missions or protocols. It’s about being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a very long time. It’s about a flicker of hope in the vast emptiness they created within you.

You’re still a super-soldier, still a killer when the mission demands it. The scars, both visible and invisible, will always be a part of you. But with Bob, you’re beginning to understand that those scars don't have to be the entire story. Perhaps, with him, you can learn to build something new, something that resembles a life beyond the program, a life where you're not just half a man, but something… more.

The moments of shared silence, the gentle touches, the unspoken understanding – they carve out a fragile sanctuary in the brutal reality of your life. With Bob, you feel something akin to peace, a foreign sensation that settles in your chest like a warm, heavy stone. He sees you, not just the weapon, not just the product of their experiments. He sees the remnants of the man you were, and the man you could still be.

But the past is a phantom limb, always aching, always threatening to pull you back into its grasp. You try to push it down, to bury it under the weight of new experiences, of Bob’s comforting presence. But sometimes, in the dead of night, or in the sudden stillness after a particularly violent mission, the walls begin to crack.

You're in your quarters, the lights dimmed, the hum of the ventilation system a low thrum. You’ve just returned from a skirmish that pushed your limits, a brutal dance of instinct and honed reflexes. The scent of ozone and something metallic, unmistakably blood, still clings to your uniform. You strip it off, letting it drop to the floor, and step into the sonic shower, the vibrating jets a dull attempt to scour away the residue of violence.

But the shower doesn't reach deep enough. Your mind is still running, replaying every movement, every kill. The program had instilled a chilling efficiency in you, a detachment that allowed you to operate without remorse. You were a switch, flipped from 'human' to 'killer' with cold precision. Now, with Bob’s influence, that switch feels less definitive. It sometimes flickers.

You see a flash of a face, the eyes of an opponent as they registered their impending demise. A face that, in another life, might have been a civilian, a harmless individual. The imagery is sharp, almost photographic. You close your eyes, pressing your palms against the cool, slick tiles of the shower, willing the images away.

A cold dread begins to creep in, a familiar tightness in your chest. It’s the feeling of the old self, the programmed killer, trying to reassert its dominance. It’s the chilling echo of the doctors’ voices, their dispassionate instructions, the way they stripped away your humanity with every injection, every training session. You can almost hear their whispers, telling you that this is who you are, that the warmth you feel with Bob is a weakness, a dangerous distraction.

You exit the shower, not bothering to dry off, and sink onto the edge of your bed. Your body is still humming with residual adrenaline, but it's a hollow energy, without purpose. You clench your fists, your knuckles white. This is the struggle. The constant battle against the ingrained programming, the part of you that still believes violence is the only language you truly understand.

A soft knock at your door breaks through the oppressive silence. You don't respond, a primal urge to be alone, to retreat into your shell, taking over. But the knock comes again, gentle but persistent.

"You okay?" Bob’s voice, a warm balm, cuts through the static in your mind. "Heard you came back a little… quiet."

You hesitate, caught between the instinct to push him away and the desperate need for his steady presence. The cold, logical part of your brain tells you to keep him at a distance, to protect him from the darkness within you. But the burgeoning, fragile humanity whispers a different truth.

You rise and open the door, just a crack. Bob stands there, a worn t-shirt clinging to his frame, his hair a little mussed. His blue eyes, usually so bright, are soft with concern. He takes in your wet hair, your clenched hands, the tightness around your eyes.

"Hey," he says, his voice low, stepping closer without pushing, respecting the unspoken barrier you've created. He doesn't touch you, just stands there, radiating a comforting warmth. "Bad one?"

You nod, unable to articulate the depth of it, the feeling of the old self almost overpowering the new. You feel like a frayed rope, one strand pulling towards light, the other towards the darkness they forced upon you.

He sighs, a soft sound, and then, his gaze unwavering, he steps fully into your room, closing the door behind him. He doesn't invade your space, but he is there, a silent anchor. “The past has a way of clinging, doesn't it?” he says, his voice resonating with an understanding born of his own battles with the Void. “It tries to tell you who you are. But it’s a liar.”

He walks over to your bed and sits down, patting the space beside him. You hesitate, then slowly, you join him. The contact is minimal, your shoulders almost touching, but it’s enough. His presence is a shield against the creeping cold.

“You’re fighting it,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, a knowing look in his eyes. “I can see it. That’s what matters. That you’re fighting to be more than what they made you.”

You finally turn to him, your gaze searching his. "What if I can't?" The words are a raw whisper, exposing a fear you’ve never dared voice. "What if… what if I’m always going to be just a killer?"

Bob finally turns to you, his blue eyes intense, filled with a conviction that silences the whispers of your past. He reaches out, and this time, you don't flinch as his hand covers yours, warm and strong. "Then we fight it together," he says, his voice firm, unwavering. "You're not alone in this, not anymore. I know what it's like to have a monster inside. But I also know what it's like to have someone pull you back from the edge." He squeezes your hand, his gaze holding yours. "And I'm not letting go."

And in that moment, even with the lingering echoes of your programmed past, with the chilling awareness of how easily you could slip, you believe him. You believe that maybe, just maybe, with Bob, you might finally find a way to silence the whispers and truly become your own man. The fight is far from over, but for the first time in a long time, you feel a genuine, fragile spark of hope.

The offer to fight it together hangs in the air, a silent promise. Bob's grip on your hand is firm, unwavering, a tangible connection to a present that feels both real and fragile. You find yourself nodding, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it speaks volumes. It's an acceptance, a surrender to a trust you never thought you'd be capable of.

The next few weeks become a delicate dance between your programmed instincts and the burgeoning hope Bob represents. During missions, the old efficiency is still there. You move with deadly precision, a silent whirlwind of controlled violence. You see the shock in your opponents' eyes, the fear, and a part of you, the part they built, feels a grim satisfaction. But now, it’s always tempered. A quick glance at Bob, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, pulls you back from the brink of total detachment. His golden aura is a constant, subtle reminder of the warmth that awaits, the humanity you're fighting to reclaim.

Back at the base, your interactions with Bob deepen. You find yourself seeking him out more often, not just in the training room, but in the quiet corners of the facility. You learn about his life before the Sentry, the anxieties he carries, the profound loneliness he sometimes experiences. He talks about himself, a bittersweet memory that haunts him, and you listen, truly listen, for the first time in your life. You realize that your shared burden of immense power and past trauma creates a bond that transcends words.

One evening, you find yourselves in the observation deck, looking out over the sprawling city lights below. The artificial glow is a stark contrast to the starlit skies you remember from your youth, before the labs, before the program. You’re silent for a long time, the quiet comfortable rather than oppressive.

"Sometimes," you begin, the words surprisingly easy to form, "I can still feel the cold. Not just the physical cold, but the… emptiness. Like they hollowed me out." You’re speaking of the emotional desolation that was a constant companion for so long.

Bob turns to you, his profile illuminated by the city lights. "I know that feeling," he says softly. "The Void, it tries to do the same to me. To convince me there's nothing left but power and destruction." He pauses, then adds, "But there's always something left. Even a flicker can become a flame."

He reaches out, his hand gently finding yours. His fingers intertwine with yours, and you notice the small scars on his knuckles, remnants of his own battles. His touch is grounding, real, a stark contrast to the phantom cold that sometimes grips you.

Despite the growing warmth, the slips still happen. They come unbidden, like sudden flashes of lightning in a clear sky. A loud noise might trigger a combat response, your body moving before your mind can process, a phantom enemy materializing in your peripheral vision. Or sometimes, it’s a moment of weakness, a wave of despair that threatens to drown the fragile hope you’re nurturing.

One particularly grueling mission leaves you more drained than usual. The enemy had been relentless, forcing you to operate on pure instinct, pushing you closer to the brutal efficiency you were trained for. You return to your quarters, the familiar scent of your own blood, mixed with dust and cordite, clinging to you. You feel raw, exposed, the veneer of control dangerously thin.

You’re trying to clean your combat knives, the methodical action usually calming. But tonight, your hands tremble. You see flashes of the fight, the precise cuts, the brutal efficiency. The faces of your opponents, briefly glimpsed in the chaos, flicker in your mind. The whispers start again, the old programming asserting itself, telling you that this is your true nature, that Bob’s kindness is a fantasy.

You grip the knife so tightly your knuckles ache. A deep, primal urge to hurt, to lash out, to destroy, bubbles to the surface. It’s not directed at anyone in particular, just a raw, unfocused aggression, a desperate need to silence the screams in your head. You feel yourself slipping, the warmth of Bob’s presence fading, replaced by the chilling embrace of the killer they created.

Suddenly, the knife clatters to the floor. You hadn't meant to drop it, but your hand had frozen. You look down, your eyes wide, your breathing shallow. The familiar cold, the emptiness, is back with a vengeance.

A soft knock at the door, and then, before you can respond, it opens. Bob stands there, his expression instantly shifting from relaxed to concerned. He sees the fallen knife, your hunched posture, the tension radiating from you.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't rush. He simply walks towards you, his movements slow and deliberate. He kneels in front of you, his gaze level with yours. "Hey," he says, his voice low, gentle, cutting through the chaotic thoughts in your mind. "You're slipping, aren't you?"

You can't meet his eyes, ashamed of the monster stirring within you. You feel a tremor run through your body, a mix of fear and the lingering aggression.

He reaches out, his hand finding yours, pulling it into his. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and strong, a lifeline in the icy grip of your past. "Look at me," he urges, his voice soft but firm.

Reluctantly, you raise your gaze to his. His eyes, those astonishing blue eyes, are filled with understanding, not fear. He sees the struggle, the darkness, and he doesn't flinch.

"You're not that, not anymore," he says, his voice a quiet, unwavering affirmation. "You're fighting it. And I'm here. We're here. Together." He squeezes your hand, a tangible anchor. "Just breathe. Focus on this. Focus on us."

And as you look into his eyes, truly look, the cold recedes, slowly, like a tide pulling back from the shore. The whispers quiet. The phantom aggression lessens its grip. You’re still reeling, still vulnerable, but the darkness that threatened to consume you has been pushed back, even if just for now. With Bob, you realize, you don't have to fight the slippage alone. He's there, a constant, steady light, pulling you back from the edge, reminding you of the man you are desperately trying to become.

You sit there on the edge of your bed, Bob’s hand a warm, anchoring presence on yours. His blue eyes, deep with understanding, never leave your face. The internal storm, though not entirely quelled, has receded, pulled back by his steady gaze and unwavering belief. The whispers of the past, though still a faint echo, no longer roar in your ears.

"You're not alone in this," he repeats, his voice a soft, firm declaration that resonates deep within you. It’s a simple statement, yet it carries the weight of a world. For so long, loneliness had been your only companion, a silent testament to the monstrosity you believed you were. But Bob, with his own shared burdens and radiant strength, shatters that solitude.

You find yourself leaning into him, unconsciously at first. It's a subtle shift, a magnetic pull towards his warmth, his light. Your head tilts, drawn by an invisible force, a desperate need for connection. You don’t consciously register the movement, your focus entirely on the silent battle within and the anchor he provides.

At the same time, Bob leans in too. His gaze flickers to your lips, a silent question in his eyes. There’s no rush, no sudden movement, just a slow, almost imperceptible closing of the distance between you. He mirrors your vulnerability, meeting you in that fragile space between past and present.

Then, your lips meet.

It's not a sudden, passionate embrace, but a soft, hesitant brush of skin. A breath held, then slowly released. It’s a kiss imbued with the weight of forgotten emotions, a gentle press that speaks of shared burdens, unspoken traumas, and a nascent, fragile hope. You taste the faint saltiness of your own skin, the warmth of his breath.

A jolt, not of pain or fear, but of something profoundly new, runs through you. It's a spark that ignites a warmth in your chest, spreading outwards, chasing away the lingering cold that has been your constant companion for so long. For a fleeting moment, the roar of the super-soldier program, the screams of the past, the chilling efficiency they forged, all fade into nothingness.

In that soft, tentative connection, you feel a flood of emotions you thought long dead. Tenderness, a feeling so alien, so startling, that it brings a tremor to your lips. Vulnerability, a quiet aching that isn't weakness but a profound openness you've never known. And beneath it all, a sliver of hope, so fragile it almost breaks you. Hope for something more than just survival, more than just being a weapon. Hope for a future where humanity, however sparse it may feel in this moment, can finally take root.

When your lips finally part, it's slow, a lingering warmth in the air between you. You open your eyes, blinking, the room suddenly clearer, brighter. Bob’s face is close, his blue eyes soft, almost luminous. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze holds a depth of understanding that speaks volumes. In that shared silence, with the echoes of a tentative kiss still on your lips, you feel a profound shift.

You and Bob remain close, your breaths mingling in the quiet air of your quarters. The lingering warmth of the kiss hums between you, a silent symphony of forgotten desires and newfound connection. He doesn't pull away, nor do you. It's a shared moment of vulnerability, a tender acknowledgment of something profound blooming in the wreckage of your pasts.

His thumb gently brushes your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes, still soft and luminous, search yours, not for answers, but for reassurance. He sees the tremor in your hands, the lingering shadow of the darkness you just fought back, and his gaze holds only understanding.

"Are you... alright?" he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. It's a simple question, but it carries the weight of everything you've just experienced.

You take a shaky breath, the air in your lungs feeling lighter than it has in years. The cold recedes further, replaced by the unexpected warmth that now blooms in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the word "alright" feels within reach.

"Yeah," you manage, your voice a little hoarse, "Yeah, Bob. I think so."

He offers a small, relieved smile, a genuine curve of his lips that radiates warmth. His hand moves from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers gently threading into your damp hair. He pulls you closer, not with force, but with a quiet, irresistible pull.

This time, the kiss is less hesitant, more a continuation of the unspoken conversation that just transpired. It’s still soft, still tender, but there’s a deeper current of trust and longing running through it. You respond without conscious thought, your body moving instinctually towards his warmth, towards this unexpected source of comfort and acceptance.

In the gentle press of his lips, you feel the walls you’ve meticulously built around your heart begin to crumble, not in a destructive collapse, but in a slow, almost imperceptible softening. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. For so long, you were a fortress, impenetrable and alone. Now, with Bob, you are learning that true strength might lie not in your ability to withstand every blow, but in your capacity to allow someone in.

When the kiss breaks, you rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed. The silence that settles between you is different now – no longer the heavy silence of isolation, but a comfortable, intimate quiet, filled with the unspoken promises of a nascent connection. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heart beating against your chest, a grounding pulse in the chaotic aftermath of your inner battle.

You open your eyes, and his blue gaze meets yours. There’s a profound sense of peace in his eyes, a shared understanding that transcends words. He doesn't press you, doesn't demand explanations. He simply is there, a beacon of light in your perpetually shadowed world.

This moment, this fragile intimacy, marks a turning point. It's not a sudden cure for the deep-seated trauma of your past, but it's a powerful affirmation of your choice. In that hesitant kiss, in Bob’s unwavering presence, you chose your humanity, however bruised and scarce it might feel. And with him, you know that the fight to hold onto it, to nurture it, has just truly begun. The fight is far from over, but in that moment, you made a choice. You chose the warmth, the connection, the fragile seed of humanity. You chose Bob.

[quintessenceofdust88]

Congratulations on 500!!! 🎉💗 I’d love some bucktommy with pregnant Buck and prompt 6 ✨

Thank youuu Lory 🎉💗🎉💗 Here you go, prompt 6 with pregnant Buck! I decided to go a little rom-com with it and I hope you like it! It's post 8x18 and canon verse! Prompt 6: “Of course I’m pregnant! Can’t you see that?” “Well, I didn’t want to assume and be rude.

Thing is, Buck wasn't even supposed to be on the field. He's almost six months pregnant, and more often than not has been relegated to desk duty for the past few weeks.

