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cressidagrey · 21 days ago

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The Attic Room

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Oscar broke the same school rules every night for three years.

Notes and Warnings: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mention of Underage Sex.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

They never once got caught.

In retrospect it bordered on impossible.

They broke the same school rule every night for three years and never got caught.

Technically, it was about ten different violations rolled into one: curfew, unauthorized presence in dormitories, misuse of the staff staircase, unsupervised cohabitation—plus whatever regulation covered “two students sleeping in the same narrow twin bed every night.”

Technically, boarding students weren’t supposed to sneak into each other’s rooms past curfew.

Definitely not the girls’ dorms.

And absolutely not up the narrow, creaking staircase that led to the attic room at the very top of the oldest building on campus—the one with the slanted ceilings, crooked windows, and that draft in the winter no amount of heating ever fixed.

It started in 2016.

They were 15.

Felicity had the worst room in the school.

Everyone said so.

Which was exactly why Felicity got it.

They hadn’t said that out loud, of course. They’d told her it was “for upperclassmen who value quiet” and “a bit removed, but private.” But everyone knew what it meant.

Too intense. Too strange. Too smart. Too hard to place.

So she got the attic.

And she never said it, but she was kind of glad.

It was the attic room—tiny, slanted, too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. The radiator clanked like it was haunted.

Nobody wanted it.

But she took it. Gratefully. Quietly. Because it was far from the housemistress's office, and it had a door that locked, and because nobody ever checked it after curfew.

Which meant Oscar could get to her.

It had started their second term, when the nightmares were worse than ever—cold sweat, gasping, shaking so hard she once cracked the plastic of her retainer.

Nobody understood.

Oscar did.

He had the room three floors below hers and the kind of memory that remembered things no one else noticed—like when her hands started trembling during meals. Like how she never screamed when she woke up, just stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed her.

He didn’t climb ivy or scale the gutter pipes or do anything heroic.

The staircase was ancient and half-blocked by an unused storage room. Nobody patrolled that wing. Nobody cared. Nobody ever noticed the quiet boy with the soft steps and the too-serious eyes slipping into the attic room every night at 11:03 and leaving again at 5:30 a.m., when the world still felt soft and half-dreamed.

And Oscar had always been good at finding the quietest paths.

One night, just past midnight., she heard the stairs creak.

Carefully. Slowly. One by one.

Then the soft knock—two short, one long. The knock they’d agreed on in whispered study halls and library corners.

When she opened the door, he looked sleepy, hair a mess and hoodie half-zipped. He didn’t say anything. Just held out a hand, and when she took it, he crawled into the too-small twin bed like he belonged there.

And he did.

For three years, he came to her every single night he was at Haileybury…when he wasn’t busy racing.

Never missed one. Not even during exam weeks or rainy nights or the time he twisted his ankle during a cricket match and still limped his way up four flights of stairs just so she wouldn’t have to fall asleep alone.

They broke every rule in the book.

No visitors. No lights after hours. No boys in girls’ quarters. But nobody checked the attic. Nobody cared about the girl in the room with the water-stained ceiling.

They should have. That room was where everything happened.

It was where she learned to sleep through the night, tucked into his chest.

They never really meant for anything to happen.

At first, he just held her. Let her shake. Let her breathe. Let her fall asleep in the curl of his body, warm and steady and safe, which had never really meant anything to her before he showed up and made it mean everything.

Oscar never asked what the dreams were about. Never tried to fix them. He just climbed in beside her like that tiny bed was big enough for both of them, and wrapped an arm around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it worked.

The nightmares didn’t go away—but they didn’t swallow her whole either. Not when she had something to hold onto. Someone.

They slept chest to back, tangled knees, breath synced so closely that sometimes she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. He’d press a kiss to the back of her neck before falling asleep. She never told him, but it was the one thing that could stop her shaking on the bad nights.

Then came their first kiss.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just…inevitable.

They were talking, forehead to forehead, knees knocking together, and she was laughing about something—soft and breathless and alive—and he looked at her like she hung the moon. And then he kissed her like he’d been waiting to his whole life.

And maybe he had.

She never forgot the way he looked afterward either—rumpled and pink-cheeked and stunned with affection, like he couldn’t believe this was his life.

Sometimes she still couldn’t believe it either.

Their first time had been there too.

Months later, she held his hand and whispered “yes” when he asked if this—they—were ready. It was clumsy and sweet and quiet and a little too fast and a little too intense and everything they were at sixteen.

Afterward, he kissed her shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”

She whispered it back.

And the radiator clanked like a blessing.

***

Oscar hadn’t realized how badly he missed her until he saw her again.

He had counted the days.

Every single one of them.

47 days since he’d last seen Fliss—since they’d curled up together in the too-small twin bed beneath the sloped roof of her attic room, limbs tangled and breathing steady.

47 days since Felicity had kissed his collarbone and murmured sleepily about constellations and university applications and how this time next year, they’d be free.

No phone. No texts. A few letters—clinical, cautious. Like someone else had read them first. Which he knew, deep down, was probably true

So he’d waited. And counted.

And now, finally, they were back at Haileybury.

It was the first day back in their last year—mid-September, hot and dragging—and the courtyard was full of luggage and overlapping greetings and housemasters calling names over the din. But he only saw her.

Felicity.

Standing by the edge of the courtyard, her usual navy cardigan pulled tight around her frame, hair half-tied like she’d done it in a moving car. Her shoulders were hunched, eyes down, like she was already trying to disappear.

And she was so thin.

Thinner than she’d been in June. Her cheeks hollowed out. Collarbones sharp against the fabric of her shirt. Her smile—when she finally met his eyes—was more ghost than real.

He didn’t say anything then. Just walked up to her, let his bag drop to the grass, and wrapped his arms around her without a word.

She flinched.

Just slightly. A twitch.

And then melted into him like she’d been holding her breath all summer and had only just remembered how to exhale.

That night, after lights out, he took the old staircase like always. Avoided the creaking steps. Knew just where to press his palm against the wood to close the attic door without a sound.

She was already curled on the bed when he slipped inside, the blanket pulled halfway up her chest. A glass of water sat untouched on her nightstand.

She smiled when she saw him.

Not a ghost this time.

Something real.

He crossed the room in two steps and kissed her forehead. “Hi.”

And she flinched.

Not just startled. Flinched—like she expected pain. Like she’d learned it.

Oscar’s heart sank so fast it felt like gravity had doubled.

He knelt in front of her.

“Fliss.”

Silence.

“Will you let me see?”

At first, he didn’t think she would. But then—wordless, trembling—she reached for the buttons of her cardigan and peeled it off. Then the shirt beneath it. She turned around slowly, like her body had betrayed her and she was apologizing for it.

Oscar’s world cracked.

He stopped breathing.

Her back was covered in it.

Belt marks. Raised and raw. Some healing, some new. Deep bruises blooming across her ribs and lower spine. Angry, broken skin that had clearly been left untreated. One cut near her shoulder blade looked infected—swollen, red, and weeping.

Oscar sat perfectly still.

Then: “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. Alright. We’re going to fix this.”

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press. She was already trembling too hard, and he couldn’t stand the thought of adding more weight to her bones.

He found the first aid kit she always kept under the sink, the one they’d used before for sprained wrists and stress headaches. He opened it without asking. Laid out what he needed.

Antiseptic. Cream. Gauze. He cleaned each wound as gently as he could, whispering soft apologies every time she hissed in pain.