But Ravi sprained his ankle on their last call and has been sent home early, and they get a call for a big car pile-up before Chim can even think about calling someone to replace him. He looks as if he wants to protest when Buck makes his way towards the truck, but then he sighs, realizing they don't have much of a choice.

"No shenanigans, Buckley, you hear me?", Chim says sternly. "You better keep my niece safe"

"Copy that, Cap", Buck says, and he means it; he doesn't plan to put his baby girl in danger. "I'll be fine, Chim"

Turns out. Buck is not as fine as he thought he would be. A few weeks of desk duty has left him slightly out of practice, and carrying fifteen extra pounds definitely doesn't help. He tries to push through at first, but he's sweating, and his legs are trembling, and his daughter is fiercely kicking him in protest.

"Buck, go and sit down before we have to take care of you instead of the patients", Hen says, not unkindly, but firmly, and Chim nods while ordering Eddie to take over search and rescue.

Buck doesn't protest as he normally would; he really could use a moment to sit. He finds a bench by the sidewalk and heavily sits on it, a small sigh escaping his lips as he rests a hand on his bump. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to will his hearbeat to slow down, and that's why he only knows someone approached him when he hears the last voice he expected to.

"Evan?!"

With a jolt, Buck opens his eyes only to find Tommy standing over him. He's wearing his flight suit, looking sinfully good, and right now staring at Buck with widened blue eyes.

"What are you -" Tommy starts, and then he looks down, noticing the very prominent bump Buck is showing.

Buck can practically see Tommy's brain running the math, and he tries his best not to flinch. He... he meant to tell Tommy, he truly did. But then there was the laboratory lockdown, and Bobby died, and things kept happening, and then it was too late, and he didn't know how to anymore.

"Evan, um." Tommy says awkwardly, rubbing his neck, and looking from the bump to Buck's face. "Are you pre- um. Are you...?"

Buck knows it's probably a shock to Tommy, and he could be kinder about it. He could, but there are hormones running through his system, and now he's nervous about Tommy finding out, and before he knows it he's rolling his eyes at him.

"Of course I'm pregnant! Can't you see that?" Buck says, pointing to the bump straining against his LAFD shirt.

"Well, I didn't want to assume and be rude!", Tommy says defensively, and then gives Buck that trademark bitchy look. "We... we haven't talked in weeks and... You never said anything. You never told me"

"Well, who says it's yours?" Buck retorts, and he meant it mostly as a joke; after all, he's never slept with another man besides Tommy.

But Tommy's face falls instantly, and Buck can see those wretched emotional walls coming up as he crosses his arms around his chest.

"I'm kidding!", he rushes to correct himself, hurriedly getting up and placing a hand on Tommy's shoulder before he can go away. "Of course it's yours, Tommy, I... whoa."

Buck shouldn't have gotten up so fast; he feels the world spin around him and his knees buckle. The only reason he doesn't fall is because Tommy has wrapped two strong arms around him.

"Hey, you okay? I've got you" Tommy says, impossibly tender, and Buck nods tentatively.

"Yeah, just... She doesn't like sudden movements" He mutters, and Tommy looks as if the sun itself has taken home on his smile.

"She? It's a girl?" Tommy asks, his voice filled with wonder and delight, and Buck definitely regrets every time he thought about telling him and didn't go through with it, too afraid Tommy would reject him and their baby.

"Y-yeah. Still haven't named her. Didn't... Didn't feel right to do it alone" Buck admits, and it's so very true. Every time he tried to think of names, the first thought in his mind was what Tommy would think of them.

"Well, I... I'd love to help you with that" Tommy says, and he looks so vulnerable, so eager, that Buck feels like he's falling in love with him all over again.

Before he can stop himself, he presses a gentle kiss to Tommy's lips, their daughter a steady and warm presence between the two of them.

"I want you to help me" Buck reassures him softly, and Tommy gives him that scrunchy smile that makes Buck's heart skip a beat.

Tommy's very inconvenient captain chooses that moment to call him over the radio, and his regret is clear all over his face when he squeezes Buck's hand.

"I gotta go. Text me?" He asks, and Buck nods.

"I promise", he says, and he means it.

"Take care. Of you both", Tommy says, pressing a kiss to Buck's forehead and a gentle hand to his bump before rushing away.

Buck stands there, smiling, all tiredness forgotten and replaced by a happiness he hasn't felt ever since losing Bobby.

He wonders what Tommy's doing Saturday, and if he'll like Buck's baked Alaska.

[murphy-kitt]

Familiar

Even from the beginning, it was the HAZMAT. There’s many things Maddie considers strange about Phantom. The way he claims to be good yet acts contradictory, how when her and Jack think they’ve finally got a theory for his obsession, he switches.

But his choice of outfit has always…bugged her, mainly for two reasons.

The first, that it resembles quite closely to hers and Jack’s.

The second, which is rather more empathetic and not her usual approach, is that he appears to be the ghost of a child. A child that died in laboratory equipment. Unless, perhaps, he’d wanted to be a scientist when grown.

(But both her and Jack know that’s not true. He’d wanted to be an astronaut, apparently. Something they’d found out when snooping on Phantom playing with the child pirate ghost).

“I just…don’t understand where he could’ve got it from.” Jack mumbles, unusually quiet. They’ve got an array of photos of Phantom spread over their workbench. Some of him in mid flight, some blurred beyond recognition.

Maddie picks up a one taken from the local news channel, Amity Angle. Phantom resting casually on the Nasty Burger sign, HAZMAT clearly definable—black with white trim.

Just like theirs.

“I suppose, he could have created it out of his own idea?” Maddie counters, weakly. They’ve seen it before with other ghosts, alternating their appearances over time. Could the same have happened here?

“But he’s always had that HAZMAT suit, Mads.” Jack grimaces. “Maybe he saw that we were ghost hunters and decided to replicate us?”

A ghost, replicating them?

But then…

Maddie remembers when Phantom first started. When she and Jack had been near blasting him, never bothering to pause and think. Phantom had just the same approach with other ghosts, fight first, questions never.

Eventually over time, Phantom’s become known for his way of mediating fights. Adapted, something which ghosts shouldn’t be able to do. Or at least, her and Jack once thought that.

“It makes sense.” She ponders, looking at the photo again. “Our old hunting style, Phantom practically copied us, didn’t he? And now he’s learned I suppose. But would it be a reach to assume he’d copied our costumes too?”

“We should ask him!” Jack replies brightly. “We’ve never had a proper conversation with him, anyways.”

Which is true, because quite frankly, their new approach is merely weeks old. Finally encouraged by Jazz to take “non-confrontational” methods and evaluate its effectiveness compared to their former strategy.

“Yes. We’ll do that.” Maddie nods, turning from the bench to grab a notepad.

She hopes deep down, their theory is right. That maybe Phantom is a child ghost that once idolised them and decided to replicate them.

(Even though that, in itself, makes Maddie sick to the stomach. A ghost idolising the people whose once sought to destroy it)

Because the other alternative?

A child has died in a HAZMAT suit of their making.

—

Maddie sees him the next day in the aftermath of a ghost fight, suit torn, ectoplasm dribbling from a split lip.

“Need help?” She asks, outstretching a hand, holstering her gun to her belt. Not missing the way Phantom nearly doubles over in a flinch. Just showing how fresh their truce really is.

”Uh—thanks.” Phantom mumbles, taking her hand and she hoists him up. His grip much weaker than the strength she’s seen him display. “I’ll be fine. Just a couple of scrapes.”

”I’ll be the judge of that.” She scans him up and down, noting the paler than pallid skin, his face gaunt and knees slightly bent, trembling. And of course, the wounds tearing welts across his HAZMAT suit, sluggishly steeping ectoplasm.

“I’ve had worse.” The ghost looks away, wringing his hands together. No doubt, once caused by them. Maddie remembers a few particular injuries and times where she’d grounded Phantom mid-flight, celebrated for it.

His cheeks are still rounded with baby fat, eyes wide and round, limbs at that awkward stage between baby deer and towering. Just like Danny is now. Phantom can’t have been much older than her son.

She opens her mouth to ask, but then decides against it. One of Jazz’s warnings in their new strategy was to not question a ghost about their past life or any personal questions, only if the ghost had prompted the discussion themselves.

What had made them finally listen? She’s not sure, but it had been going on for a while. Her and Jack had grown tired of the inefficiency of their methods, constantly realising that theories and research weren’t adding up. So here she is.

“Come on.” Maddie beckons the ghost, towards Fentonworks. He obliges, following like a stray dog. Whether it’s out of his own authority, or he’s worried if he doesn’t oblige he’ll be blasted—she doesn’t know.

They eventually get to the house, and Phantom hesitates before stepping over the threshold. Although, he doesn’t look completely uneasy for a ghost stepping into a hunters house.

“Have you been here before?” Maddie questions, instantly feeling a flush on her neck. There’s a ghost portal in the basement, of course he has!

But Phantom looks momentarily stunned.

“Yeah, I guess?” Phantom hovers behind a kitchen chair, jabbing a finger in the direction of the lab. “When I need to put the ghosts back in the zone.”

“Interesting.” Maddie nods, taking the key from her belt. “Would you like a tour? Properly?”

Two weeks ago, she would’ve thought herself absurd. Showing a ghost around the premises like a grocery store.

But Jazz had really really pressed for them to use these methods of non confrontation and communication. And if it’s anything Maddie knows in the past few years, it’s that she’s never listened to the kids enough.

“Why not.” The ghost shrugs.

Taking a breath, Maddie shoves the key in the door and turns the handle. The lights automatically flicker on as she opens the door, the green of the portal swirling reflecting onto the tiles. Machines whirr and beep.

“Welcome to the Fenton lab.” She spreads her arms out, moving down the stairs. “I’m sure you’re well acquainted with it.”

“Very.” Phantom nods. “Glad it's not a dissection or dissolving experience.”

”So…if you don’t mind me asking?”

Phantom looks neutral, shrugging as he glances towards the portal. She observes his fists clenching as he looks at it before turning back to her.

”Go ahead. Just, nothing about my death or personal life.”

“So, why do you hunt ghosts?” She decides to get to the point straightaway. Wanting to understand his motivation.

Why he has that HAZMAT suit.

”Good question.” Phantom nods slowly, pacing around the floor, slightly liked a caged animal, yet free from containment. “Well I, felt responsible, in a way? That all the ghosts were causing havoc in Amity. I have these powers, and realistically, no offence, am the only one who can consistently deal with the attacks. And since it was me who started this.”

”You started this? What on earth do you mean by that?” Unless Phantom’s staged some consistent ghost invasion of Amity in such large swathes, she doesn’t know how he could even be responsible.

”I just…well. Y’know.” The ghost trails off, clenching his left fist. It’s a trait she’s noticed for a while now.

Perhaps it’s misplaced guilt from something else? The idea of ghosts having unsettled and misplaced emotions is certainly prevalent in the research field—anger being the most common. But what about guilt?

She looks at his HAZMAT. His guilty face. Barely Danny’s age.

A child in laboratory outfit. Going where they shouldn’t. A guilt for not listening, paying the price in death.

Acting as a hero to ensure no one goes what he did. And certainly, it doesn’t infer well of his parents. Allowing a child, unsupervised. Dead.

Perhaps that is another reason Phantom considers himself a hero? Perhaps as a child, a shadow in his house, he’d read superhero comics as an escape. One day dreaming he’d be like that. Death giving him the freedom to do so.

”Mads, I’m back!” The stairs rattle as Jack thunders down them. Maddie notes the way Phantom flinches.

“Oh, hey ghost kid. Didn’t see you there.”

”You too.” Phantom gives a tight smile.

”We were just having a discussion.” Maddie clarifies, picking her earlier notes off the workbench. Phantom tilts his head, curious.

”Excellent. I quite like this new method, don’t you Mads? Discussion! Who thought it could be this easy.”

”Not me.” Phantom responds.

”And actually, ghost kid, we were wondering about your HAZMAT earlier.”

”My—my HAZMAT?” The ghost is taken aback, looking down at his figure.

”Yeah! It resembles our quite a lot, you see.” Jack continues, progressing towards the cupboard where they store the PPE.

”Oh.” Phantom grasps at his glove, paling. It seems he is aware of the similarities. Interesting.

Maddie watches as Jack brings out one of Danny’s old jumpsuits, a one a few years ago, before the most recent one they’d given to him (that’d disappeared somewhere, and Danny hadn’t asked for a replacement, so they’d not gotten around to it).

”See now,” Jack babbles, the HAZMAT on a hanger at arm’s length, “Our Danno has this one, it’s white and black so not the same but inverted, his went missing…“

Maddie freezes. Jack holds the HAZMAT near to Phantom’s left side. It hangs innocently, glistening in the light.

Jack’s eyes widen, mouth parting. He turns to her.

”Mads…I think we’ve found Danno’s missing HAZMAT.”

Phantom shifts awkwardly, cringing, and points towards the portal.

”I wanted to fix it?”

”Oh Danny.” Maddie feels her heart plummet to the floor.

—

A/N: 2nd phic of the phight, a classic Maddie POV, can never go wrong 😁

Word Count: 1611

Prompt: Fenton PPE has a very distinctive style—if you know what to look for. There's only one place Phantom could have gotten his suit, and Jack and Maddie want answers. (For differential)

[terrestrialnoob]

New idea for an interpretation of how Jack and Maddie will react to Danny revealing he's Phantom that not only has them being loving and caring parents but also, for the phandom favorite, cause Danny some angst: High Expectations.

At first, it's great! Not only do they accept him, but they're super proud that he's a superhero! It'll look great on a college application! And, he doesn't have to hope that his parent have coincidentally created a piece of technology he needs to fight the ghost of the week. He can just ask to their faces, "Do we have this hyper specific piece of ghost tech? If not, can you make it?" and they're never going to say anything but "Yes, of course!", because they love and support him and they even have tips and suggestions, and, unlike Jazz, they do know what they're talking about most of the time when it comes to ghost stuff. They want him to be the best superhero in the world!

But, as time moves on and they get used to Danny being Phantom, they start making comments and having commentary about how good of a hero he is. Little tips become recurring reminders become "you should know this already". Yes, they cheer and celebrate when he wins and comfort and encourage him when he looses, but there's always something they can bring up; win or lose there's always something they think he could have done better. They're just trying to help and use their decades of study to help Danny be a better hero! They expect him to be the best hero!

They didn't realize how much stress they were causing Danny before he even became a halfa, between expecting perfect grades, normal teen chores, and laboratory chores. There's no way they would realize their type of support is putting more pressure on him. He already knows people are counting on him to keep them safe, he already put pressure on himself to protect Amity practically alone (with limited help from non-super powered humans), but now he also has to worry about disappointing his parents. They just want him to be the best hero in the world.

This can be added onto other acceptance headcanons like "they still think ghosts are evil and Danny's the exception" or "they're rewriting their entire decades long research because they don't think ghosts are evil anymore". It just personally makes sense to me that the people who gave Danny a sense of over-responsibility might make Danny's sense of over-responsibility worse without realizing it.

[riality-check]

ao3 link

Heimerdinger’s class is set up… unconventionally. That is how Viktor thinks of it when he is being diplomatic. Ordinarily, he thinks of it as bullshit.

There is no graded homework, which means there is no homework in Viktor’s eyes. The material is trivial for the most part, and he does not see a need to waste time on practice problems he can guess the answers to. The class has two midterms, each worth a quarter of the grade, and one final project.

One project. Worth half the grade. Viktor read the syllabus five times to make sure he was not having a stroke.

To make it worse, the project had one instruction: make something.

When Heimerdinger failed to follow up that statement, Viktor worried the professor was the one having a stroke.

Viktor creates throughout the semester. He makes a semi-permanent cover for the smoke alarm in his dorm, fashions a hydraulic hinge to ease the load of pushing his unduly heavy door open, and copies the keys to the library so he can get to the better study spaces before it opens and someone else can steal the high chairs by the good windows.