Her breathing stayed shallow. She didn’t cry. Just stared at the wall like it would crack open and swallow her whole.

When he was done, he wrapped his arms around her without asking.

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

He knew what summer meant for her. He’d always known.

Oscar had always known Felicity’s parents were strict.

Not the "no phones at dinner" kind of strict. Not the "home by curfew" kind.

It was the kind of strict that hollowed a person out from the inside and called it raising them right.

They expected brilliance—flawless, polished, relentless brilliance.

First in every class, head of every club, effortless perfection. A girl who made top marks while staying quiet. Who looked put-together but never proud. Who never cried. Never stumbled. Never once failed.

Felicity had learned early on that there was no room for error. That being exceptional was survival. Anything less—anything merely good—was met with disappointment. Silence. Or worse.

Oscar had known this.

But this… this was different.

This was escalation.

This was not getting better.

“Was it your dad?” he asked quietly, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

She hesitated. Then said, “Yes.”

“Jesus, Fliss—”

“I failed chemistry,” she whispered.

Oscar stared at her.

“What?”

“I got an ninety-three. They told me to get over ninety-five. I didn’t. I made a mistake on the equations.” She said it like it was a confession. Like she'd crashed a car. Like she'd burned a house down.

“That’s—Fliss, that’s—” His voice broke. “You don’t get beaten for a test score.”

She wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to stay upright. “In my house, you do. I missed one question,” she said, voice brittle. “And then they said I didn’t smile enough at the dinner party they hosted for the ambassador. That I embarrassed them.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“They said I disappoint them, and then they reminded me of the consequences. And I always think—next time I’ll get it right. But I never do.”

Oscar’s throat burned.

“I watched my mum count calories for me when I was ten,” she added. “I’ve had tutors since I was five. I’m not allowed to decorate my room at home. I’ve never been allowed to choose what I wear, or how to cut my hair. When I told them I didn’t want to apply to Oxford—when I said I wanted to take a gap year and learn how to fix cars—they locked me in my room for three days and said I’d thank them later.”

She wasn’t crying. But he was.

Because she said it all like it was normal. Like it was her fault.

And he’d always known her parents were strict. But this was control. This was abuse. This was someone taking every beautiful, brilliant part of her and trying to hammer it into something that performed on command.

“They told me if I wasn’t brilliant, I was nothing. That I was already a disappointment because I’m not beautiful. So I have to be perfect. Or there’s no point.”

Oscar closed his eyes. Just for a second. To keep from screaming.

He reached forward and very gently touched the edge of one of the cuts.

“You’re not a disappointment,” he said. “And you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to be good. You just have to be.”

Her chin trembled.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said fiercely. “Don’t you dare apologize. This isn’t on you. This is on them. For treating you like something to control. Something to sharpen until you bleed.”

Oscar couldn’t breathe.

He wanted to shake the world. To drag her parents out into the open and make them see what they’d done. To tear down the foundation of every expectation they’d ever poisoned her with.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re here. I’ve got you.”

She buried her face in his shirt.

Oscar didn’t let go for a long time.

And when he finally pulled back, when he gently cupped her jaw and tilted her chin up so she would look at him, his voice was steady in a way it had never been before.

“This is the last summer they’ll ever get,” he said. “I swear to you. Never again.”

Felicity blinked.

“We turn eighteen in April,” he said. “We graduate in May. You’re not going back there. I don’t care what we have to do. I’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to someone. I’ll go to hell and back if I have to, but I’m not letting you walk back into that house ever again.”

She shook her head, not in disagreement but disbelief. “Oscar, they’re my parents.”

“They don’t deserve to be.”

She was crying now. Silently. One tear slipping after another, like she couldn’t stop them anymore.

Oscar wiped them away with his thumb. Kissed her forehead.

Then her cheek.

Then the corner of her mouth.

And when she finally kissed him back, it wasn’t out of gratitude or desperation—it was out of the smallest flicker of belief that maybe, just maybe, he meant it.

That maybe she’d make it.

That maybe they’d make it.

Later, after she fell asleep curled against him in that terrible twin bed—bandaged, exhausted, but warm—Oscar lay awake staring at the ceiling, already planning. April 6th. Their eighteenth birthday. May 26th. Graduation.

They just had to make it until then.

And then she was his to protect.

No more hidden bruises. No more whispered excuses. No more being punished for being human.

Never again.

***

They never got caught.

Not by the housemistress, not the prefects, not even by the one teacher who everyone swore was ex-MI6.

Felicity still didn’t know how they never got caught.

Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was the universe offering them one small miracle. Maybe the housemistress knew all along and simply never said anything.

It was the worst room in the school.But it was where Felicity Leong found everything.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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wstviewvidal · 7 months ago

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christmas blues- n. romanoff

pairing: natasha romanoff x r

summary: while attending a christmas party with natasha, she reveals her feelings towards you

a/n: hi! hope u are all enjoying the holidays if you celebrate! i wrote this last month and wanted to hand it over to you guys! enjoy!

minors do not interact

after natasha got out of a three year long relationship, she was fully convinced that she would never get into another again. she was absolutely heartbroken after maria broke up with her. she promised herself that her career would stay her main priority and wouldn’t entertain a love life again.

the breakup was messy, the whole company knew about it and everyone saw how natasha wanted to hide. she found herself laying in bed past ten in the morning— avoiding all responsibility for months.

natasha often stared at the ceiling at night, replaying the last fight that led to their breakup. maria’s voice would be sharp and cold. even months later, natasha still couldn’t couldn’t get rid of the hollow ache her ex-girlfriend had left. the alarm clock would blare, but she wouldn’t bother to turn it off— what was the point?

that was until you.

you caught her off guard, like a golden-pink sunrise after a harsh long night. somehow you’d brought life back into her eyes, you’d given her purpose again.

the first time natasha had a genuine laugh after maria was because of you. you’d spilled iced coffee all over your white blouse, but instead of getting angry— you made a joke out of it. she laughed hard enough that she snorted, something that surprised the both of you.

she’d forgotten what it felt like to have a genuine smile grace her face.

shortly after that, she found herself constantly in your orbit. not that you had an issue with it.

natasha couldn’t stop glancing at you in meetings, her fingers would graze yours under the table when she knew no one was looking. the way her eyes and voice softened when she spoke to you— natasha romanoff was in love, everyone could see that.

you two have been dating for almost two years now and it seemed like the honeymoon stage was never ending.

sure, you two had your arguments but the idea of either of you being mad at each other for over an hour seemed silly— so every problem was solved as soon as it even happened.

you two had been just colleagues before you two started dating. you’d nursed her back to life after the breakup and somewhere in the midst of all of that, you two became something more than colleagues and way beyond friends.

the fleeting glances in the hallway turned into knowing looks in meetings. the shared lunch break turned into dinner after work. you two had moved past being just colleagues and eventually became girlfriends.

you met her family seven months after you two started officially dating.

you even go out with her younger sister alone, you see her as your own sister now. when there’s a romanoff family event, there’s no doubt about whether or not you’ll be there.

you two were the epitome of lovebirds and everyone either cheered you two on or envied you.