He is not secretive about any of this. He is sure his roommate - Viktor does not remember his name, but he does remember how he talked of what the Academy was like when his father and grandfather attended - complained about his endless tinkering after he got his room reassigned. Yet he is only approached once by other students of the Academy.

A few other students on his floor, the kind that his old roommate frequently fraternized with, the kind with soft hands and heavy watches, approach him about building a machine to count money for their “semi-legal” poker matches. They tell him that he can even be in charge of the money for a cut, if he’d like.

The coin would not hurt. It would be nice to have something extra to spend, to be able to go into town with the rest of them and actually buy something instead of keeping his hands in his pockets. It would be nice to get fresh fruit from the market instead of the meals served at school. It would be nice to be able to afford a trip back down. He has some people he would like to visit. Some people he owes for being here.

He tells the other students no, that he cannot do it, but he would like to play if they ever had an open seat.

Viktor has no intention of ever wasting time gambling, nor does he have the money to begin the habit in the first place. He just wants to confirm what he suspects. And the other students do that for him, with tense smiles of whiter than white - strange that they have so many sweets here and yet they do not rot - that fail to reach their eyes.

They are perfectly content to have a trencher count their Piltie coins, but they would never want them sitting at the same table.

Viktor only makes useful things. It has been that way since he was a child, and his first semester at the Academy is no different. Everything he creates, from the window screen he rigged out of layers of wire scraps from the engineering laboratory (copied those keys as well) to the heat/ice pack he fashioned from chemistry lab leftovers, has a use. With the project deadline fast approaching, he figures he should do the same for Heimerdinger’s singular, inane project.

So, he makes a cane.

As the semester progressed, and as he learned from Heimerdinger’s surprisingly engaging lectures, he realized his current cane was insufficient. This should not have been surprising; he had been using it for years. It had cracked along one side, and it was a little too short as a result of his most recent (though less than impressive) growth spurt. In truth, he had probably needed a new cane for some time now, but he often had more pressing matters to attend to. If he had it his way, he would only replace it if it broke, but that would be worse long term. 

He knew that. He was not stupid.

The course gave him dedicated time to perfect a design that would, hopefully, last for a time, since he had almost certainly stopped growing. The course, being introductory, did not have a lab, so Viktor made his own. In his dorm.

It is little wonder his roommate leaves halfway through the semester. Viktor supposes maybe he was in the wrong for using his contraband soldering iron (found in the trash, only took a little coaxing to work again) past midnight, but he is of the opinion that his roommate should not have been bringing people back to the dorm to have sex with them. On weeknights. With Viktor there. Trying to sleep.

He thinks it breaks even.

In total, he makes two dozen canes. He plans every design diligently using the equations and principles copied down from Heimerdinger’s truly atrocious blackboard scrawl. He tries various materials and carves them into different shapes, testing what fits his hand better, what balances better, and what holds the most weight.

(He learns early to test the last factor leaning toward his bed. When a model he fashioned for the express purpose of testing the minimum amount of material necessary to function predictably snapped, Viktor failed to put his other hand out in time and smashed his face on the unforgiving floor.

Once his nose stopped bleeding and he could overcome the screaming pain in his leg to pull himself into his desk chair, he wrote down his observations.)

He pens all his observations, complete with schematics, equations, and graphs of the various factors that make a cane a good cane. It takes up ten sheets of paper, front and back, because why waste perfectly good space?

Viktor finds throughout the process that most canes are not good canes. They are uncomfortable to hold for long, or too weak, or too unstable, or some combination of the three. The more models he makes - and, in many cases, breaks - the more he realizes that most of the canes he has seen in the Undercity are not good canes. They are cobbled from scraps, from old parts torn from metal and wood and whatever else available. They are fragile and jagged, unyielding and practical. Just like his people.

If he can make a good cane quickly and cheaply, that could mean something. That could improve lives for so many people, however little.

Viktor would like to do more, but, as he has done all his life, he recognizes his limitations. He is a first year university student from the Undercity. He is the only university student from the Undercity. As much as his ambition craves doing something grand and good, he is not in a position to accomplish that yet. He must walk the tightrope. Roll over on command. Ask “how high” whenever they tell him to jump, always looking confused if he ever mentions the pain.

He grits his teeth. There is only the work.

All the final projects for all of Heimerdinger’s class sections are presented at an end of semester research symposium, open to the entire Academy. It is… overwhelming, to say the least. Heimerdinger teaches an inordinate amount of sections, judging from the plethora of people Viktor must dodge in order to arrive at his assigned table. He sets up his presentation, which does not take him very long, and looks around to see what he typically sees in Piltover.

Waste.

The other research projects are… Viktor cannot tell what they are. They are loud and flashy. They clack and whirr. Some of them play music, others destroy little block towers. Others still build them up.

Viktor cannot see a practical use for any of them. They are toys.

There was a time when he built toys. It was a time before he was confronted with the true magnitude of his own limitations - now that he is aware, constantly, he wonders how that was ever the case - and the cruelty some of humanity was capable of. He built toys for nothing other than the fact that he could, that it was fun to put parts together and have them work, that success delighted him.

But things change. Viktor grew up. He lost the time for toys, lost the drive for anything impractical. He became devoted to what mattered: survival and altruism. If it was not necessary, if it did not help, then he could not afford the waste.

The other university students, some who have surely known hardship but clearly never learned to starve, can. They build toys, contraptions that buzz and whirr and shine to the dazzlement of their audiences, who gather around their presentations to ooh and ahh over them.

No such audience gathers near Viktor. They pass him by curiously, eyeing him as the oddity and paying no attention to his work. They whisper behind their hands, and while the other voices in the room and the clack of the other frivolous machines drown them out, they are obviously talking about him.

City of Progress, and yet they refuse to see beyond appearances.

The rage bubbles up in Viktor, but he swallows it down. He smiles politely at passersby and converses pleasantly with those few who ask about his project. He bites his tongue when their gazes wander to the spectacles he is surrounded by. He resists the urge to sit on the edge of the table. 

They did not give him a chair. Good that today he experienced next to no pain.

Toward the end of the three hours, Heimerdinger arrives at his table. 

He only examines the presentation curiously. He does not comment. He simply writes on his notepad and offers a kind smile. Then he moves on to the next table, where he enthusiastically greets a student who made a glittering music box.

Viktor sees his grade during the next class. Stellar marks, but no comments. Satisfactory, but unremarkable.

The semester ends, and his other classes return the same grades. Perfect, but nothing more to say.

Viktor does not like attention. He is used to lingering eyes on him, whispered remarks as he passes by. He has been examined by doctors and openly judged in public. If he could exist without that clear prying that so many seem entitled to, he would. But with how he is built (wrong, he is built wrong, there is no amount of sickly sweet sugarcoating for it) that will never be a possibility.

But he wants his work to have attention. To be worth something. To be discussed. He wants to be known as an inventor, not a cripple.

So, as he spends the winter holidays between semesters fixing the subpar heating in his dormitory because he could not afford to go home, he resolves to be done keeping his head down. To cut the tightrope. To fly instead of jump.

If they are going to stare, he will meet their eyes. If they are going to whisper, he will answer. If they are going to make him a spectacle, he will construct a spectacle instead.

There is only the work. And he will outwork them.

Read the other part here. And another part here. And even more here. And even even more here. And here.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Im begging for dottore with a reader who's obsessed with praising. Like even asking dottore if they are a good girl and being super clingy just to get all his praise and attention :3 🎀

Of course anon!^^

The laboratory was quiet except for the rhythmic hum of machinery and the occasional rustle of paper as Dottore worked. His crimson eyes were fixed on a blueprint spread across his desk, his sharp mind analyzing every detail. You, however, had other plans.

Sidling up behind him, you leaned over his shoulder, your arms draping lazily around his neck. “Zandik,” you purred, your voice carrying a singsong lilt.

He stiffened for a brief moment before exhaling sharply, his quill pausing mid-air. “What is it now?”

“Am I being a good girl, keeping you company while you work?” you asked, your lips curling into a playful grin as you nuzzled his neck.

Dottore turned his head slightly, his piercing gaze meeting yours. “Good girl?” he echoed, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I wasn’t aware we were keeping score.”

You pouted dramatically, squeezing his shoulders. “Of course we are! Your praise is worth more than gold, and I intend to collect as much of it as I can.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and velvety, as he set his quill down. “And what exactly have you done to warrant such accolades?”

“Well…” You stood upright, spinning around to face him fully, your hands clasped behind your back. “I’ve been so patient while you’ve been buried in your work. I haven’t interrupted—”

“You’re interrupting right now,” he interjected, though his tone was more teasing than chastising.

You ignored him, continuing ahead. “—and I even brought you tea earlier. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Dottore leaned back in his chair, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and indulgence. He reached out, his gloved hand gently grasping your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his eyes. “You do seem rather desperate for my attention, don’t you?”

You beamed, your cheeks flushing under his touch. “Is it working?”

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Though I wonder how far you’re willing to go for a simple ‘good girl.’”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you leaned into his hand, your eyes half-lidded. “As far as it takes,” you murmured. “Tell me, Zandik. Have I earned it yet?”

He hummed thoughtfully, his free hand resting on your waist as he pulled you closer. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he said, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “And while I normally find such neediness grating, you… wear it well.”

You preened under his gaze, your arms wrapping around his neck again. “So, you do think I’m a good girl.”

Dottore chuckled, his hands settling on your hips. “I suppose I’ll allow you that title—for now.”

You practically melted against him, a satisfied sigh escaping your lips. “I knew it. You can’t resist me.”

His laughter deepened, his grip on you firm yet gentle. “Careful, darling. Pride often leads to downfall. But for now, I’ll indulge your little game.”

“Indulge me forever?” you teased, your smile mischievous.

“We’ll see,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple before returning to his work. “Now, be a good girl and let me finish this. If you behave, there may be more praise in your future... maybe a reward as well.”

And with that, you perched yourself on the edge of his desk, content to bask in the glow of his rare but cherished affection.

[fatuismooches]

Hiiii, I really wanted to ask for cold Dottore taking care of his darling who suffers from debilitating cramps during their period. He may grumble a bit when they're trying to stay close for him for comfort, but once he sees them practically fainting and falling against the laboratories floor he wastes no time with lifting them off the cold tiles and getting them into his bed, dropping everything he was doing to take care of them.

He's really concerned about them having a medical condition and apologizes for not noticing sooner, before getting them on painkillers and cuddling them when they're not warm enough to ease the pain further.

(Cold Dottore turning soft out of concern for his darling my beloved T-T)

Despite your years of relationship with Dottore, he had remained the calm and reserved man he presented to others, even in your presence. Sure, there were times he'd soften, but that wasn't exactly the easiest task most of the time. Still, there were surefire situations where the scholar's sweeter side would come out.

Dottore was no stranger to taking care of you; after all, he very much cared about you enough to ensure you were in good health, although his words may not have matched the kindness of his actions. The same could be said for your periods - as a (not certified) doctor, he was aware of the general discomfort and side effects it could bring - but was uncharacteristically unaware of your particular experiences. So when you're out of bed and lingering around him, Dottore's tongue doesn't provide exactly the comforting words you're looking for, but that doesn't stop you from clinging to him, of course.

"You know that you're not supposed to be here. Go before I have someone put you back."

He doesn't push harder than that, mostly because he knows you'll withdraw after a while. Naturally, when he doesn't hear your retreating footsteps and instead the slumping of your body, any previous complaints wither up and die instantly. In hindsight, he should have guessed something was up when you were insistent on keeping close to him, and now he's having a whole internal discussion in his mind about his lack of attention toward you. But Dottore puts his foolishness to the back of his mind, which is now replaced by dozens of questions and concerns and a few hypotheses about your current state, as he quickly moves you to his bed and makes sure you're comfortable.

"... It was ignorant of me not to realize you were struggling this much. Now, don't move. You shouldn't fatigue yourself more than you already have," the scholar rubs your back in an awkward but worried manner.

Even with his genius and carefully developed medicine, there's only so much that can help you. But you can be sure you won't have to work or lift a finger, with a segment (or a few) at your beck and call. With as many hands as they have, it becomes a routine to have everything prepared around the start of your cycle, even if it's irregular. And of course, Dottore would never be dismissive of you or your pain, and will be with you whenever you need.

[tswhiisftteedr]

Good Pup ☆ One Shot

☆Mean!Sciences Proffesor!Divus Crewel x College Freshman!Fem!Reader:

After seeing you excel in his class, Professor Crewel interest had peeked. You were not from this world, and your academic knowledge was far too different from what was taught here, too different for it to be considered fair for you to study such material at the college level, a lost cause, he thought at first. And yet, he couldn't help but feel proud as you quickly rose to become one of the top students in his class. One day after potionology you had forgotten your textbook behind, and being the great teacher that Divus Crewel is, he ought to give back to you. After looking around for a bit, then spotting in a hallway talking with your friends, he happens to overhear about your secret thoughts on him…

Based on this ask and poll.

Warnings: Mature Content, Swearing/Explicit Language, Spanking(of ass, thigh, and pussy, by hand and pointer), Choking(on dick lol), degrading names, pet play ig?(just names like pup, dog and mutt but not anything else in that area). READER IS A COLLEGE FRESHMAN AS NCR IS ONE IN THIS FIC SO THEY ARE AT LEAST 18, CREWEL IS CANONICALLY 32 SO KEEP THAT IN MIND BEFORE ENGAGING.

Note: This is sort of a remake of ‘Personal Training’ but instead of Professor Vargas, it’s our dear sadistic Divus Crewel. Like a different Au, so the encounter between reader and professor Vargas didn’t happen here. Also why are all the proffesror mean you may ask, well the answer is quite simple… I like to bullied by authority figures/people in charge and those fics self indulgence 🤪✌️. Also for future request, if not precise what type of behaviour you want for the love interest, i will default to writing mean!dom!character or pervy!dom!character cuz that’s i like lol.

☆ more under the cut. ☆

Ever since starting classes at NCR Wonderland, you felt off about begin your academic journey as a college Freshman. Sure you were the right age for it, but wasn’t it a bit to much of an ask to start with college courses, especially with most of the mediums being different from your world? But at last you had no choice but sucking it up, working harder than any other student in your year to keep up. Though you did enjoy some of the classes, just because they had familiar concept. Magic analysis was like any other analysis class you had taken before the topic was just different, you also had music which was the same as back home, and of course there was Potionology…

That class was your beacon of hope each week. You genuinely enjoyed it, not only because it resembled chemistry, making the 'laboratory process' easier to grasp, but it was also the only class where you could actually use magic! The mixtures you created could do things you could only dream of in your world. Moreover, making such complex and potent elixirs made you feel useful. You felt competent with this world's materials because of it, even if Crowley didn't find a way for you to return home, you possibly could get around. Of course, there was another tiny reason why you loved the class so much, actually it was a pretty significant one. Even in your own thoughts, you couldn't deny that you were practically drooling at your professor each time you entered his classroom.

But how could you resist? That man was incredibly hot, smoking even. And his voice, god! It was undeniably sexy. Plus, the way he addressed you was so appealing: Generally, he would call you a 'pup', 'good girl' or 'good dog' when you did something right or answered a question correctly. He'd say 'bad dog' or 'bad girl' if you made a mistake.

He would also refer to himself as your trainer, at some point asking of you and Grim to address him as "O Great Crewel" or "Master/Master Crewel" instead of "Professor Crewel", as a form of discipline.

And fuck was that hot, honestly that was the primary reason you worked so diligently in his class. Hearing his praise and being able to call him "Master" only served to fuel your fantasies.