“you and the mrs. coming to the christmas party this weekend?” tony asks as he walks into the kitchen where natasha is brewing a fresh cup of coffee.

looking over her shoulder at him with a slight eye roll at his teasing tone, “yes, tony, my girlfriend and i will be there.”

she lets out a gentle smile at the way that rolls of her tongue. she’s called you her girlfriend numerous times in the past two years but can’t help but feel like a schoolgirl every time. something about having someone to call her own is a feeling she’d never get over.

tony watches her with a glint in his eyes, his teasing demeanor gone and instead filled with pride.

although he can be rough around the edges sometimes, he cares deeply for his friends. beyond the smart quips and teases, he only wants the best for his people.

which is why he was beyond the moon when you two started dating. he’d tried to set natasha up with suitors numerous times before you came along but couldn’t quite get it right.

until you caught her by storm.

leaning against the countertop on the other side of the kitchen, he beams at natasha, “i’m really happy for you, you know that? you’ve come a long way, and i think your girl’s got a reason to do with it.”

natasha smiles at his words, knowing he doesn’t say that stuff often so she takes it to heart.

“thank you, tony. i think so too. after the break up with maria, i thought id give up on the whole dating thing. i’m so glad i didn’t.”

arriving home from work, natasha’s greeted with the smell of dinner and a james bond movie playing in the living room.

you’d always been attentive to natasha and have always known how to take care of her, something she’s always appreciated and voiced. she’d grown up always being perceptive and aware of others, so now that she’s the one being watched and listened to, her heart swells with adoration and affection.

coming up behind you as you cook, she wraps her arms around your waist and leans into you, her chin resting on your shoulder.

“smells amazing, my love. what’re you making?”

you smile and lean back into natasha’s hold, “remember when you took me to italy for my birthday earlier this year and i fell in love with that one plate? i found online and wanted to try it tonight.”

natasha had surprised you with tickets to italy, somewhere she knew you’d always wanted to visit.

before you two started dating, you’d spend a lot of time walking around the park and talking about your bucket list— you only told her about wanting to go to italy once.

natasha smiles and nods, remembering your vacation and how she wished she wasn’t such an over thinker. she would’ve proposed to you then and there at lake como.

as you finish cooking, natasha helps you plate the food and takes it to the kitchen table.

you two eat and talk about how your week has gone and how youre excited for tony’s party.

you’d gone out to buy a new dress, one that’s more on the holiday theme. the dark wine color is one you know natasha loves on you, which is why is hung up behind your bedroom door.

“we don’t have to be there for long. i know after a while it can get rowdy and i don’t know if you’ll be up for that,” natasha says as she brings a fork up to her mouth.

she avoids your gaze as she focuses on cutting her food. odd.

furrowing your brows and shaking your head at her statement, “nonsense, we’ll stay. don’t worry about it, we can just find a quiet place with our friends if anything. we usually do that anyway.”

the afternoon of the party, you two find yourselves in a familiar routine.

while you do your hair, natasha does her makeup. natasha usually asks you to ‘help’ her with her hair even though she really doesn’t need it— she just loves how you look when you’re focused.

especially when it’s her you’re focused on.

“you know, we don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” natasha says as she puts on her dangling pearl earrings. she’s said something along the lines of not going at least five times since last night’s dinner.

turning to look at her with your eyebrows raised, “do you not want to go? you’ve said that a few times already and it sounds like you don’t want to go.”

natasha looks over at you and sighs softly, “i do, i just wanted to do something today the both of us since christmas falls during the week this week. we could’ve had a personal christmas, you know, just the two of us.”

letting out an exhale of a laugh, you walk over to her as she sits on the bed watching you and place a soft kiss on her cheek.

“we don’t have to stay too long, okay?” you fix her hair so that it’s laying nice in place, “we can just show face.”

natasha nods softly and leans into your hand while you hold her face as you speak to her, “okay.”

you watch her through the mirror as you do your makeup and can see by the small furrow in her brow and the way she keeps fiddling with her watch, something is off with her.

you don’t acknowledge it, but want to get through tonight as quickly as possible to make sure you two can have the rest of the christmas weekend to yourselves.

the room is decorated beautifully in a festive atmosphere. warm christmas lights are all along the ceiling and the christmas tree is adorned with gold ornaments all around. you can even smell gingerbread in the air.

tony went above and beyond this year.

natasha led you in with a hand on your lower back and you can’t help but smile at the contact. she’s felt the need to always have a hand on you in some way. when you two sat down, she would rub your thigh in a soothing matter or would play with your hair as she stood behind you while you sat.

wanda waltzes up through the crowd with champagne in her hand, “you guys made it!”

she hugs you tightly and greets you with a friendly smile, then moving onto greeting natasha, “you guys missed it! tony got sam to sing karaoke and the whole place turned into a concert,” she beams.

the energy of the party sweeps you off your feet and it isn’t long before both you and natasha find yourselves engrossed in conversations with your friends. her hand never leaves the small of your back, it comforts both you and her. you and wanda share stories about your previous holiday traditions and natasha lets out a soft chuckle, warming the space between you two.

natasha apologizes to tony as you finally get to him almost an hour after you first walk in, “sorry we’re seeing you so late. we would’ve been here earlier if someone would’ve been ready sooner.” she subtly gestures to you with a tilt of her head,

you give natasha a playful glare as she says this, “i see how it is.”

natasha gives your waist a light squeeze, a gesture to show she’s joking with you. her green eyes dripping in adoration as she leans in closer to you, her voice dropping just enough for only you to hear it, “you look stunning, my love. always worth the wait.”

a blush creeps up your neck and you roll your eyes playfully, and tony laughs just before he’s pulled off into host duties.

the two of you walk around the party, exchanging pleasantries with colleagues and joking around with friends. sharing a drink, you two clink your champagne glasses in celebration, “to another stark christmas and to surviving the never ending hors d’oeuvres.”

the night is perfect and you find yourself feeling at home with natasha. you love the company— that the party has died down so now it’s just you two and your closest friends at the end of the night.

you all sit at the coffee table, nursing cups of coffee and sharing pastries that tony had hidden just to bring out for this time of the night. you’re leaned into natasha, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles against your thigh as she rests her hand on your leg.

you all are playing a friendly game of truth or dare and it was finally natasha’s turn.

she was dared by wanda to dance with you in front of everyone. simple.

“that’s your dare? easy,” natasha stands up and reaches out for your hand with a smile on her face, “milady.”

you giggle softly, shaking your head in disbelief and letting her pull you up, “you’re so corny.”

“but you love me,” natasha replies, matter-of-factly. she places a hand on your waist and holds your other in the air. your checks hurt from smiling widely and laughing all night.

natasha spins you around dramatically as you laugh heartily. she whispers softly in your ear that she loves you— you blush so noticeably that the group begins to whistle and cheer.

you two sit back on your side of the couch as the rest of the group continues, your head resting on natasha’s shoulder.

tony is in the middle of doing his dare when the elevator doors open up to a late guest. somehow, the door opening leads to the air feeling a bit tense. is it only you feeling that way?

“is that maria?” wanda whispers, it falling from her lips so quickly that she didn’t have the chance to hold it in before it came out.

natasha’s smile falters just a small amount before her face goes to a neutral expression in record timing. the hand that was just on your thigh a second ago is nowhere near your body, and she’s subtly moved in a way that made you pull your face away from her shoulder.

it’s like her warm and loving demeanor switched off in an instant, but then she catches your eye and gives you a half smile— is that guilt you see in her eyes?

before you can even ask her if she’s okay, you’re interrupted.