You wondered how he could discipline you in a more 'physical' way. Would he use his pointer or his hands on your thighs and ass when spanking you? Would he continue to use the usual nicknames, or would he resort to degrading names like 'slut', 'whore', ‘needy bitch in heady’ or perhaps 'greedy pup'? The curiosity from it was driving you mad, to the point where you even considered pulling your panties to the side and touch yourself at the sound of his voice, as taught class unbeknownst to it all.

Naturally, you wouldn't actually do it. After all, even if your noises didn't give you away, the smell certainly would. (You were certain the beastman in your class would detect something like that.) However, there was a certain allure in to the scenario.

Perhaps a classmate would inform your professor, leading to a public reprimand. You picture your professor criticizing your behavior while you stand in an embarrassing position for all to see. Your skirt would lifted and he would be abusing your behind, probably edge you during the spend of the whole lesson. Then right before the bell rang, he would touch your sweet spot one last time, and right around his fingers you would squir-

Oh, right, the bell. Class had just ended. You snapped back to reality and turn to your friends. From their expressions, it's clear they've been trying to get your attention for a while.

Hastily gathering your things, stuff them into your backpack, and follow your friends out of the classroom. Unbeknownst to you, the potionology textbook you need for tonight's homework is left behind on your desk.

You soon reach the hallway where you and your friends usually sat at a break. It's lunchtime, and as per your routine, you start your daily rant about your professor to Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, and Sebek. Grim is also there, but as always, he is so focused on his food that he isn't paying attention.

Meanwhile, Divus was getting ready to head to the teachers' lounge to enjoy his lunch when he noticed the Potionology textbook on your desk.

Even if he didn't know where you sat during class time, he could tell that it belonged to you by the fact that it had small pawprint stickers surrounding your name on the book’s bridge. The memory of you telling him that customizing the book that way was the best resurfaced. After all you were a "good pup, so why not add the paw prints to match the statement.”, you had told him when he inquired about the decorations.

That comment made him chuckle, which brought a bright grin to your face. While it's true that he would refer to his students by such names, at no point in his career did a student use the term to address themselves. To be honest, he finds it cute that you adore the name that most of your peers detested. You simply smile and giggle anytime he uses it to compliment you, and you pout like a real puppy when he corrects you. ‘Truly adorable.’

He actually liked you. Regardless of how your entourage behaved, you were an excellent student who did not cause any problems. You paid attention in class and worked really hard to achieve the highest grades not only in his class but in others, but it appeared to him that you were more interested in the course that he taught compared to the rest. In non-magical courses, you received an average of 70-80, and your sciences marks were in the 90s, slightly higher grades.

Divus also liked how, despite the restricted male uniform, you had altered the uniform to be more fashionable with the consent of the headmaster. Instead of the dull pants that came with it, you wore a skirt that was little longer than mid-thigh but did not reach the knee. It was elegantly embroidered with a swirly thorn pattern, and you wore stockings to match it. A work of art in the man's eyes, which made you even more favourable to him; he adored when someone had a true sense of fashion.

Despite your puppy-like demeanour when he spoke to you, there was a gleam in your eyes, a lustful one at that. You looked at him as if you wanted him to bend you over your desk that very instant, practically eye fucking him throughout the lecture. You may not realize that he noticed, but as a desirable man, he was highly aware of such things. He observed as you unconsciously rub your thighs together, while he chewed you up for a small error; he 'was expecting better from such a bright girl like yourself, this was extremely disappointing'.

Even though he kept it to himself, attempting to maintain professionalism, him still being your teacher and all. Maybe you weren't as horny as he believed, just slightly flustered by the charming way he addressed you, especially coming from a handsome man like himself. However, no matter how sweet you were, you couldn't fulfill his desires. He craved someone he could dominate and control, someone who to basically bully into submission. You were far too innocent and gentle for that. He assumed that if you did have any sexual thoughts about him, your fantasies would be quite vanilla in nature.

‘And oh, boy, was he wrong!’ That was his thoughts when he overheard the conversation between you and your friends, having finally reach the hallway you usually frequented, your potionology textbook book in hand.

A bit earlier,

You and your friends had started eating and you were babbling;

“Okay, lisent, like hear me out-“ you begin,

“I am not hearing, YOU out. You’ve already said enough.” Sebek quickly retorts.

“Valid point, but, but think about it. Hot mean teacher disciplines you with a spanking while degrading you.” You suggest,

“NO!” Sebek tells you horrified.

"Come on, Sebek, don't be so ip tight. I may not be into that kinda of stuff, but Y/N has a point. I don't get the appeal, but Professor Crewel does fit her type.” Ace tells the distress crocodile.

“But he's a teacher, OUR teacher. I don't understand how people can have crushes on their teachers, but openly lusting for them should be prohibited! Also, not discussed like any other normal subject!” Sebek tells the card soldier.

“I agree with Sebek, you should keep such intimate thoughts to yourself.” Jack adds on,

“Ya say that but chur tail be waggin' like an exited puppy. It’s obvious ya like hearin' bout the naughty stuff from missy over there!” Epel comments.

“That’s not-“ Jack begins, but cuts himself off, like Epel said his tail was wagging crazy so he couldn’t deny anything. So “whatever!” was all he said, followed by a huff and a frustrated growl.

"Look, I'm not saying people should go out of their way to fuck their teachers; it's just that the man who potentially would fulfills all of my desires and fantasies happens to be my teacher. And, honestly, he must be aware that his nicknames and actions would turn some students.” You say to the group,

“What? How’s that?” Deuce questions.

“Come on, it's not like you can't go to NCR if you're into things like pet play or bdsm. He must have known that each year would have some students who fit that description. Don't tell me you thought he was completely clueless towards that?” You explain,

“Well when you put it like that, I guess Professor Crewel probably knows about it.” Deuce sorta agrees.

“He’s probably just ignoring it, pushing it to the back of his mind and pretending that it’s not real.” Ace comments,

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too. But at the end of day, the fact that he’s aware doesn’t change much, I still won’t get him to bend me over his desk” you say with a dramatic sigh, making both Epel and Ace laugh.

“Honestly even if there was some stellar chance that he could be into me, he’s probably in a relationship already. If he isn't married, he is most likely casually dating someone.” You add on.

“Yeah, too bad for ya!” Epel says with a snicker.

Unknown to you and your friend group, the same professor you were discussing was right around the corner, listening in on you thirsting over him.

And truthfully this was a shock to him. Sure he might have found you attractive, but also he had convinced himself that you couldn’t fulfill his desires. Now turns out both of your fantasies aligned, and he was going to make good use of that knowledge.

Now heading towards your group the clacking sounds of Divus’s heels made all of you turn around. Some of their expression where terror, some confusion but Ace and Epel looked like they were holding in a laugh.

Clearing his voice, “Miss.L/n, just the person I was looking for. You had forgotten your potionology textbook in my class, so I went looking for youu in to hand it back, you wouldn’t want to miss tonight’s homework, now would you?” He told, as passed you the book.

“Oh, um, thanks professor Crewel!” You exclaimed a bit distraught, ‘did he hear what I’ve been saying or what?’

“Try again. You know that’s not the appropriate way to address me, now is it.” He states making you rethink your words,

“Right, sorry, Master Crewel...” You spoke out.

“That’s much better. Now come along pup.” He said as he turn around and started walking,

“What- why?” you ask confused. And he turns his head to gaze at you.

“Well isn’t it obvious, you and I got much to discuss. Do not question me anymore today, or any day for that matter. Stand up and follow me right now, otherwise you will suffer greater repercussions than I originally planned to make you endure.”

“Oh, okay.” You squeak out and grab your belongs, now trailing right behind your dear professor Crewel, ‘oh, right, O Great Crewel.’

You returned to your classroom, Divus locked the doors behind you. He had been sitting at his laptop for the past 10 minutes. You were sitting on a chair, on the opposite side of your desk.

"I have magi-mailed your other professors, they have cleared your itinerary for the afternoon. Lucky for us, today was the one I had spares in the afternoon as well." He informs you.

"But if this talk was going to take a while, I could have just come back after class," you say.

"No, I must have a chat with you right this instant.” Divus replies.

You only nod, turning to gaze out of the window to ease your nerves. Of course he noticed, so he turned his lamp desk on, it was bright, then magically closed all the blinds. He moved from his seat to your side of the desk, resting on it as he looked down at you.

“Now, let’s start this talk. Do you know why I brought you here?” He inquires.

“I’m sorry sir I don’t know.” Honestly you weren’t sure maybe he overheard you or maybe this was about something else.

“Not don’t play coy pup.” He told you sternly,

“Perhaps my grades sir…” you croak out, barely above a whisper.

“I guess you decide to persevere in your bad dog act, stand up.” He tells you, sounding exasperated.

“Wh-What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself mutt!”

Without a word you did as you were, the suddenly felt a had push on your back, not protesting anymore you just expect your fate as you were now folded upon the wooden desk.

“Looks like your not completely hopeless, but that one time show of obedience won’t exempt you from your punishment.” He said, you felt a somewhat thin metallic object glide up your right leg, you guessed it was his pointer. “Spread” was all you heard before the words were followed by a swift whip of the pointer.

You were dazed by the feeling, not completely registering the given order. This seem to irritate Divus, as another strike came down, but this time you react right on impact, now having your legs nicely spread out. ‘Your head was slightly dizzy, was this going the way you thought it was?’

But before you could linger on that thought, you felt Divus's hands remove your panties from your hips, letting them drop to your ankles. Your ass and cunt were now exposed to him. You heard a little shuffling, then his soft breath was in your ear. "Listen, since I'm not going to say it twice. I overheard you being a little slut, talking to your friends about how much you want me to hurt you. So that's exactly what I'm going to do, I'm going to discipline you to never forget how to address me, to never talk so lewdly in front of another man, and to make you incapable of living a functional life without me in it. Now, if you understand, say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

“Yes!..sir—!”

"Good. Now I'm going to spank you, and you must count after each hit and thank me for it, you may only address me as Sir or Master, if anything other than what I've instructed comes out of your mouth or you mess up the count, we'll start over and add 10 more strikes for you to go over. Also, you aren’t to touch me unless instructed otherwise.”

By the time he reached strike 29, your bottom was a of deeper color than your regular skin tone, covered in marks and bruises. Your thighs were quivering from the constant impact of his hand on your sensitive areas. "Twenty-eight... Thank you, sir..." You panted heavily, biting down on your lower lip to suppress any further sounds of discomfort.

Crewel stopped suddenly, taking a moment to admire his work. He ran his fingers gently over your bruised ass cheeks, leaving trails of coolness where they brushed against your heated skin. "That’s wrong," he spoke out, a spank from his hand came down your ass this time. "You already said 28, this means we have to start over. But this time, we’re going up to 40."

You whimpered softly, your eyes widening in terror as you realized what this meant for your already sore ass. "N-No! Please, I apologize, sir! I'll count better!" Your pleas fell on deaf ears as Crewel resumed his merciless assault on your sensitive flesh. Each strike landed harder than before, leaving deep marks that would surely become bruises soon.

"One... Two... Three... Four..." Eventually, you reached number 40. The last blow sent waves of agony coursing through your entire body, and you let out a strangled cry. Tears trickled down your cheeks, streaming down your face as you struggled to catch your breath. "Thank you, sir..." You managed to choke out between heavy breaths.

After giving you a moment to recover, Crewel noticed the wetness between your legs and smirked cruelly. "You enjoyed that didn't you, filthy slut?" he growled, his voice lower than usual, almost seductive.

Grabbing hold of your waist and lifting you slightly before slapping your sensitive folds forcefully. The sudden contact caused a sharp gasp to escape your lips, followed by a moan of mixed pain and pleasure.

"What did you just say, mutt?" he demanded, his voice dripping with malice. "No, don't answer," he continued before continuing his barrage on your sensitive areas, alternating between your lips and clit, ensuring that you wouldn't forget this lesson anytime soon.

After several minutes of relentless punishment, he finally stop the smacking of your privates. Following it by cupping your dripping folds in his hand, rubbing them roughly, spreading your juices over your sensitive flesh.

Than bringing his fingers in view for you to see, sticky liquids all over them."You see how much you enjoy this, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and menacing.

Your body had shook after every blow, your moans had turned into sobs as you struggled to maintain composure. Through tears and gasps for air, you managed to choke out between breaths, "Y-Yes, sir... I love it!" your tone was desperate, pleading for more even though your body ached in pain. You couldn't deny the intense pleasure mixed with the agony.

“That’s it," he praised, his voice dripping with false approval. Reaching between your spread legs once more, he inserted one finger into your tight entrance, stretching you further than you could with your own. Despite the pain, a soft moan escaped your lips involuntarily.

"Now, beg me to cum, you needy bitch in heat," he commanded gruffly, his tone harsh yet somehow erotic. Your mind was a mess of conflicting emotions; part of you begged for release, while another part of you wanted to defy him and deny him what he sought.

You forced yourself to focus on the burning sensation of his finger probing deeper into your sensitive core, trying hard not to move or squirm too Your your body ached everywhere from the brutal punishment you had endured thus far. "P-Please... sir... I need you to..." your voice trailed off as he thrust another finger inside you, stretching your even further.

"More, please!" you managed to croak out between gasps for air. Your hips involuntarily bucked against him, seeking more contact, more stimulation. Despite the pain, the combination of humiliation and arousal was becoming too much for you to handle.

Crewel chuckled darkly, enjoying the sight of you squirming and begging for more. Slowly, he began to move his fingers in and out of your tight entrance, teasing your sensitive spots with precise strokes. "Good," he praised again, his voice laced with malice. "Now, beg me for your orgasm properly."

Ultimately, survival instinct kicked in, and you forced out a broken plea, "Please, sir... I need to cum... Please..." your voice cracked on the last word, betraying both your desperation and submission.

His pace picked up slightly, thrusting faster and harder into your tight passageway. Your moans turned into high-pitched cries of pleasure as you neared the edge of ecstasy. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, he stopped abruptly, leaving you hanging on the brink of orgasm.

"Not yet, don’t tell me you thought you would get what you want that easily, did you?" he growled, his voice cold and commanding. "You haven't earned it yet." With a final taunt, he pulled out both fingers, leaving your dripping. "Clean yourself up, mutt," he ordered harshly, before turning away from your exposed body.

You were a mess, your body trembling in pre-orgasmic bliss and frustration. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you begged him through sobs, "P-Please, sir... I'll do anything... Just let me cum!"

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Divus turned back to you, grabbing you by your hair and making you drop to your knees in front of him. Reaching down, he unfastened his pants and slid them down, revealing his massive cock, hard and throbbing with desire through his boxer. It flapped against his stomach as pulled his garment down, it was veined and pulsing with need. "Much better," he said coldly. "Now, show me how much you want it."

Swallowing thickly, you raised your head and tentatively wrapped your lips around the tip of his member, taking as much of it into your mouth as you could without gagging. Your tongue flicked out, tracing the head of his cock, seeking more sensation. You began to suck greedily, your throat stretching around his thickness.

Divus groaned, his hands grasping your hair tightly as he began to thrust his hips forward, forcing more of his cock into your willing mouth. Your gagging and choking sounds only fueled his desire further. "That's a good mutt," he praised between heavy breaths. "You take my cock so well, you filthy dog."

You struggled to breathe as he continued his brutal assault on your throat, your eyes watering from the burn in your nose and throat. Despite the pain, you relish the feeling of being completely owned by him, your body becoming nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. You moaned around his cock, hardly able to form coherent words between the constant thrusts.

As he continued to pound into your throat, your body shook with each powerful thrust. your hands reached up, grasping at his thighs for support as you struggled to keep him in your mouth. The combination of pain and pleasure was overwhelming, causing your mind to spiral into a hazy fog of desire.

Eventually, Divus slowed down, pulling out just enough for you to catch a brief moment of air before plunging back in deeper than before. "Are you ready for your reward, whore?" he growled, his voice low and menacing yet laced with promise.

Without waiting for a response, he unloaded his seed into your waiting mouth, filling it to the brim with hot, sticky semen. You gagged violently, struggling to swallow every drop, your eyes watering from the intensity of the sensation.

He held your head in place until his orgasm subsided, then pulled out, leaving your filled with his essence.

Your vision spun as you coughed and gagged, your body still trembling from the intense asphyxiation. Slowly, you felt your body being raised, finding yourself laying on Divus's desk, your legs folded and spread wide open, exposing your wet and swollen folds to his hungry mouth. Before you good connect 1 and 2 together, he was already between your legs, his tongue darting out to trace along your dripping entrance.

"Oh sevens..." you whimpered, arching your hips upwards, begging for more contact. Pulling away slightly, he teased your sensitive flesh with light touches before finally plunging his tongue deep inside your core, sucking and lapping at your juices voraciously. His fingers found your clit, pinching and rubbing it harshly, eliciting another moan of pleasure mixed with pain.

Your body trembled on the verge of orgasm once more, as he continued to torture your sensitive spots. Your nails scratched at the desk to avoid grabbing his head, you were sure you would get reprimanded for it, the wood was left with white lines shaky lines on it. "P-Please, sir... I need you to—!" you managed to choke out between gasps for air before you was cut off by a powerful moan.

Divus pulled away from your dripping folds, his face covered in your juices. "Mhm is that so," he growled, his voice dark and menacing. "Sadly for you, I don’t feel like letting you climax quite yet, you greedy pup." He teased.

Your body shook with frustration and need, your entire being aching for release. "P-Please... sir..." you begged pathetically, your voice barely more than a whimper. Hips bucking upwards, seeking more contact, more stimulation.

For what felt like a millennium, he continued to tease your sensitive spots, pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy only to pull away just when you thought you could bear no more. Sweat trickled down your back, staining the cool surface of his desk beneath you.

Finally, feeling that it was enough, Divus thrust two fingers back inside your dripping entrance, simultaneously rubbing your swollen clit with his thumb. “Now cum.”

The combination of sensations was too much for you to handle, and you cried out in pure bliss as wave after wave of orgasmic pleasure washed over your. Your pussy contracted tightly around his fingers, cumming so hard to be able to see stars.

Smiling down at you, he gave your cunt a small peck. Crewel smirked cruelly yet something sweet behind his eyes. "Seems like you’re beginning to learn your place well, pup," he said before moving closer again, his lips brushing against yours roughly. His tongue forced its way into her mouth, claiming ownership over your mouth once more, as well as your mind. He tongues wrestled violently, your saliva mixing together in a sickening dance, tasting each other on the other’s tongue.

After breaking the kiss, he stood up straight, looking down at you battered form with satisfaction. "Now, go home and get yourself cleaned up. We're finished for today." With that command, he help her up and walk her out of the school building, trying to avoid anything prying eyes. At her professor was kind enough to accompany her out, but she was on her when it came to walking home.

“See you on Saturday in my classroom, Miss. Y/n” was all he said as he turned and left for school once more. Leaving you alone to recover from the brutal punishment she had endured.

You only replied by a weak “See you sir”, but only when arrive at your door front did it click ‘Wait we don’t have class on the weekends, does that mean—‘

Thanks anon for requesting!

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[4me2knowandyou2wonder]

Just some MelVik "early days dynamic" brain worms. I had fun writing a scene. no real shipping here actully, just the good ol mel and viktor dynamics we should have gotten 800~ words, writen at like 2am, not reread at all before posting.

----

Viktor’s left leg has fallen asleep. For a while now he had been aware of the slow tingling crawling down his nerves, but he’d finally gotten into a position that let his right leg stop throbbing and found he was unwilling to keep looking for a way to sit that appeased both limbs. It is for this reason that when the lab door loudly swings open Viktor makes no attempt to rise. There is no doubt in his mind that that could only end with him on the floor. He does not know who entered the laboratory, certainly not Jayce—he had left an hour ago, but no matter how open he was to the intruder being a stranger, he was still unprepared for councilor Medarda herself, to sit down on top of his notes. 

“As concentrated on progress as ever I see,” she lulled, dragging the page he’d been staring at from his fingers. 

Once over his initial shock, Viktor snatched the paper back with force and glared at the councilor with flames in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

The counselor at least had the wherewithal to look a little embarrassed after that. “Well, honestly, I am here seeking counsel.” 

“Jayce left two hours ago.”

“I know. I came for you.”

Viktor could keep the indignation from his voice. “Me?”

Councilor Medarda finally removed her butt from Viktor’s desk in favor of pacing about the room. Viktor reluctantly unfolded himself to watch her movements. His legs had very differing opinions about this action. 

“I’m trying to undo an outdated law, but the council is not in my favor.” Viktor wanted to interject with a comment about that but the councilor offered no pause. “For years doctors who are licensed in Piltover have been barred from practicing medicine in the undercity.” 

He was well aware. Viktor focused on her with more interest. Why would she care about doctors being allowed in Zaun? 

“I thought it was an obvious law to over turn.” Her pacing had gotten faster now. “Why are we controlling the movements of our citizens? Wanting to help others across the bridge doesn’t make anyone less capable of medicine! Its—”

“It is because they want the resource for themself,” Viktor interrupted, “and, well, they do not want their doctors to be put in danger.” 

The councilor’s pacing stopped. “You agree with them!” 

Viktor frowned. He wasn’t sure how much he was willing to say. He said it anyway. “Miss Medarda, I have watched friends and family alike die from preventable diseases. Die, just because the available doctors are too scared to work with them. If you are from Zaun, it does not matter if you make it all the way to Piltover. It does not matter if you have the money. This very law scares doctors enough that they will turn me away.” Even while curled over in a rickety wooden chair, his gaze was enough to level her. “Of course I do not agree with the council.” 

“Viktor—”

He let out a sigh and leaded back in his chair. “I simply… understand their flawed minds.” 

“I want to change it.” 

“A noble thought.” He didn’t try to hide his skepticism.

The councilor is suddenly much closer to him. “I was a single vote away from reversing it.” There is a conviction in her voice that intrigues Viktor. “Hoskel is malleable. But he’s scared of change.” 

She pauses long enough Viktor thinks she might be waiting for him to speak. “I-”

“Can you hide a calming agent in a kid’s fidget puzzle?”

There is fire in her eyes. A rueful smile plays over Viktor’s face. “Miss Medarda…” he drawls. “Are you here to ask me to help you drug your fellow counselor, so that you can pass a law?”

The councilor doesn’t recoil. She doesn’t even blink. Unwavering determination. Viktor is faced with a choice. He doesn't like the thought of being used, but a reversal of this jurisdiction could mean everything for hundreds of Zaunite citizens. One trinket is all it would take for him and the counselor to change the dynamics of the whole population.

Viktor wins the staring contest. Councilor Medarda sighs and lets her shoulders fall. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Goodnight, Viktor.” 

“Goodnight, Councilor.” 

He lets her touch the brass handle before calling out. “Are you not going to tell me when the next council meeting is?” 

Councilor Madarda’s head whips around. She is met with the widest, most cunning grin she’s ever seen on Viktor. Her next few breaths come out a bit like she might be laughing, but Viktor cannot be sure. 

“It’s- It's tomorrow evening.”

Viktor pushes his bottom lip up and nods his knocks to the side. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

He picks up his pencil from the desk and turns away. He does not look up again until a closed door muffles the councilor’s footsteps. Perhaps Viktor should play Powerful more often, he concedes, that was fun.

[damagdsnow]

Fix my reputation

Pairing: young!Coriolanus Snow x fem!reader

Summary: You and Coryo are together for mutual benefits, he needs a well known woman by his side to look vulnerable and loving during the presidential elections and you need your reputation to be fixed after your unforgivable scandal.

Tag: fake dating, slow burn, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, manipulative/soft Snow, strong and independent reader (as she should), fluff, angst, power play, smut, fingering, thigh riding, switching sub/dom, degradation, denied orgasm, piv, dirty talk, overstimulation, oral (fem/male receiving), praise

Chapter 1, chapter 2;

aesthetic chapter one, aesthetic chapter two;

Tw: Snow being Snow, mention of alcohol, panic/anxiety attack, mention of blood, mention of parent death, physical aggression (not detailed and not from Snow)

Word count: 11.3k

note: before reading this I recommend you to read the first chapter here. Also, thank you so much for all the love and support on chapter one I didn’t expect all of this, I love you guys ❤️

He is the forbidden fruit, I shall not fall in temptation.

The first time you had met Coriolanus was when Dr. Gaul had announced he was going to be her apprentice Gamemaker during the next Hunger Games.

At that time, you got a job as a health advisor, essentially you monitored tributes' vital signs and whether they were injured, you formulated unique medicine so mentors and sponsors could help their favorites heal faster and be a step ahead of the others. You were used to stitch wounds, examining patients, making prescriptions. This was a whole new thing to you. Dr. Gaul said to you that you were one of the most qualified doctors in that department, this is the reason why she pressured you to ‘amaze’ her.

”When I read your qualifications I was shocked to learn you were looking for employment,” was the first thing Dr. Gaul said to you when she requested to meet you.

You were in her laboratory, a bright room filled with gruesome creatures, dead and alive. She was standing in front of you, with her voluminous curly hair and her reddish long tunic, while she was feeding some sorta of genetically modified fish.

“I was looking for some thrilling experience,” you started fidgeting your fingers, “making me useful for the good of Panem.”

You practiced saying these words many times before meeting her, what were you supposed to say? That you desperately needed a job? That as soon as you found another position you would quit immediately?

”Your idea to formulate a drug that would help tributes in the arena?” With a long tweezer she dropped a pink cube in the small pool, ”so original,” she smiled while feeding the fishes with more cubes.

“You know what it means right? The games will last longer, people spending money on their helpless and injured tributes, mentors fighting to get the best sponsor,” she continued, her icy eyes were staring at you, “this is going to revolutionise the games.”

“I’m glad you liked my proposal,” you looked down, wondering if it was better to make eye contact with her or watch those horrific creatures with long fangs and thorny tails.

“Liked? I absolutely adore your way of thinking,” she put the tweezer back on a metal tray. “No one was able to surprise me since–” she paused and you looked back at her, ”do you know Coriolanus Snow? You two would get along well.”

At that time you wondered who he could be. Coriolanus Snow? His name sounded familiar to you. Only when Dr. Gaul introduced him to the department as an apprentice, you recognised his face.

You both graduated from the Academy, he was just a year older than you, and during the tenth annual Hunger Games his name was popular amongst students. Even though you went to the same school, you had never talked to him. Until a couple of months before the reaping, Dr. Gaul let you and other members work in her lab to do research. Of course he was there too, and chance had it that you were paired up with Coriolanus, sharing the same desk in the library section.

You could see him sitting opposite to you, his side was impressively tidy, just a black leather notepad and a book. Your half was full of microbiology volumes, agar plates and creased post-it. Coriolanus was too focused on his writing that he never gazed over you, on the other hand you were distracted by his presence. You remembered him differently in the Academy, his hair was slightly longer than before, his facial features were more defined, but the same cold aura surrounded him.

You felt kinda intimidated by him.

You’ve heard colleagues saying how brilliant he was: he won the Plinth prize in his senior year, he graduated with honors at advanced military strategies and he now had a high position as the right hand man of the pretentious Head Gamemaker.

He intrigued you.

You thought you were not the smartest person in the room. There was something in him, probably his confident behaviour while he was writing on his notebook, as if he was superior to you. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him, you thought of ways to start a conversation, not a small talk, but something smart to impress him.

Your heart was beating fast and you finally figured what to say, “Mr. Snow I found a better technique for–“

“What makes you think you can talk to me?” He cut you off while still writing in his notebook.

His words stunned you. The conversation you imagined in your head was now gone, what could you say at this point? “I just wanted–” you stuttered

“Don’t bother, I don’t want to know.”

Your admiration for him slowly faded each day. The way he corrected you every time you had a proposal, pointing out your mistakes in front of everyone, or when he made you work till night in the laboratory to perfectionate your research. You tolerated that, you were used to hard work and mean teachers in your university years, but sometimes he didn’t even show the slightest remorse on things he would say about the districts. About you, indirectly.

Every year on reaping day you thought that it could have been you. Your name in that little piece of paper, read out loud changing your destiny. If it wasn’t for your father’s role in the Dark Days, you could have been in that arena yourself, instead of having the privilege to control tributes’ lives in a cozy chair.

Your dad was an engineer, more a genius mastermind who designed and built high tech weapons. Specifically incendiary bombs, which were crucial to stop the rebels from invading the Capitol during the last year of the war. The project was so successful that he obtained an honorary medal from President Ravenstill himself. He was able to buy a place in the Capitol, for the only purpose to give you and your sister a better future, and you actually lived in luxury compared to your old life back in the districts. However, your father did not side with the president’s political view, still he had to conform to it or he would probably be considered a rebel.

He played the game, to stay alive. Until he was not part of that show anymore.

“I only did it for you and Darla, I don’t care about heavens or hell. As long as my family is safe, I regret nothing of the atrocities I’ve done,” were the words your father wrote to you in a letter, before being killed.

They had never been clear about the dynamics of his homicide, but you were sure it was not an incident as someone would say. The Capitol killed him, they took your dad away from you, the only person you admired, that never let you down.

Your blood was from the districts, even if you’ve lived all your life in the Capitol, you couldn’t change your origins. Coriolanus reminded you of that, with his despicable comments about how ‘horrible and disgusting’ the people from the districts were. As if you didn’t exist to him, you were not a person from his perspective. But he did not know that, no one knew you were not from the Capitol, it was only written on your official documents.

“The games are meant to remind us all who we truly are,” was something Coriolanus often said, bullshit you thought, for you the Games were an insult to humanity and civilisation, cruel entertainment for empty people.

Coriolanus Snow, such a brilliant mind but wicked thoughts.

At the same time, you were not better than him. You worked for the Head Gamemaker and indirectly supported the unnatural destiny of those children. It was easier blaming the government, the bad guys, than admitting to be part of the corrupted system you truly despised. Your excuse was that you had no choice, and partially it was true, but can money win over your beliefs? Were you so desperate to bend your morality just not to be jobless and not respectable? You were acting as your father: were you a fighter or survivor?

Little did you know that your worst nightmares were going to haunt you soon. After the incident you were unemployed, with a bad reputation and with a man you hated.

Check, check, check.

You woke up at lunch time for the third day in a row, it was like being a child again. But there wasn’t your mom taking care of you, your dad making your favorite dish or your big sister spoiling you with presents. You couldn’t ignore your responsibilities and let the adults do the big things for you. You were the adult now, but if you kept self destroying your life this way, it was like everything you’ve done vanished away. Giving up was not an option, or to put things clear, it was the easier possibility amongst the other challenging beginnings.

One of these included him.

Coriolanus was not a beginning, he was more like someone you bump into when you are in a rush, someone who wasn’t supposed to be there but that let you miss the train, made you change your destination. However, the end of the journey was a mystery, with him nothing was clear from the start.

The gala was proof that you couldn’t handle that world, it felt like everything you did made your situation in a much worse position. If it wasn’t for Coriolanus, you would’ve busted into tears on live tv, he was used to that world, lying so naturally that he convinced them.

Cameras, flashes, interviews. Not exactly what you have been preparing for all your life.

You didn’t want to remember what happened that night. Your mind replayed memories as if it was a film, but you were trying to stop it. The dancing? The photographers?

No, the kiss.

The thought of his hands on your skin, his hair on your hands, his lips against yours. The more you pushed that image away, the less it faded from your mind. How could you let him do something like that? You knew that letting him in again would only bring more chaos into your life, but at the same time, you needed to fix your mess and he was your solution.