“sorry i’m late, i had to finish some last minute paperwork but i didn’t want to not show up at all.”

maria walks in commanding attention and respect. she doesn’t consciously do it, it’s just how she is— always has been. it’s not like you hated her, she never gave you a reason to.

she and natasha haven’t made eye contact, but you can feel natasha’s body go rigid right next to you, like shes expecting something to happen. the shift in natasha’s energy is unmistakable, one that leaves you uneasy as you sit next to her.

your heart sinks slowly as you realize that maria’s presence has dampened your girlfriend’s mood and part of you is worried about it. your heart sinks heavily, your body now feels ten times heavier.

the room didn’t go quiet, but natasha did. the hand that was always on you was now fiddling with her necklace, a tell you knew all too well. she was trying to anchor herself back down to earth.

maria finds a seat opposite on the couch, away from you and your girlfriend. you can see how natasha is averting her eyes from that area of the room and keeping her hands away from you.

you exchange worried glances with wanda who’s next to you, silently asking her what happened. wanda gives you a solemn look that you can’t quite place.

you sigh softly and try to place your hand in top of natasha’s, but just as you get close enough, she moves her hand away from you. it was so subtle that it couldve been mistaken as an honest mistake, but you know better.

you try to hide your frown as you look down, the stray piece of lint on your dress now looking a lot more interesting all of a sudden. you steady your breathing as much as possible, your emotions now getting close to boiling over.

the game continues and it’s finally natasha’s turn, she chooses truth.

clint smirks softly as he brings the beer bottle up to his lips, taking a swig before asking, “okay, let’s make this interesting. do you see yourself getting married?”

clint loves the two of you, matter of fact— everyone in the room has constantly rooted for the two of you. it took you two a while before you even officially started dating, so now that you two are together, the team loves how you bring the best in natasha.

the group laughs a little, almost like they already know natasha will, without hesitation, say that she does— with you.

natasha’s silence silences the group and you can see maria smirking subtly through the corner of your eye.

does she have something to do with why natasha’s hesitating to answer the question?

i mean, you and nat have both spoken about marriage in the past. she told you she couldn’t wait to get married and build a house an hour away from the city with you. why is she silent?

the group is now uncomfortably quiet at natasha’s red face and her lack of eye contact with anyone.

you glance over at nat, your heart heavy at the lack of response, apprehensive about her answer.

after a beat, natasha clears her throat and fiddles with the beer bottle cap in her fingers, “marriage? i.. i don’t know about that. maybe if i find the right person in the future.”

maybe if i find the right person?

your heart drops and you swear you could fall over any second. you try to mask your hurt by looking down at the ground. natasha had always reassured you about her feelings and intentions towards you. what happened?

“that’s understandable,” maria hums softly, her tone light, “you don’t want to vow your life to someone you don’t see a forever with.”

tony turns the attention away from the two of you quickly and finds another game to play, one that won’t lead to the potential demise of a relationship.

even though truth or dare is now over, you can feel some of your friends casting glances over in your direction to make sure you’re okay. you try to focus your attention on the jenga game that’s going on, but all you can think about is how natasha said she doesn’t see marriage with you.

is it because maria’s here?

you try to convince yourself maybe she’s having an off day, or maybe she’s just tired and wants to leave. after all, she didn’t want to come to the party in the first place.

the party slowly calms down and everyone is talking amongst themselves, but you find yourself growing quieter as the night progresses. natasha’s words echo in your head as you try to distract yourself by paying attention to whatever it is tony is talking about animatedly from across the couch.

natasha’s arm rests on the back of the couch, and you notice that ever since maria entered, she hasn’t reached for you.

maria is across the room talking to steve and sam about a past mission she went on and you can’t help but watch her. it’s not that you’re mad at her— why would you be? she didn’t force natasha to say what she said. you hate that you’re watching her every move now— especially because you can see that natasha is glancing in her direction every few minutes. it’s subtle and quick, but you notice it.

you get up and walk to the bar across the room. your girlfriend doesn’t follow.

you try your best to steady yourself as you make a quick drink. you watch from the other side, alone, as you see natasha talking to the group and laughing with them like nothing happened. you can see her gaze lands on maria for a few seconds longer than you were comfortable with.

you sigh softly and rub your temples as you try to bring yourself back to earth. maybe you’re overthinking and natasha will talk about it later with you at home.

the drive home is eerily quiet. you stare out the window and press your fingernails into your palms, an old habit that’s resurfacing. one that natasha helped you break at the beginning of your relationship.

“you’ve been quiet,” natasha says softly, almost hesitantly. maybe she knows what’s next. she’s treading with caution.

“i’m just tired”

“right,” natasha says as she pulls into the driveway and parks the car, “tired.”

you hold in a breath and exit the car, not even waiting to see if natasha will open the door for you. you know she won’t.

you try to gather the courage to say something as the two of you walk in and hang up your coats. you can feel your stomach heavy, your limbs feel like they could fall off at any second— you could break down at any second.

“what a par-“

“we need to talk”

you two speak at the same time and natasha immediately grimaces. it’s like she was hoping you’d forget what happened.

natasha tries to act busy as she takes off her shoes, her voice low, “about what?”

you scoff, “about what? natasha, you basically said you don’t see a future with me. we’ve talked about marriage before, about how it was what we both wanted— with each other..” you trail off, your voice wavers, but you press on. “is this temporary?”

natasha exhales harshly, making your heart drop, “that’s not what i meant by it.”

“really? because we seemed on the same page, but tonight when maria walked in, all of a sudden it was like our relationship didn’t exist.” you were letting your emotions out, no longer holding back your hurt.

natasha rubs her face and you look at her eyes. you see guilt and remorse, something that you rarely see with her— you feel sick.

exhaling sharply and looking at you with a guilt ridden expression, “she was my first serious relationship, the one i thought i would marry. after we broke up, i convinced myself i would never do that again— she broke me.”

you furrow your eyebrows and cross your arms, expression sharp, “and what does she have to do with me?”

“everything! she has everything to do with this!” natasha exclaims, her voice cracking, “when maria walked in, i realized i can’t give you the future you deserve. i can’t do it! i have so much baggage and you-“ her voice softens, “you don’t deserve to be with someone who’s going to throw that on you.”

you stand there, the weight of her words suffocating you, “so you’re going to push me away because you’re afraid?”

natasha looks at you with tears in her eyes and you can’t help but want to reach out to her, comfort her.

but this isn’t the natasha you fell in love with.

“i don’t know how to fix this,” she says, taking a few steps away from you, like she’s afraid for be near you.

you take a steadying breath and close your eyes, something about tonight has a sense of finality— one you didn’t ask for but can’t avoid, “natasha, i love you— so much, but i can’t be with someone and see a future with them when all they’re doing is looking over their shoulder at their past. it’s unfair to me.”

natasha’s lip quivers so subtly that if you didn’t know her so well, you’d have missed it, “are you leaving me?”

she places a hand on her chest, rubbing her collarbone in an nervous habit you can’t help but recognize. you can see how this is hurting her, but you know it’s unfair to continue being with someone who became unsure in such a short amount of time.

“i don’t want to, nat, but i think the fact that you saw maria for just an hour and this happened.. it means you need to figure out what you really want. seeing her one time shouldn’t have led you to being unsure.”

natasha watches you with tears in her eyes, fiddling with the ring on her finger. she nods softly, she knows it’s unfair to you how she switched up in such a short amount of time.