Also, you didn’t want to acknowledge that all the attention was something you needed. Not the bad press, the misleading articles and intrusive photographers. It was the care for you, the way he defended you, the warmth you didn’t feel in a long time. You knew it was fake, just a facade, but that pretending was healing an empty spot you have been hiding for ages.

When you checked your mail, you recognised the reddish envelope. It was from Snow manor.

"Be ready at 7 pm, someone is going to pick you up.’ signed by Iris Davebonn.

Of course it was not over.

He had a plan, and he didn’t give up easily. You also had a plan, he was not the only one with something to prove, but was he the only way out to your hell? Or was he another villain in your tragedy? You had nothing to lose but everything to gain.

Coriolanus is the forbidden apple, the fruit I shall never be tempted to desire.

You opened the fridge, still sleepy but hungry. For your breakfast you had a couple of options: water and rotten eggs or rotten eggs and water. So as always you decided to steal from your neighbor’s tangerines tree, you could easily pick the fruits from your window, the advantages of living on the first floor. You knew that the old lady next door noticed your thefts, but she hated you either way so at least you gave her a reason to. Since you didn’t have a monthly paycheck anymore, you had to live with your remaining savings, but soon you were left with nothing with bills and rent to pay.

Actually, Dr. Gaul never fired you, she wasn’t as upset as Capitol people, she even congratulated you because this way The Hunger Games were discussed more on tv and newspapers. For her, the incident was a perfect strategy to make the Games popular. She even thought you did that intentionally, because in her distorted view,”it was funny seeing their faces when for the first time, a 12 years old boy from district eleven won”. Against all odds, the unknown tribute without sponsors and hope to make it alive, won the games because “I killed everybody else.”

Not as funny as she thought.

Eventually, you couldn't handle the pressure anymore and you quit. The last time you saw her she persuaded you to be by her side the next year, “if you did that by accident, I wonder what you could do purposely.” You never considered that offer, you didn’t have to work there in the first place. If only you could go back, maybe… Maybe, everything would’ve gone differently.

The world fell apart when you heard the sound of cannon in that room. Everybody was cheering for that girl from district two, the favorite, the one that won Capitol’s heart during the interviews. The lovely Rea, the brave tribute that was bit by an horrific dog. That creature cannot be defined as a ‘dog’, more like a venomous lion with a crocodile mouth. Your role was to make a medicine that could heal her wound. Sponsors asked it, her mentor was willing to pay whatever price to save her, the Capitol was betting every penny on her.

The pressure was such that you mistakenly switched two drugs and gave her the other for the boy from District three. Fatal mistake.

You were their only hope but you became the death of them.

Relying on somebody else was the last thing you wanted, especially if it was Coriolanus Snow. You didn’t want to need him. But there you go, on your way to his house. Again.

An avox opened the door for you and silently you followed her to the living room. Iris and Coriolanus were both standing near a star shaped glass table surrounded by small couches, you wondered what their conversation was about because they stopped talking the moment you walked in.

“Speaking of the devil,” Coriolanus said looking at you, he was wearing a white shirt and black pants, his hair was messy as if he woke up a couple of minutes ago.

”There she is,” Iris stepped towards you, opening her arms, “the new star of Panem,” she hugged you like you were an old friend she hadn’t seen in a while, it didn’t feel as awkward as you thought, it felt sincere.

”I think you meant a fallen star,” you laughed hugging her back.

”Honey, the gala was a success!” She said with a warm smile.

You perceived his blue eyes gazing at you, the same look he gave you when you were walking with him arm by arm at the gala.

Why is he staring? Am I wearing something inappropriate? Or is it just the indecipherable look he always has?

“Did you read the newspaper?” Iris pointed at the glass table in front of you but you were distracted by a bowl full of pastries to even pay attention to her.

You leaned forward to read the page but your sight was too blurry. The tangerines were the only thing you ate since this morning, not really an energetic meal. You sat on the small couch and you put the newspaper close to your face, nose almost touching the page, squinting to have a better view.

“Are you blind?” Coriolanus said with an annoyed tone, he tore away the paper from your hands.

”I don’t have my glasses with me,” you lied, you have never worn glasses in your entire life.

You rubbed your temples trying to see clearly again and you swiftly took what seemed to be a pink cookie from the tray on the table. What flavour was that? You tried to make a straight face while chewing that sugary stuff, at least your body was eating something.

“To make things short— they think we are the couple of the moment,” Coriolanus started while reading the page, “that everybody was shocked— bla bla,” he rapidly said, “oh and they mentioned my name four times!”

“No, Mr. Snow, if you have to do something you have to do it right,” Iris intervened, taking the newspaper from his hands.

She sat down on the couch near yours and started reciting the article, reading word by word.

“Is love in the air? In Capitol City probably is.” She read the first line,“what a great title isn’t it?” Iris commented

“Go on or we are going to stay here all night,” Coriolanus said.

You looked at him, he was standing up making you feel inferior, like a shadow looming over you.

“After the unsettling events happened in the last Hunger Games, there is finally some hope in our community. The aspiring president Coriolanus Snow showed up with someone not-so-new in the latest gala before the presidential campaign.”

“ ‘not so new’ so kind of them—” you said and he shushed you. How dare he?

“She studied medicine and has worked with the Head Gamemaker for the past year. Rumor has it that for some kind of incident, she was the cause of the premature death of two tributes.”

Iris took a breath. “Unexpectedly, last night Coriolanus proudly walked with her for the very first time in public. Both dressed in white, representing the noble Snow name, they conquered the attention of the media and the crowd. Are they the couple of the moment?” She smiled while looking at you, “the best part is about to come.”

“If we are basing the answers on the way they look at each other, they definitely stole our hearts. We are looking forward to seeing how this unexpected love will grow.”

You laughed, that was too corny for you, was it possible that they truly believed that little show you made?

”Will Coriolanus Snow win the election the same way he won her heart? Right now we are in love with both of them.” Iris finished.

“Did they really write an article about our possible love story?” You took another cookie, green this time, “they really are bored people.”

”You should be happy they didn’t talk about what happened in the arena,” Coriolanus said but you couldn’t see him, he was standing behind you.

“Well, they mentioned it anyway,” you said while chewing that lemon pastry, or was it mint? For a moment you thought it was better starving than eating whatever thing it was.

”Thanks to me they probably will give you a chance,” he said.

”The tone they used– it was like they think you are doing charity by being with me.”

“Well it kinda is–”

”Oh shut up,” you stand up, turning to him, “your name has never been this many times in a newspaper.” You were close to him, and even if you were not sitting anymore, you felt small standing there facing him.

His eyes were still examining you, as if you were a book written in a language he couldn’t read.

“You two look like siblings fighting over meaningless things,” Iris said, stepping in, getting in the middle of you.

“See? Even Iris thinks you are being overly dramatic.”

You fought the urge to answer back, did he just call you over-dramatic?

“Honey, look who's talking,” Iris said pointing a finger at him, “you are not really easy to work with,” then she turned over to you, “in just one day people fell for your fairytale, imagine what you can do in a month.”

“Do you really think this can work?” You avoided looking at him behind her shoulder.

“They don’t care about what you did, you are just another distraction from their empty life,” she explained to you, “they need something else to talk about.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, there are more important things,” Coriolanus said, “such as the presidential elections.”

”Is there something else you can say instead of politics and fame?”

”What do you want me to tell you? My sad story about when I mixed some drugs in the laboratory?” He stepped closer, ”oh no, that is something you always talk about.”

”I liked you better when you ignored me,” you said remembering the first time you tried to have a conversation with him.

“Stop please,” Iris said, “you two should bond more, this atmosphere is making me wanna retire early,” she touched her hair, orange this time, “maybe you will like each other.” She walked away from your sight.

“It's going to be tiring enough pretending to like him in public,” now there was just the glass table separating you from him.

“So this is a yes, you are going to do this,” his face lightened up.

“It seems this charade it’s working,” you said convincing yourself that was your best chance of getting your reputation back.

Did you just sign a pact with the devil?

He is the forbidden apple. But it doesn’t mean I can’t just play with it.

“Before I forget,” you heard Iris voice coming from the door entrance, “next week dinner with the Holdens and Suncots,” she was putting her yellow coat on, “they gladly accepted the invite here,” then she put her gloves on, “see you tomorrow—oh and try to bond you two,” she pointed a finger at him before closing the door and leaving you alone with Coriolanus.

You looked at the clock above the coat hanger and it was getting late, but you had nowhere else to be at that moment. No one waiting for you at home, no one expecting your call, nothing to do the next day.

“Tigris is going to design another dress for you,” he said referring to the dinner.

“Can’t I just wear something I already have?” The thought of him deciding what color and style your dress had was not something you tolerated.

“Of course not— do you dine here or?” That didn’t sound like an invite, more as if he was suggesting you go home.

“So kind, I’ll pass,” you said with a sarcastic tone.

”I asked because you almost devoured the entire jar of pastries.” He smiled, waiting for your reaction.

”For the record, they are tasteless.”

He rolled his eyes, “the car is waiting for you outside,” he turned his back and walked towards the kitchen.

”I can walk, I don’t need your personal driver,”

Your words stopped him right in his tracks, ”what if you get lost? How could I do without you?” He said jokingly, turning over to see you, “and it’s fifteen minutes away, in the dark— don’t be a child and go by car, you’ll get used to it.”

You didn’t answer, not like you had something to say. Of course you would’ve accepted the ride, your apartment was too far from his house, you just wanted to irritate him. Maybe you were not so different from Coriolanus, you were playing the same game.

Car rides make you recall only good memories. Your dad got a car when you were little, it was gray and smaller than this one, and he used to drive you to school everyday. Until you got into university and you moved to your current house, it was ten minutes from university so you got used to walking.

The engine stopped and you stepped out of the car, it was cold outside and you wished you had heating at home, a luxury you couldn’t afford anymore.

You fumbled with the keys trying to open the door, you were freezing and you rushed because you heard some steps. You didn’t want to have a conversation with your neighbor, she’ll probably just scold you about the stolen tangerines and how loud you shut the door when you go out, the old same story. You finally walked inside  but someone blocked you from closing the door. It was a young man, probably in his thirties, he had a tiny recorder on his hand and you immediately clicked. 

“Hi, I’m from Capitol’s People Magazine, I wanted to ask you some questions about your relationship with Coriolanus Snow,” he said pointing you to the black device.

”I’m sorry— for interviews, talk to my manager,” you said with a kind tone.

Iris suggested that every time journalists asked you questions you did not want to answer, you had to say those words, and now was the case. You slowly closed the door but the man put his feet in between.

”How could the heir of one of the most influential figures be with a corrupted woman like you?” He looked at you with eyes full of anger.

Corrupted woman, this was new to you. What was the correct answer to that? 

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” you smiled while trying to close the door by pushing it against his feet but he was not intending to leave you alone.

He aggressively tried to wedge his foot into the door, forcing it to stay open while he continued to badger you with invasive questions about the gala.

”Are you planning on ruining his image while stealing his money?” He reached your arm and grabbed it. 

“What’s wrong with you?” His grip was getting tighter as you tried shoving him. 

He was strong enough to smash the door open, stepping inside your house. With his hand on your wrist, he roughly pushed your body against the wall, your back facing him as he stood behind you, your heart pounding outside your chest.  

“You are just a crazy bitch,” he whispered, “you think you can fool them but are a disgrace for Panem,” he pushed your head against the wall, one side of your face hitting the coarse plaster making your skin burn. 

“Get off me! ” you shouted, struggling against his grip.

In response he hit your head again against the wall. You squinted your eyes in pain as a tear streamed down your face, you felt powerless, everything happened so fast.

“Tell me what you want from me,” you said with a weak voice.

“After all you did, you should shut the fuck up and do what you are asked to do,” he put his hand on your scalp as he pushed you harder against the wall. 

You screamed like you never did in your entire life, someone had to hear your cry for help, right? But he was quick to cover your mouth with his palm and that was the perfect occasion for you to bite his skin. He kept his hand on your mouth while he choked on his own screams. 

Your muffled howl echoed in the room but no one seemed to hear you. Or so you thought. Someone grabbed the man from his collar and pushed him away from you. It was the driver, his tall figure was now beant down to beat that man. You were paralyzed, now your back was against the wall and your lungs finally breathing, but your body was unable to answer your brain’s orders. 

”Run!” The driver screamed at you while punching the man one more time, “go in the car! Run!” 

You ran towards the car but your legs felt weak and your head too heavy. You opened the car door and you laid down in the back seats. What the hell just happened? 

What if he came back? What if next time there is not someone to save you? Your anxiety grew inside your chest and you kept yourself from crying. 

“Are you okay, Miss?” The driver asked breathlessly as he violently closed the front car door with a rush, “should I take you to the hospital?” He was looking at you, he had an old scar on his cheek that you didn’t notice before.

You shook your head, “I just need water” you mouthed, trying to maintain a regular breathing.

“Thank you for saving me,” you whispered.

You looked at him through the rearview mirror, his eyes reflecting the street lights while he was driving as if nothing happened, as if his bloody knuckles on the steering wheel were not hurting.

After minutes that seemed hours he talked, “It is my duty,” he said, “Mr. Snow wouldn’t have forgiven me.”

Coriolanus was in his study preparing a speech for the next interview, he had to be careful to pick the perfect words, to speak with the right tone, and to make the adequate facial expressions. Nothing was left to case. Every single action had to be meticulously studied and calculated.

It was his specialty. Playing with words and making people fall in love with his charm. He did it naturally, molding people the shape he wanted. Because he had to have everything under his control, his power, his eyes.

For the first time he was struggling. He was stuck on the opening line and he didn’t know how to continue. Sleepless nights and alcohol were the usual in the past week. This was one of the nights. Locked in his study until he wrote something of that speech, depriving himself from sleep.

Coriolanus was walking around the room, fidgeting with a pen on his long fingers. Until his mind-wandering was stopped by a firm knock on the door, annoyed it could be an Avox, he ignored it. But the knocking didn’t stop.

He let out a sigh as he unlocked the doorknob, “how many times do I have to tell–” to his surprise, the driver showed up at his door, “Virma, what are you doing here?”

Coriolanus soon found the answer to his question by looking over the driver’ shoulder. You were hidden behind his back, like a hurt animal scared of its fate. You didn’t want to come here, like a lost child brought back home. But where were you supposed to be? What place instead of his?

Your ruffled hair, your smeared makeup and your empty look. It didn’t take long for him to understand something happened. A sense of anger grew inside of him. This was not written in a script, it was not meant to happen and when things did not go according to plan, Coriolanus lost his composure, he could have been unpredictable.

His face darkened. He grabbed your arm and he dragged you in his study, along with Virma. You felt his hand on your wrist, his touch was something familiar to you, maybe gentle, as if he was actually worried about you. He pushed Virma to the side and closed the door behind him, casting you both in the dim light of his opulent study.

You were now facing him, his expression was different from an hour ago. His hand traveled to your face, his fingers lifting your chin as he leaned to have a better view of you. The left side of your face was scraped, fresh cuts burned on your temple as droplets of blood trailed your skin. Coriolanus traced his fingertips on your bruised skin and you flinched, instantly regretting the movement as a flash of pain shot through your head, but he was not rough like that man. He loosened his grip on your arm, his eyes softening as he took in the sight of your injuries. He was delicate, as if he was touching something fragile. 

You were too focused on his expression to even pay attention to your sore skin. His knitted brows, his parted lips and his concerned look.

“Who did this to you?” His voice barely above a whisper, he glared down at you as he inspected your figure, as if he was looking for other scratches he missed.

You could almost feel the tension radiating from him.