“i love you,” she tries to sound confident, but you can hear how defeated she sounds.

you smile sadly and place a gentle hand on her cheek, “you need to prove that to yourself, natasha. figure out what you want, without maria lingering in the back of your mind. it’s not good for you, us. maybe we can try again in the future when it’s past you.”

you pull your hand away reluctantly, the loss of her warmth hitting you immediately. natasha doesn’t stop you, not even as you pack your bags and leave.

#noe writes #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x r #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff #christmas blues #natasha romanov #natasha x reader #natasha x y/n

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demon-at-peace · 27 days ago

Text

DC + DP

Danny was dead, but he wasn't and it felt wrong. It made him feel out of place in life, his family smiled at him. They loved him, and Danny knew, he knew if they ever found out his secret they'd hate him.

But they might not and he hated that more, he hated the fact that if he told them the truth it might not change anything. That maybe just maybe they'd love him the same. He didn't think they would though, he was pretty sure they'd hate him. And if they didn't...

Well they wouldn't accept him, it would be terse smiles, while they pretended it wasn't true. While they preteneded he was the same as ever.

So he kept his silence, and instead he was the one with a wooden smile pretending to be fine. pretending they'd accept him if he told them the truth.

Things had changed, they no longer hunted Phantom, no longer spat their hatred of ghosts. They'd been proven wrong after he'd taken the throne. Still he knew they didn't like ghosts.

They still made comments, about their lack of love, lack of humanity. How they weren't sapient, or some other nonsense. So he smiled, and pretended everything was fine. It wasn't but he'd been pretending for years at this point.

He told them before college, he knew it was cowardly, telling them before he left, so he could run, and not return. So he could escape. They didn't scream, just stared at him with confusion, with loss. Danny was counting down the days till he could get out.

They didn't reject him, they smiled, and laughed but everything was different. Except him, he was the same, he'd just stopped lying. He left days after with bags he'd packed days ago and a goodbye that was rushed.

Then he was gone, moving into a dorm that stank like mold, a community kitchen that didn't have the right utensils, and with showers far too small. It was a freedom of sorts.

He met his roommate, Jason was tall, gruff, the classic football jock, who also happened to be a lititure nerd, gods he was like Mr. Lancers Child. swearing on pride and prejudice and all. it was honestly so cute.

Right, did Danny mention he was hot, and smart, and like really hot? Yeah, well he was, and Danny may be smitten? Because he baked for him! Baked! Cookies tarts pies, he'd wake up and it would be on their shoddy dorm table. Or he'd get gifts, he was so sweet.

Danny wasn't to be outdone. He’d fix Jason’s gear, guns and coms. Making whatever Jason needed. Be it fixing his laptop so he could finish his English essay or super villain weapons.

The only problem was the bats. Ugh they kept interfering, lecturing him about helping crime bosses and other nonsense. Like what did they expect him to do, let his boyfriend go out there without the best stuff? hell no.

He didn't tell Jason, but they kept finding his labs, like they were in the sewers, no one went in the sewers! why were they finding him? He huffed as he lugged the gear, he had to move again! the light one, shiny one? tall guy with curly hair? And the yellow uniform? yeah Danny couldn't remember his name but he'd found his base again!

He sighed grumpily, Grundy waved to him as he passed and Danny smiled at his fellow undead. This time he thought he lay a trap, for the bats. He huffed before grining, damn them and their lectures, if he trapped them they'd think better than to mess with him!

Due to his plan it took him a few extra hours to set up his lab, and putting glow in the dark stars on the ceiling but come on those were a must.

It took almost two weeks before the Bats found him, predictable they fell right into his trap, and right into the realms. Jason would be so proud of him, he'd dealt with them, besides he could release them whenever so they weren't dead or something! Not that being dead was bad, he was dead and he thought it was rather comfortable.

He portaled led to the apartment, Jason greeted him with a wave, and Danny grinned. "Hi!" he greeted cheerily.

Jason looked at him dead pan. "What did you do Danny?" he asked deadpan.

Danny pouted. "Nothing," he whined dramatically.

"Darling please just tell me?" Jason offers and Danny folds at the pet name.

"Fine, well you know how the bats keep finding my labs!" Danny grimaces at the thought. "Well I trapped them!"

"Where?" Jason asks though he's unable to hide a smile.

"The realms duh!" Danny grins.

"Danny, normal humans can't survive in the realms, let them out!" Jason explains still with a slight smile on his face.

"But!" Danny protests.

"No, Danny!" Jason scolds.

"Fine," with a snap of Danny's finger two bats are sent tumbling onto the floor, Danny startles, "Shit your mask!" But it's to late.

"Little wing?" Nightwing croaks.

---

I'm sorry, anyhow been a while since I did this ship, tbh I'm more into Dan/Jason right now but dead on main is a classic. Also I'm a sucker for the nickname Darling, or love, ect.

Bye!

#also realizing the beginning has the same emotional vibes as coming out?#yeah idk #danny fenton #dpxdc #batfam

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brookghaib-blog · 1 month ago

Text

Silence between hearts

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 8,9k

The Jade Viper Bar - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia - 11:47 PM

The humidity clung to Y/N's silk dress like a second skin as she paused beneath the flickering neon sign of The Jade Viper. The bar's crimson glow reflected in the puddles at her feet, staining the rainwater the color of diluted blood. Her fingers tightened around the beaded clutch in her hand—a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday, back when she still had hope that would care for her as his daughter.

"This is where you'll find what we need," Valentina had purred over the phone that morning, the sound of ice clinking in her glass audible even through the static. "Desperate men make the best test subjects, darling. And you? You look just innocent enough to reel one in."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, watching her breath disturb the thick, smoke-laden air as she pushed through the door.

The bar was a study in controlled chaos.

The scent of stale beer and sweat hit her first, followed by the acrid tang of something chemical burning in the backroom. A ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to dispel the heat that pressed against her skin like an unwanted touch. The led lights trying to make look more exquisite, loud music blowing the place, and multiple people just partying and enjoying the night life Malaysia had to offer.

Every pair of eyes in the room snapped to her the moment she crossed the threshold.

She was a vision in emerald silk—too elegant, too clean for a place like this. The dress hugged her curves just enough to be dangerous, the slit up her thigh revealing a glimpse of skin that had several men shifting in their seats. Her heels clicked against the sticky floor as she made her way to the bar, the sound sharp as gunfire in the sudden hush.

The bartender—a grizzled man with a scar through his left eyebrow—watched her approach with the wary gaze of someone who'd seen beautiful things turn deadly.

"You lost, princess?" he asked, his voice rough as sandpaper. "You look like you're at the wrong place."

Y/N smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "Not at all. I know exactly where I am." She slid onto a stool, the leather creaking beneath her. "Gin martini. Three olives."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. That kind of order didn't belong here.

As the bartender turned to make her drink, Y/N let her gaze wander across the room, cataloguing each potential candidate with clinical precision. Too aggressive. Too alert. Too healthy. She needed someone weak, easy, not much love for life. But also with strong body potential.

She needed this. For once she needed her project to work. Prove her father that she was succeful on her own, even after he sold it to Valentina, seeing his daughter's idea as a failure and unrreal theory that was a mistake of calculations by her brilliant mind. Her mind. That was what is important for him. For her to be someone he wants, smart enough, perfection at it's finest, inhuman if possible for the sake of results.

Even after so many deaths, the lab and all the project members kept going, mainly because of Valentina persistence, but also hers. She wants her creation to be real so she would be seen, so it could be hers and hers only. Even if it would work, Valentina would never have her weapon. It was her way of perfection and any human emotion would have to be pushed down. Not that she was raised with many. She was thought two things that were important, as someone in her field... and as a woman. Being the best, and being the prettiest. Be the perfect human that would be placed at the top of the chain.

Her father sold her project for money and because of his lack of faith on her science and calculations. But she knew, it was her way out.

Bob Reynolds wasn't hiding, but he might as well have been.

Curled into the darkest corner of the bar, he looked like a man trying to fold himself out of existence. His shoulders hunched forward protectively, hands shaking around a warm beer he couldn't afford to replace. When he lifted his head, the hollows beneath his eyes were deep enough to drown in.

Y/N watched his fingers twitch toward his jacket pocket for the tenth time in five minutes - searching for a fix that wasn't there. Golden Sentry withdrawal. She'd recognize the symptoms anywhere.

He startled when she slid into his booth, nearly knocking over his drink. "S-sorry," he mumbled automatically, eyes darting anywhere but her face. "This seat's... I mean, you probably..."

"What's you're name darling?" She pushed the untouched gin toward him.

He looks her in the eye, confused by her attention. "I'm Bob."

Y/N noted the sweat beading at his temples, the way his knee bounced uncontrollably. "You're shaking."

"Just cold."

In 90-degree heat.

She leaned forward slowly, giving him time to pull away. "I'm not heree to jugde anyone. What if I told you I could make it stop? The shaking. The cravings. All of it."

Bob flinched like she'd struck him. "Nothing makes it stop." His voice cracked. "I've tried everything."

"Not my treatment."

His laugh was a broken thing. "You some kind of doctor?"

"Exactly the kind you need. I can make you perfect Bob."

Bob's hands clenched around his glass. For a moment, she thought he might bolt. Then, so quiet she barely heard: "I don't have money lady?"

Y/N reached into her clutch. The business card trembled slightly in her grip - not from nerves, but the stifling heat. Or so she told herself.

"My name is Y/N," she said, pressing the card into his damp palm, "you're not paying a penny, you're receiving it. I'm very good at what I do, and looking at you, I can tell that you have the potential I'm looking for." She says closing and holding his hand. She really didn't have time to waste on him, but he looked easy to convince. A little reassurance, symphaty, seem interest and he will fold. He's lost. He just needed someone to care, and she knew exactly how to do it, because in the end, she knew it because she also desired it.

Looking at his eyes, and leaning towards him to indicate some type of attraction. Some type of need from him. "Or don't come, I'm just saying you have a solution. But if you want to just "party" and be who you are, that's fine. It's okay to live with now desires."

Bob looks at her hand still on top of his, and back to her. No doubt this lady was pretty, well-dressed, and her smell, God she smelt good. "I just... stop being hopefull for myself, it's ok really, I'm used to being me. It's all I've been all my life... Dr. Y/N."

She laughs, kinda finding funny the need for her label, he didn't knew her yet he already treated her as above him. Perfect. "I can change your being if you like, you can be someone knew. Someone you love."

"Where are you coming from? What's you story Dr.?"

She leans back, ready to start a conversation she definitely didn't have any interest, what type of drug addiction even cared about other people. She already knew the answer. He was a man and she was attractive. She already was disgusted, but he was a good candidate and she came a long way.

"I'm here working for a lab, a good one, and I'm a doctor there, investigating. But I was here and I had a free day, so why not go out...met a nice good looking man, you like that Bob?"

Bob blushed, being drowned by his shyness, not expeting the compliment from her. "I-I mean, yeah... You deserve it, you sound like you have an important job, that sounds exhausting. You deserve some time for yourself...but I...I'm not someone a woman like you would like to be seen... you're...too put together, and I'm...Bob."

He tried to laugh it off, telling his awful beliefs on himself while trying to make her go away. Not because he wanted to, but because she needed to, still feeling the effects of the drugs he took half an hour ago.

"I like Bob." She smiles, almost forced he thinks. But it was genuine, he was weak, no desires. Bob was about to become her creation, he was perfect for the role and she could not wait to make perfection out of him just so she could rub it in her father's face.

"I'm going to leave Bob, but I liked you, and I'm serious you should call the lab, I'll be there, it's just an experiment, you don't have to do anything or pay for nothing... just try something knew. Sometimes it's all you need. I'll make you put together too. You're too handsome to continue to be a waste of oxygen." She finishes her drink, never breaking eye contact.

Bob looked at her, half of him being perfectly lored by her words, and the other half being face by the reality of her thoughts that she was trying to hide all their conversation. A waste of oxygen.

"Bye Bob, see you tomorrow? Maybe after?" She holds his hand for the two seconds it took to spill that sentence, trying to be appealing, nice for him. Leaving and being out of the door in seconds, like she couldn't wait any more time to be out of that bar.

All that small and strange conversation to be appealing, to be persuasive. And what had convinced him was only one sentence that he wanted to turn into a lie. A waste of oxygen.

Outside, the monsoon rain had turned the streets to rivers.

Bob's voice echoed in her memory - that fragile hope beneath the suspicion. She'd heard it a hundred times in clinical trials. Seen it evaporate just as often.

Her phone buzzed.

"Did you find him?" Her father's voice was all sharp edges.

Y/N watched her reflection warp in a passing taxi's window. "I found a candidate."

"Good. Valentina wants him prepped by Thursday."

The call ended before she could reply.

Bob's hands had been shaking when he took her card. Not just from withdrawal - from fear. She'd seen the way his breath hitched when their fingers brushed, how he'd recoiled from his own reflection in the bar mirror.

Perfect.

Broken enough to say yes.

Strong enough to survive what came next.

Y/N stepped into the storm, letting the rain wash the bar's stench from her skin. Somewhere in the drowning city, Bob Reynolds was counting the minutes until his next fix.

She'd be there when he realized there wasn't one.

The phone's shrill ring shattered the predawn silence of Y/N's office. She'd been sitting in the same position for hours - back rigid against the leather chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin, watching the first gray fingers of dawn creep across Kuala Lumpur's skyline. The receiver felt unnaturally heavy when she lifted it.

"Y-yes?" A man's voice, frayed at the edges like torn fabric. "This is... this is Bob. From last night. You gave me..."

She heard the crumple of paper as he unfolded her business card for the hundredth time.

"I remember," Y/N said, her thumb tracing the edge of her research notes. The words Subject Acquisition: Phase One stared back at her in crisp black type.

There was a wet cough on the other end of the line, then silence. She could practically see him - slumped in some phone booth, picking at the scabs on his arms, the receiver slippery in his sweat-damp palm.

"I want to try," he finally whispered. "Your... your cure."

Y/N closed her eyes. Somewhere in the building, a centrifuge whirred to life. "Come to the address on the card. You can come now."

"Ahm.. I'm actually at the gate already."

Bob looked worse in daylight.

The fluorescent bulbs of Y/N's office exposed every ravage the meth had wrought - the yellowed nails, the scabs along his hairline, the way his left eyelid twitched uncontrollably. He sat perched on the edge of the guest chair like a bird ready to take flight, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

The room smelled of him now - stale smoke and unwashed skin, the chemical tang of desperation. Y/N's pristine world of glass beakers and stainless steel had been invaded by human decay.