His hand was now on your neck, fingers touching the back of your head, “a journalist, I don’t–” you looked down, “he was asking questions but I–"

“Mr. Snow, I think I know who he is ,” the driver said and for a moment you forgot he was in that room, “he is Lucius Cliffhard' son.”

"Cliffhard' son? The father is running for president why would he–” Coriolanus didn’t finish his sentence and he looked back at you, “thank you for your service Virma,” his hand left your neck leaving a warm spot, “we will talk about it later.”

You heard the door closing and now you were left alone with him. You could barely stand up, your adrenaline was leaving your body and your anxiety was taking its place.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” he walked towards the opposite side of the room, looking for something in the small bathroom of his study.

You were standing in the shiny black floor, your heart was pounding so loud you could not hear your weak voice, “he probably was waiting for me to come home because the moment I opened the door he uhm—“ you stuttered, "started asking questions but I didn't answer, so he pushed me against the wall and his hand was on my mouth—“ you paused, ”he hit my head and—“ you felt a lump on your throat and you hoped he didn’t hear you.

His steps were again echoing the room, his figure walking closer to you. He had a piece of cotton wool in his hands and without a notice he held it against your scratches by cupping your face with his other hand. It was burning your skin, his fingertips were slightly brushing your neck while he dabbed gently the cotton to clean the wounds on your temple.

”Continue talking,” he said nonchalantly as he tilted your head to have a better view of tour left side of the face.

You stopped breathing in that moment, maybe because of the nauseating smell of the disinfectant or maybe it was because he was inches away from you, his focused look on the bleeding cut, “I think he just wanted to scare me,” you managed to say in a steady tone.

The blonde snapped his head at you, his blue eyes now on yours, “he is a psychopath,” his scent reminded you of that night at the gala, “he hit you because you didn't want to be interviewed, he could've killed you."

You reached his hand where he was pressing the cotton wool and for a moment your fingers brushed before he removed his hands from your skin. “you are exaggerating– he just needs help, ” you said.

Coriolanus closed his eyes, he clenched his fists and the knuckles turned white. He walked towards the desk and he poured himself a drink, taking a long burning sip. You watched him in silence as you inspected the reddish cotton on your hands.

“Do you trust him so much you want to come back to your house?” He was behind his desk, arms resting above the chair, “I told you, here you could have been safer from the media,” he raised his voice, “but you are stubborn, you risked your life and– if it wasn’t for Virma who knows what could have happened,” he said nervously while pouring himself a drink.

“So now it’s my fault?” You bawled at him.

“You don’t understand that now whatever happens to you affects me,” he said, “what are they going to say when they see your bruises and god forbid— he writes an article saying who knows what lies of what happened.”

“See? You don’t care about my safety, you only care about what they think,” you stepped closer to him because he wasn’t even looking at you, “you want me as your puppet, so you can have me under your control— your house, your peacekeepers, your scripts— it’s all part of your plan,” you said.

”You are free to go back to your pathetic life if that’s what you want," he took a sip of his drink, still looking down, “I can’t save you from yourself, after all– you were miserable before and now too,” it was like venom coming from his lips.

A tear streamed down your face, “this is what I hate about you,” you scoffed, “you are a selfish and heartless man, I was right from the start.”

You have called him only good names: uncaring, unaffectionate, disrespectful, selfish and heartless. The list was getting longer.

“What did you expect? I thought it was going to be easier with you but you are getting on my nerves,” he stood up walking towards you, “you should be grateful— but no, you like acting so superior to me,” his chest was getting closer to you.

You scoffed, “why? Who are you?” You looked up at him through your lashes, “just a rich spoiled kid who is playing at being the next president of Panem.”

“And you fucking need me,” he said against your cheek, “this is why you didn’t leave, you don’t want to admit that without this ‘heartless man’ standing in front of you who knows where you could be right now,” his eyes were consuming you.

”Look who's talking,” you pointed a finger at him, “the Capitol's favorite toy who needs a ‘miserable girl’ to make him popular.”

Coriolanus placed his free hand on your wrist, squeezing it lightly, “you like this am I right?” He licked his lips, “talking back at me, uh?”

His nose was touching yours, his grip was burning your skin and you could feel his hot breath mixing with yours. The blonde was dangerously close to you, but you missed that feeling. Have you already erased what he has said to you? Was he so powerful to make you fall for his spell?

He is the forbidden fruit, I shall not fall in temptation.

His lips brushed yours, memories flooding back to you. You didn’t know if he was about to bite you or kiss you. It would have hurt you either way.

“Tell an Avox to prepare your room,” he said, “or freeze in the streets, I don’t care— your choice.” Coriolanus let your arm go and he walked away from your sight.

It started to be just for show but the backstage was even worse than the real life. At the same time you could not give up on this play, you had to change your rules, your morals, to keep being with him.

So you were alone in the dark in the hallway, thinking about running away or staying.

Coriolanus could not win this way, you hated to admit you still needed his presence to fix your reputation. The darkness seemed to swallow you as you hesitated, torn between your principles and the pull of his influence. He had too much power right now, but you were willing to wait, by making things your own terms.

As you stood there, unwilling to give in to his manipulations, the lingering memory of his touch warred with the sharpness of his words. You slammed the door shut for him to hear you, he would have to do better to get you away from him. 

Coriolanus could have touched your face as if you were the rarest creature on earth but the same lips once brushed yours, could tell the most hurtful things to you.

But you did that too. You were both craving the same sin. But too proud to admit on your faces.

“Is everything okay now?” You were in Tigris room, a colorful space barely illuminated by the outside light. It was in the basement, not really a cozy place to work.

You were talking about the aggression that happened a couple of days ago, nothing you wanted to recall actually, especially your conversation with Coriolanus, but you didn’t tell her that.

”Yes, the bruises are healing over,” you answered, touching your temple.

Tigris smiled at you while taking your measurements. She didn’t look like her cousin, apart from the blonde hair, she was pure and kind hearted. Why was an angel like her on earth with people like you? Like him?

“Why are we doing this again?” You asked “Didn’t you already have my measurements?”

You were standing on a stool, only wearing your undergarments while Tigris was putting the tape measure around your chest.

”Coryo sent me a note telling me that last time the dress was a little loose,” that was the last thing you could ever expect to hear from her, because it was in fact true, he noticed that.

“He did what?”

“I know, I was surprised too,” she smiled, “anyway, I read the newspaper.”

Oh no, you didn’t want to talk about that too.

“You two look great in the picture,” she handed you a wrinkled page where you could see a black and white photo of you and Coriolanus at the gala, he was looking at you while holding your waist.

You didn’t know about the existence of that picture until now. That night you were too starved to even pay attention to the newspaper, how could you miss that?

“It was so strange seeing him with a woman,” she commented while looking for some fabric.

“What do you mean? Has he ever had a girlfriend?” You knew the answer to that question but you wanted to hear from her.

“More like ‘girls’ than ‘girlfriends’, ” she laughed, “I’ve never met one of them,” Tigris wrapped a red cloth around your waist.

“Well, not that I’m special,” you looked at the mirror in front of you, “it’s just a stupid show.”

“What a shame,” she folded the excess fabric on your side and put a needle, “I liked you,” Tigris whispered.

You wished you could do something for her, she deserved more than a molded little room and a cousin like Coriolanus.

“So we are seeing each other more often, am I right?” she broke the awkward silence.

“Yes, Iris forced me to stay in this house,” Iris was really in apprehension when she saw your bruises, she lectured you on how people are vicious and in your ‘situation’ it was better not risking more.

“How lucky, aren’t I?” You added.

“I know my cousin can be– difficult to understand but,” she walked behind you, “there are some things that brought him to be this way,” her fingers tighten the fabric on your back, “and of course he’s not a saint, he just needs something– someone perhaps, to make him remember who he really is.”

“I can’t fix him,” you glanced at her reflection in the mirror, “I’m broken as much as he is and– we are incompatible.”

“As the sun and the moon?”

“Maybe.”

The comparison did fit well.

One is the star planets gravitate around, the only source of light at the center of the solar system. The moon is a small satellite whose only purpose is to spin around the earth, showing only one face and depending only on the planet's gravitational field.

Coriolanus wanted to appear like the sun, bright and powerful but he only displayed one face like the moon. You felt small, needing for something to orbit around as the moon did, but you didn’t know how radiant and capable you actually were, exactly like the sun.

Since you moved in his house, nights were longer than the others. It was getting harder to fall asleep because of your intrusive thoughts keeping you awake.

Is the door locked? Am I safe here?

The positive side was that your new room was probably bigger than your whole apartment. Then, you were not freezing anymore and you were finally eating food, not stolen fruit and smelly milk.

Even though you were living in his house, you tried avoiding his presence: by not having lunch the same hour as him, by going out your room only when you heard his door locking or having your usual meetings with Iris before him. That was your way of saying that he could not control your life, especially when he treated you the way he did.

However, that was still his house.

Red silky bed sheets, roses scent, his gold engraved initials on objects.

Coriolanus was not easy to forget. It was as if he had poisoned the air you were breathing, everything reminding you of him. The good and the bad. You promised yourself to not be tempted anymore, he was mercilessly manipulating you into believing he was the person he wanted to appear at the Capitol. But other than his mesmerizing eyes, his golden curls and delicate hands, there was another man hiding in his shadow. You had to picture that side of him every time he teased you, or you could be a sinner.

You were laying on the bed, leafing through the pages of the brand new script it was sent to your room. This was even worse than the other. Not only you had to remember some political matters regarding the current campaign, but you had to pretend again how good of a man Coriolanus was. How he supported and cared for you and how bright your plans as a couple were.

“I was extremely lucky to meet him, he is the sun to my dark days,” what an irony, “I am looking forward to living this exquisite love fully by his side.”

So cheesy for what?

“You can’t avoid me forever.”

You heard a muffled voice coming from the hallway, you walked towards the door but you didn’t answer. It was him of course, after the bad there was the good. He surprisingly tried talking with you on other occasions, but you had walked away before he could even finish his sentence, running away was easier, or god knows what you could’ve done.

“I can hear your heavy breathing,” he said close to the door, “open the door or I will,” he was waiting for your response, thinking about what he could say to get your attention. “Please?” Good manners are always the right answer, right? Right?

You let out a sight as you unlocked the door. Coriolanus was standing close to the room’s entrance, his arm was leaning against the wooden jamb and you noticed he was wearing his coat, as if he was about to go out.

“Oh so you’re alive,” he said, “I was worried about you.”

You couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not, but it didn’t matter either way. Right?

“What do you want?” You were still holding the doorknob, not letting him step inside the room.

“Come with me, we have to go somewhere,” he said with a rush in his tone.

“I kindly refuse your invitation,” you were about to close the door but he put his hand in between. I could squash his fingers, you thought, nothing he could not recover from.

Coriolanus rolled his eyes, “sooner or later you will have to pretend to like me,” his face was partially illuminated by your room light, making his eyes brighter.

You looked at his long fingers keeping the door open, he had his usual shiny ring on his index finger and for a moment you thought you could really squash his hand, “I think it’s better we have less interactions possible apart from the social events.”

“It’s been days since people saw us together, yesterday they asked about you at the debate,” he hissed, “see? Instead of asking about my political project they were– nevermind, just come with me.” His eyes were begging you, such a satisfying image.

“I’m not dressed up, what a pity,” you said mockingly.

He peeked at your figure, “you’re fine.”

You did not feel fine. You weren’t even wearing your clothes, you did not had the chance to pack up your things from your apartment and you had to ask Tigris for some piece of clothing that could fit you. She gave you some of her designs, a green matcha wool skirt matched with a cotton white top. At least you were about to wear pretty clothings, not your old unironed shirts.

“Just for show,” you said while grabbing a jacket.

“Just for show,” he echoed.

You realised that in this game of power and appearances, keeping your distance wasn't an option anymore. You knew that you were now entwined in a dangerous dance with Coriolanus, one that could lead to momentous success or catastrophic ruin. The stakes were high and your mixed feelings towards him could not interfere with your plan, he was not the only manipulator anymore.

“Where is he bringing me?” you asked Virma after fifteen minutes of silence in the car. It was better not talking directly to Coriolanus when possible.

“Miss, isn’t this a date? Enjoy the ride,” the driver said with a smile.

You and Coriolanus laughed. Date? The only date you were looking for was the date this show would end. The car stopped and from the window you immediately recognised the place. It was not a fancy restaurant, a loud club or someone’s wealthy mansion.

First date with Coriolanus Snow at… the Citadel?

That was not what the script said.

You heard the car speeding away as he walked towards the huge grey entry, he unlocked the door and he stepped inside. You stood on the sidewalk, not sure if you wanted to follow him, it was too late to change your mind and too dark to be alone outside.

At least ten peacekeepers were guarding the entrance but Coriolanus walked towards the grey corridor unbothered. The first time you were there, you were searched as if you were a prisoner, as if you could hide a bomb inside your small pockets. This time they did not even consider you, because you both spent months working day and night in that cold laboratory.

The elevator plunged down at least twenty floors, the dark walls were so thick you could strain your vocal chords for hours but no one would hear you. You were standing beside him, waiting for the door to open as soon as possible. The only sound echoing in that place was the loud machinery that was slowly moving down.

“Did you miss this place so much you wanted a guided tour by me?” You asked, breaking the silence, “or is it a surprise party for me?” Five floors left, “tell me now so I put my best smile for the cameras,” you said mockingly, but he didn’t even look at you.

Couldn’t this man laugh for once? So boring.

The elevator doors parted and you finally stepped inside the laboratory. It was an open space divided into three areas. The center was where Dr. Gaul did experiments with animals, occasionally it was also where she did her lectures and exams; one side was the sterile area where the researchers did surgical operations and medical trials where they often experimented with new drugs on genetically modified animals; on the other side, there was the library and research tables, where you mostly spent most of your time studying advanced biotechnology methods.

“How romantic– I guess what people are going to say when I tell them for our first date you took me to see these sweet and lovely creatures,” you said as you looked at the wall glass with dead beasts inside clear yellowish cases.

“You should keep the bar low with me— and I just need to find some documents, you know this laboratory better than me,” he removed his coat and stepped towards the library on the other side of the room.

“You tricked me– you just wanted a favor from me,” your voice echoed and you were not sure he heard you. You walked through the library looking for him.

“I’m in the archives section,” his voice was not far away.

The library was arranged in a circular pattern, as if the bookshelves were layers and in the very core there was a large space with study desks, the ones you had slept on many nights back when you worked there. Soon you found the blonde leaning over a desk while reading some pages in an orange envelope.

“Did you find it?” You asked in an annoyed tone.

“Here there is– this is your file,” he said while standing up.

“My what now?” You walked over him, intended to grab the envelope with the 'confidential' print on the cover.

Coriolanus stepped back, leaning his back on the bookshelf behind him, “given your precedents, I thought it was better to check your past before they did,” he had already read your file a long time ago, but he didn’t tell you that.

He started reading the first page, “you uhm graduated with honors in medicine– bla bla bla first student in your class, —okay here, you specialized in general surg— oh no you did not” he paused, “yet?” Coriolanus looked at you with a puzzled face, suggesting you to say something.

“I will this year,” you looked at your fingers, fidgeting with the ends of your jacket.

“Lie number one, here it says you didn’t pay the tuition,” he pointed at the paper.

Fuck. You couldn’t afford paying for electricity, imagine the university fees, in the most expensive city in Panem. You stuttered something but he continued talking.

“Anyway, you got a place in the Ranvistill Clinic —impressive— and then you mysteriously asked for a transfer after two years, and this is how you got here,” he looked at you, “what happened?”

Was that a tricky question? This conversation was making you uncomfortable. You felt under trial, as if you were accused of crimes, Coriolanus was the judge and you were the only one defending yourself.

“Is this an interview? I didn’t know that apart from being interested in writing scripts you also were a human resource guy,” you tried switching the topic, the conversation was getting too personal.