"You're sober today," she observed, setting down a glass of water.

Bob's hands shook as he reached for it. "Twelve hours." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Longest in... I don't remember."

Y/N opened a drawer and slid a folder across the desk. Inside, glossy photos showed brain scans - a healthy one beside one ravaged by methamphetamine. Bob flinched.

"This is what you've done to yourself," she said. Then she flipped to another page. "This is what I can do."

The after images showed neurons reknitting, dopamine receptors blooming like flowers after rain. Bob's breath hitched.

"How?"

Y/N produced a small vial from her pocket. The liquid inside caught the light, glowing with an unnatural golden hue.

"Sentry," she said. "My creation."

The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. Bob stared at the vial with the desperate hunger of a dying man offered salvation.

"You'll stay here," Y/N continued. "Two months of monitoring. Daily bloodwork. Cognitive tests." She leaned forward, close enough to smell the stale smoke in his hair. "But when we're done? No more cravings. No more shakes. A perfect mind in a perfect body."

Bob's knee bounced erratically. "Why me?"

The question hung between them. Y/N's gaze flickered to the drawer where she'd shoved her father's latest email - another demand for results, another veiled threat.

"The world needs better people," she said automatically. Then, softer: "And I need to prove I can make them."

Something shifted in Bob's face. His bloodshot eyes traced the tension in her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip she kept on her pen. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"You're what I need. I hope you can do it to me...and that people value you. I know I will Dr.."

The words struck Y/N like a physical blow. All her life - the stolen research, the sleepless nights, the desperate attempts to earn her father's approval - distilled into this single moment of unexpected recognition.

This broken man saw her. Not her father's daughter. Not Valentina's pawn.

Her.

This man...This unknown man she didn't even see as human. Gave her the one sentence she looked for. How could someone like him have more eyes that everyone around her.

"Yes Bob... Someone will value me, specially because of you."

Y/N was making her way to the lab room, Bob following her not much behind, looking around curious.

Reaching the automatic glass doors, using her face to unlock them, looking back to check on Bob's presence, they reach a white room, full of screens, a bed, medical tools, and what appeared to be a skylight above it.

"I need you to change to these clothes, they are clean, there's a bag where you can put all of you other belogings, the staff will put them in the room where you will be staying." She walks around picking up what looked like hospital clothing and a small clear bag, handing them to him.

"Where ahm...where do I change?" Bob asked looking around for a door or a space where privacy could reach him.

"You change here, I will come back with the team where you're ready, take your time and breath, be calm." She says as she goes out of the room leaving Bob to stare at the clothes thinking about the outcome this will have, and anxiety reaching him.

He was quick changing into the clothes, wanting for this to pass quickly, anxious for his new change and her promises to be reached.

After just a couple of minutes, Y/N walks again into the room, speaking to the four people following her around, giving them indications and their new subject. All of them had what looked like files on their hands. Looking at him, through him. He was an experiment here. He was not a person, and their looks showed him that.

"Okay Bob, I will make this as quick as it can be, I need you to lay down for me, breath and relax, roll up your sleves." Y/N was already walking to him, a wheeled steel table with all her tools in it with her.

The staff waited for him to lay down, plugging the wires onto his body, being scanned by all the machines circulating the bed.

Waiting, Y/N was ready for the serum to be inserted.

The syringe gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

Bob rolled up his sleeve, exposing a landscape of track marks and scar tissue. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as Y/N swabbed his forearm with alcohol.

"It'll hurt," she warned.

Bob's cracked lips twisted into something resembling a smile. "Everything does."

The needle slid in with barely a whisper. As she depressed the plunger, the golden serum disappeared into his ravaged veins. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then—

Bob's back arched violently. The monitors behind them screamed their alarms as his heart rate spiked into dangerous territory. Y/N watched, transfixed, as golden veins spiderwebbed beneath his skin before fading back to blue.

When it was over, Bob lay panting on the tile, his sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead. But when he lifted his head, his eyes - those impossibly blue eyes - were clearer than they'd been in years.

"What..." He flexed his fingers, marveling at their steadiness. "What did you do to me?"

Y/N reached out, almost against her will, and brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. His skin burned beneath her touch.

"I saved you," she whispered.

And in saving him, perhaps herself.

The lights buzzed overhead, faint and cold, casting a pallid glow across the whitewashed walls. The room was small—bed, sink, a tray with untouched food—and reeked of bleach and sterilization. It wasn’t a hospital, not really. But it wanted to be.

Bob lay sprawled across the stiff mattress, limbs heavy, the back of his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat. His breath came slow and uneven, chest rising like it resented the work. The serum—it had burned. Not all at once, but like acid blooming beneath the surface, slow and invasive. Like it was trying to rewrite him from the inside out.

But he didn’t feel reborn.

He felt worse.

His mouth tasted like metal and old ash. Every joint ached. His thoughts, once too loud, now stuttered and faded like a dying signal. He couldn't tell if he was falling asleep or falling apart.

The door opened with a hiss.

No knock. No announcement.

She stepped inside like it was her own room—and maybe it was, in a way. Y/N didn’t look at the bed first. She looked at the monitors. The numbers. The notes clipped to a tablet she’d brought with her.

Only then did she glance down at him, curled slightly on his side, shirt sticking to his back, brow damp with fever-sweat.

“You’re still awake,” she said plainly. “Good.”

He stirred, barely.

His voice came out dry. “Didn’t realize... I had a curfew.”

She didn’t smile. She rarely did when it wasn’t performative. Instead, she walked across the room, heels clicking softly, stopping beside the bed without a hint of hesitation.

“How do you feel?” she asked, but there was no warmth in it. Just a checklist tone.

“Like I got hit by a truck full of glass and fire,” he muttered, groaning. “And maybe the truck reversed a few times.”

Y/N scribbled something on the tablet. “That’s to be expected. The serum forces rapid cellular restructuring. Pain is the first sign it’s working.”

He winced. “So… hurting means I’m lucky?”

“You’re alive,” she said curtly. “That’s lucky enough.”

She walked around the bed slowly, checking vitals on the wall display. Her movements were practiced, precise. Detached. Bob watched her through half-lidded eyes.

She didn’t ask if he needed water. She didn’t offer help.

“You should rest,” she said. “Testing begins in a few hours. We’ll need to see how your system is adapting.”

“Testing,” he repeated, voice cracked.

Y/N turned her gaze back to him. “Bloodwork. Endurance. Cognition. Neurological response. Physical output.”

She said it all like she was reading from a menu. He wasn’t a patient—he was a list of symptoms waiting to be documented.

Bob rolled onto his back, letting out a shaky breath.

“Does it usually feel like this?”

“No one’s gotten this far before,” she replied. “You’re my first functional subject.”

“...So the others...?”

She paused only briefly. “Dead. Or damaged beyond utility.”

Her words fell like stones into the silence.

Bob swallowed hard.

He could see it in her eyes, then. The truth she didn’t bother to hide. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t lucky. He was useful. A vessel. A second chance—for her, not for him.

“I thought you wanted to help people,” he whispered hoarsely.

Y/N looked at him evenly. “I want to perfect them.”

Then, more softly—almost to herself—she added, “And prove it.”

He frowned. “Prove it to who?”

But she was already turning away, walking back to the door.

“Rest, Robert,” she said without looking back. “You’ll need your strength.”

The door slid shut behind her, locking with a soft click.