“Do you have something to hide? I must be prepared for anything they can ask me,” he frowned.

You had many secrets you hoped he didn’t already know, “I changed jobs, that’s it.”

“You failed my test,” he chuckled, “you lied straight to my face in a serious matter –this is lie number two.”

“A test? What the hell Coriolanus.” You sighed as you walked over a desk, sitting on it.

“See? This is why you don’t have my trust.”

The man that cannot be trusted was really talking about trust?

“If you already know every detail of my life, why are you talking with me?”

“Oh, I knew it was going to bother you —anyway no, there’s just something that does not add up.” His eyes went again on that file, hands leafing through pages.

“Which is,” you said with a passive tone.

“Clodius South, head of the surgery department —or I should say, your umh— ex boyfriend?” He closed the folder and put it carelessly on the shelf behind him.

Your heart skipped a bit, “I’m done,” you stood up but he came closer to you.

“Answer just one question, I'm curious– why did he fire you? I mean, officially you transferred but I know it wasn’t voluntary,” he didn’t seem to give up, his look was pleading for answers, “so strange, you had been together for a year.”

“Why are you so interested in my sentimental life? You don’t have a chance with me, you know that right?” You laugh, feeling the tension in the air.

“There is no such risk, I’m not attracted to you,” his figure blocked you from walking away, “I just need your popularity, so I can fix it to something good.”

“You were the one kissing me in the car,” you bit your tongue, that kiss was something you didn’t want to bring up, it was better to forget about it. However, the other option was talking about your past, not something you were proud of.

“Oh please as if you didn’t want to,” he tilted his head, eyes locked on yours.

You laughed at his words, “you wish,” your back leaned against the desk.

“Then why did you kiss me back? I remember you didn’t let me breathe for a moment.”

“That was part of the show, Coriolanus Snow.”

“Now you use my full name? Last time I checked you called me differently,” he rested his arm on the desk you were lying on, making his height the same as yours.

You damned the only time it slipped from your lips calling him Coryo, a nickname you promised yourself to not say ever again.

“Why? Did it turn you on?”

His other hand was near your leg, slowly moving closer to your exposed skin.

“You can’t even imagine,” he swiftly looked down to your lips then back to your eyes.

The room did not feel cold anymore. Your breathing was getting slower, his parted lips warming your skin, his arm grazing your leg.

“So tell me, what happened with him?” Coriolanus insisted, but you had other plans in mind.

He was in power right now, he brought you here just to humiliate you with your deepest secrets. Weren't you just a miserable girl? It was your turn to make him feel miserable.

“You say you’re not attracted to me but you always find an excuse to touch me,” you whispered to his ear, his curls brushing your nose and his hand slightly brushing your leg.

This would have made him back off, telling you how stupid you are to think something like that, gaslighting you about the fact he never did such things like touching you.

“If it bothers you so much why you never push me away,” his hand traveled up to your leg, “go on, I’m waiting,” his fingers were now brushing your thigh and you felt his cold ring against your skin.

Fuck. That was not your plan.

You can always get back to it.

“I know your limits— I bet you barely touched a woman in your life,” you knew it was not true, you only said it as a provocation, to hurt his fragile ego as you planned.

I won.

”I don’t have limits, and we both know you would lose your bet,” his hand went under the hem of your skirt, making you shiver in surprise.

His index finger traced the outline of your panties, slightly playing with the waistband. Coriolanus didn’t break eye contact with you, his pupils were wide, you couldn’t see the blue that usually painted his iris, he was breathing slowly with parted lips, as if he wanted to control his heartbeat. And his hand felt so warm and familiar, so close to your core.

You knew that look, the one that he gave you when he let his guard down. The same look Coriolanus had when you came in his study a couple of days ago, his other side that he rarely showed to anyone.

His palm rested on your bare naked thigh.

“You don’t talk now?” His voice soothed your face, “tell me to stop and I will.”

That was the perfect occasion to slap that smug from his face, but you couldn’t even make up a coherent sentence. His voice was a gentle whisper cutting through the tension, but all you could manage was to stare at his eyes, trying to calculate his next move.

You knew what it was. It was a dangerous game you were playing, one that could shatter your plan. Did you have something to lose? You have already bent your morals, risked your life and crossed lines you never thought you would. Coriolanus would have been another crime to add to your list.

He is the forbidden fruit, I shall not fall in temptation.

But what if I took just a bite? A taste of mortal sin.

“Why did you bring me here?” You managed to say trying to control your breathing.

“You once asked me why did I chose you,” Coriolanus whispered to your ear, “and I told you that it was for the presidential campaign,” his hand moved up again, “publicity, press and interviews— I only care about that,” his fingers were covering your clothed cunt.

You took a deep breath and swallowed, your back was still leaning against the desk edge, his other arm on your side. His words were not making things easier for you, not because you were listening to what he actually was saying, but because his tone of voice was something you could only hear in these moments. When he acted good, for the cameras, for the show. But there was no one in that room.

Coriolanus kept talking, “but my point is, why didn't you leave?” His index finger circled around your covered core, “I mean— I could list a few reasons why, considering also how wet you are right now,” he pulled your panties to the side, exposing your wetness. “But you always say you hate me, that you despise me, why are you here then? Are you so desperate?”

Your eyes were closed, your mind wandered prohibited thoughts while his hand was painfully too far away from what your body needed. What could you say to him? That he was right about being so desperate to pretend to be with him, so you could clean your image? That despite his selfish behavior he was tempting you into falling in his game?

Coriolanus brushed your soaked entrance with his fingertips as he massaged your clit with your own wetness. You shamefully spread your legs giving him more access to your folds, his digits that once touched your face were gently rubbing your needy center.

Your silent whimpers were enough as an answer for him to slide one finger inside you.

Your hand was now on his biecep, grabbing his arm so tightly or you could fall. There was something in you that was holding you back from punching him to his face. Was this the charm everyone talked about? Was this the version of him everyone adored?

“Given that you prefer remaining silent— I can tell you why,” his hand moved inside you, “you like the attention,” your cheek was against his, while your other hand rested on the nape of his neck.

Your reaction to his movements made him close his eyes in bliss, but you were too focused on not making sounds that you didn’t notice his expression. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction that he was making you feel good.

“I bet you’ve barely been touched by a man,” Coriolanus echoed.

It’s just one bite of the apple.

You looked at him this time, and you wished you did it before. The blue in his eyes, his plump lips, the glistening on his forehead covered by his falling blonde curls. An angel.

No, no, he is the devil, not an angel.

“Wrong,” you breathed and his pace fastened, “actually they were better than you,” you whispered and his eyes widened.

“Lie number three,” he slid another finger, “I can tell when you’re pretending and when you’re not,” he brushed your clit with his thumb.

Oh.

You bucked your hips to make some friction, Coriolanus was painfully slow as if he was taking all the time in the world. He leaned his head to your left temple, where small reddish bruises were fading away from your skin, and he planted feather kisses on it. Coriolanus slowly traced a trail of wet kisses alongside your face. His soft lips were healing your bruises, his hand was igniting your core.

His fingers moved faster, pumping in and out your hole and slightly curled to hit exactly your sweet spot. Your little moans echoed in the room along with the sloppy sound of his hand never leaving your cunt. Coriolanus stroked your bundle of nerves once more, his lips sucked a spot behind your hear, slowly moving down your neck, marking your delicate skin with his warm kisses.

That was it. You were sure your high was coming in a matter of seconds, your mouth curved as pleasure began flowing through your body.

“But wasn’t I an uncaring, disrespectful —and what was that—oh, selfish and heartless man?” His hand stopped moving, “well I guess you were right,” his fingers were slowly pulling out your unfulfilled hole.

What was he doing?

“Did you really think you could do whatever you wanted? Having meetings without me, eating locked in your room, ignoring me for days— I have the control here.” Coriolanus looked down at you with a satisfied expression, believing that he finally asserted his dominance over you.

Your mind raced for a response, but before you could gather yourself, his words hung heavy in the air.

That was his revenge.

You thought you could teach him a lesson but he was a step ahead of you. Coriolanus humiliated you, exactly as he planned. His intent was to make you feel ashamed of your past but you gave him a better opportunity: he made you feel needy for him.

Self sabotaging.

“They are here,” he said in a calm tone, as if you were not almost buckling in that very moment.

Five seconds ago you were close to your orgasm and now you were feeling the emptiness growing inside you. You looked around confused, adjusting your body so now you were standing up, your weak knees begging for rest.

Who?

“They?” You stuttered as you watched him stepping back.

“Yes, I called them before,” he smirked, ”put your best smile for the cameras.”

Coriolanus acted like he did not just had his fingers inside you, but his body was telling another story, his bulge was visible from his pants and you noticed that as he swiftly covered his erection with his hand.

He walked towards the elevator where two peacekeepers were waiting for him. You fixed your skirt, probably too ruined and sticky to ever wear it again.

Fuck him.

You followed him, making sure to walk properly or he would’ve noticed how flustered you were. The thick doors closed, it was you, two peacekeepers and the blonde. You were sure he could smell your arousal, you still had traces of his saliva on your neck and a little bruise on your skin. A new one.

Coriolanus took a handkerchief from his pocket and he carefully cleaned his hand from your wetness, like he was cleaning his hands after a crime. Yours. The cloth wrapped around his fingers, as your walls clenched around him moments ago.

Then he caught you staring at his hand, “are you okay? You look flushed.”

You sick bastard.

Your cheeks were painted in a crimson color, of course he could see that, he was the cause of that. The same cause that made you cream your panties and shake your legs. If it wasn’t for the peacekeepers, you would have probably strangled him. But that was his lucky day.

He won.

After an infinite amount of time where your mind couldn’t stop picturing the sloppy sound from before, the elevator’s door parted. Coriolanus grabbed your shoulder as he was directed toward the exit. The silence in that room was now replaced by loud voices coming from the outside.

“Who did you call?” You tried pulling away from his grip but he kept you close.

“I told you, they haven’t seen us in a while.”

He opened the entrance and you heard someone shouting, “they are here!” A group of unknown faces were pointing microphones towards you, asking questions you didn’t bother to listen to.

You walked through the crowd side by side to him, his arm around your waist as you covered your face from the blinding flashes. The car was waiting for you in the exact spot it left you, Coriolanus let you enter in the car first as he followed by closing the door, blocking the loudness outside.

You sat on the back seat, heart racing outside your chest, forcing yourself to completely ignore his presence.

Coriolanus was again back in your thoughts as your wetness slid down your legs.

He is the forbidden fruit.

I am tempted by thee.

A/N: finally it’s out!! It has been so hard writing this chapter, I had so many ideas that I couldn’t mold them together into a coherent text lol. Anyway, as always tell me if there are grammatical mistakes because another difficulty was my limited vocabulary (a special thanks to wordreference.com or I wouldn’t be here today.) Every day I’m trying my best to improve my English so have mercy on me! Let me know if you want to be tagged next time!! 💌

Thank you so much for all the love and support!! Your comments mean a lot to me ❤️❤️ I love you all

ask me questions here 💌

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[zandicksz]

webttore x reader smut? :D i don't really have a plot in mind I just wanna have sex with him... also afab reader pls!!!

webttore my love

CW: messy sex, on the table, drool and saliva mentioned, somewhat subby webttore, getting caught (by original), segment is called Epsilon, somewhat established relationship, pet names (honey, darling), mentions of webttore being biomechanical,

the mechanical hum of all sorts of machinery echoed throughout the main parts of the laboratory, bouncing off of the steel walls while other iterations of Dottore worked, doing their assigned tasks for today, it was a mundane practice but one that they had all grown accustomed to over the multiple centuries they've spent 'rotting' or as the original likes to call it, 'working', it really makes for a dull work environment.

not when you're around of course.

ever since you came along productivity and morale has been quite high, tensions have been lowered and segments are less likely to bicker and argue over meaningless things about who's beaker is who's. with someone to seperate them of course, you.

earlier today, a segment, Epsilon, had gotten into a spat with the original, you don't remember what exactly but he was almost disassembled, so the most reasonable thing you thought to do was to just time him out, put him in an isolation room.

said isolation room was just one of the barren sleeping quarters the original had, a simple bed and a single light with a wooden table against the opposite wall of the bed, it was..normal, atleast.

"what a ridiculous statement!" the segment growls, "I don't get how hard it is for him to understand sometimes! it's simply that—" he began rambling on as you sat next to him on the bed, being his personal therapist for the moment as you did for all the segments in a bitter mood.

"honey.." you were half awake, your peaceful slumber was awoken by the earlier spat between Epsilon and your darling, the original. "all of you have different perspectives, yes? that's why all of you are different, because none of you see things from the same way. that's why Zandik disagreed with you, because he sees things another way from yours.." you tried to hold back a yawn but, eventually rested your head on his lap and let it out.

"come here, I have..work in the morning and I really need some sleep, okay? just..lay down beside me."

how it turned from gentle kissing on the bed, slowly sliding each other's clothes off, and eventually reaching the table, you don't know.

"Epsilon wait!" you cried out, it's been your nth orgasm and it's getting messy at this point, you can feel the mix of your fluids and his dripping all over the floor as you're bent over the desk, the chair laying haphazardly on the floor after you two had knocked it down trying to reach the table.

"nnh- just..just stay still- fuck!" he groans, he didn't pant or breathe like a regular human but his whimpers still left his lips, that's one of the things you loved about him.

not that you could think about it much, of course. his thrusts were rough and the gloved hands on your waist squeezed so hard you could already sense the trouble you'll be in with the original.

he kept his messy, messy rhythm as he was simply just chasing his own pleasure, going over to press his chest to your back and slot his face into the crook of your neck, gently licking a streak onto your face while he moaned into your ear, none his high pitched whimpers and moans were left unheard by you.

he leaned over a bit more, putting a leg on the table as he wrapped his arms around your body, one his hands going to fondle your breasts while the other helplessly and amaturely played with your clit, his whines picking up in pitch as he tried to make you cum before him, moaning into your ear while his thrusts got even sloppier and rougher.

this surely couldn't be good for his internal core, you could feel the heat it was generating inside his chest and how he looked like he was overheating but he didn't really seem to notice, not noticing the cooling liquid in his body that acted like blood was slowly starting to warm, not noticing how much he was pushing his limits just for you.

his mouth was hanging open, moaning and crying about how good it feels while he squeezed your breast, his whole body pinning you down onto the table while he got somewhat faster, one of his legs up gave him better access to your body, allowing him to hit every, single, one of your precious little pleasure points inside of you, the head of his sensitive silicone cock throbbed and ached as it just kept pushing against your womb over, and over again. the table rocked

as the table rocked underneath his thrusts, he grut his teeth before crying out, "nngh! hah- fuck! w- cumming! cumming I'm gonna cum!" he cries out into your ear, putting his whole body weight on you as he releases something way warmer than usual, his length aching as he stayed inside of you, groaning with an almost drunk expression, you panted underneath him, your eyes half lidded as you tried to recover from your plentiful orgasms.

you reached up a hand to gently cup his face, your breath slowing down as he practically was almost limp on top of you, causing you to overheat as well, how strange that you can still feel that sensation in a place as cold as snezhnaya with no clothes on.

"Darling please get up." you sigh,"no." he pouts, squirming his hips to reach even deeper inside of you, he doesn't experience this everyday, so of course he'll savor it.

your eyes were beginning to shut, the exhaustion from earlier catching up to you as you rested flatly against the table, letting them close for just a moment. the serenity in the room was soothing, it was quiet, cold and you were in the arms of an iteration of the man you love most.

the silence was broken as the door suddenly slid open with a hiss. "I assume you've taught Epsilon his less—" he looked up from the clipboard he was holding, his mask on but you could still see the scowl starting to form on his face. this wasn't good, for either of you.

"..oops."