Bob stared up at the ceiling, the white lights blurring in his vision. He felt small beneath them. Fragile.

And despite the serum coursing through his blood, despite the promise of perfection and power…

He had never felt more disposable.

The room was colder today.

Sterile, metallic, too white. It looked less like a lab and more like a crucible—where things were melted down, broken apart, and reforged into something unrecognizable. A theater of suffering dressed in stainless steel.

Bob stood in the center, shirtless, chest heaving, heart stuttering somewhere between exhaustion and fury. Electrodes clung to his skin like leeches. His veins bulged, dark and crawling, betraying the serum’s slow war through his body. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something worse—a pressure building in his bones, coiling like a predator in his blood.

Y/N stood on the other side of the glass, arms folded. Immaculate as ever. Her lab coat fell like a cape, pristine, untouched by the sweat or blood of the man behind the glass.

“Begin endurance sequence,” she said flatly into the mic.

A low mechanical buzz stirred the floor. The assistant beside Bob—Harris, a younger man with the kind of condescending smirk that came from cushioned privilege—nodded without looking at him.

“On the treadmill, Subject Seven.”

Bob gritted his teeth. They never called him by name anymore. Just a number. A designation.

He staggered onto the machine, hands clenched.

The test began.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Thirty.

The speed increased with brutal indifference. Incline rising. Air growing thinner. His lungs begged. His legs screamed. Sweat poured down his back in rivers. He ran until his vision flickered, until the room swam with double-images and nausea clawed up his throat.

“Push harder,” came Y/N’s voice through the speaker.

There was no kindness in it.

Only calculation.

Only pressure.

The treadmill shut off with a sudden jerk, nearly throwing him forward.

“Vital scan,” she said.

Harris approached with a monitor, jamming a sensor against Bob’s chest without warning. The edge of it dug into bone. Bob hissed and shoved him back.

“Warn me next time.”

Harris scoffed. “You’re not here to be comfortable.”

Y/N didn’t intervene. She didn’t blink.

“Proceed with the physical resistance trial,” she said instead.

Bob was dragged to another station. Steel cables. Weighted bars. Movement resistance gloves. Every piece of equipment designed to test the threshold of pain, of muscle endurance, of recovery.

The tests went on for hours.

By the end, his knuckles were raw, blood darkening the wraps around his fingers. His breath came in ragged bursts. There was a tremor in his jaw he couldn’t bite back.

He collapsed to his knees.

Someone laughed. Harris again. “Thought you wanted to be fixed. You’re still just a junkie with good PR.”

Bob looked up, glassy-eyed, a thousand-yard stare beginning to burn into something more focused.

“What did you say?”

“I said maybe we should’ve picked someone who didn’t already have one foot in the grave.”

Bob’s jaw clenched.

“Enough,” Y/N said from behind the glass. “Draw blood and move him back to the room.”

But Harris didn’t wait. He moved in early—needle in hand—and without warning, jabbed it straight into the crook of Bob’s bruised elbow. Not cleanly. Not carefully.

Bob screamed.

The pain wasn’t just from the needle—it was from everything: the serum, the exhaustion, the voices, the fear, the humiliation. All of it twisted together like rusted wire around his spine.

He snapped.

His hand shot out on instinct, fist colliding with Harris’s chest with a thunderous crack. The man went flying across the lab, slamming into the far wall hard enough to leave a bloody smear as he crumpled.

Gasps erupted from the medical staff.

Alarms blared.

Bob stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving. For a second, he didn’t look like a man. He looked like a storm that had grown legs.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

She stepped into the lab with calm precision, clipboard still in hand, heels echoing on the tile. Bob turned toward her, half-dazed, arms trembling.

“You’re stronger,” she said simply, as if it were an observation on the weather.

“No,” he rasped. “You made me into a monster.”

She looked him up and down, unafraid. “No I didn't. You're perfect.”

Security moved toward him—stun batons raised—but she lifted one hand.

“Stand down.”

They froze.

Bob’s vision blurred at the edges. His breath slowed. The pain roared in his bones, but something beneath it… something deeper… had awoken.

He looked at Harris’s body, groaning on the floor, and then at Y/N.

And for the first time, she smiled, a smile that was so weirdly big, as tears come to her face. Letting out a laugh.

The serum was finally working.

The days bled into each other like old bruises—yellow, purple, sickly at the edges. The lights never turned off in the lab. Time was a theory. Sleep was optional. Mercy didn’t exist.

Bob had stopped asking what day it was. It didn't matter. The white coats came in with needles and wires and machinery. They attached him to things that clicked and beeped, asked him to move until his muscles screamed, screamed until his throat was raw, stayed silent when the pain crested too high for sound.

And then they’d start again.

Y/N stood behind the glass every morning. Always there, always watching. Never speaking unless it was necessary.

But she noticed.

She was the only one who did.

Because Bob wasn’t just breaking.

He was changing.

It started subtly. During the third day of exhaustive neural tests, when they placed him in sensory isolation and bombarded his nervous system with synthetic stress triggers—pain, voices, unbearable flashes of childhood trauma, withdrawal memories. He wept. Screamed. Clawed at the padded walls of the isolation tank.

Then… he stopped.

The tears dried.

The shaking ceased.

What replaced it was worse.

He went silent.

Staring.

Not at anything in particular. Just… outward. Through people, through walls. A haunted, still look that didn’t belong to the broken man who had first walked into her office days ago.

Y/N wrote it down. She didn’t mention it aloud. She simply noted:

Subject displays catatonic dissociation under stress. Staring. Withdrawn. Possible early signs of compensatory mental partitioning.

But it wasn’t just psychological.

The next day, during resistance drills—after twenty minutes of relentless physical abuse from a pair of armored guards trying to test his “combat reflexes”—one of them hit too hard. A baton cracked against his ribs, and Bob let out a visceral, breathless gasp, collapsing to his knees.

“You like being weak?” one of them said.

The room tilted. Bob’s hand dug into the ground.

And then, something shifted.

He stood. Not stumbled—stood. Smoothly. Slowly. Like someone was pulling strings from inside him.

His eyes were blank, but his voice was cold, quiet.

“Don’t touch me again.”

The guard laughed. Raised the baton.

And Bob caught it mid-swing.

There was no warning. No shout.

Just the crack of bone as he bent the guard’s wrist backward without effort. The man screamed. The second guard lunged—and was thrown across the room with a single shove, slamming into the reinforced wall so hard that plaster cracked.

Y/N pressed her palm to the glass, watching intently.

Not afraid.

Not surprised.

Bob’s chest heaved. Muscles flexed like coiled cables beneath his sweat-slick skin. His arms were bigger. Tighter. The veins under his skin pulsed black-blue, like oil moving just beneath the surface.

Power. Raw. Unfocused. But there.

The strength was real.

But so was something else.

Because later—when the sedatives had worn off, and he sat in the corner of his cell again, knees drawn to his chest—he cried.

He didn’t remember everything. Just flashes. Sounds. His own voice, low and unfamiliar, echoing in his ears.

“I didn’t want to hurt them,” he whispered when Y/N came in.

She didn’t answer.

She only crouched, observing him through the glass panel of the cell.

“No one listens to me,” he said, curling tighter. “I keep telling them I’m not okay. I keep begging. But no one listens.”

Y/N stared, impassive.

He turned his face toward her slowly, eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

“…But you see it, don’t you?” he murmured. “You know something’s wrong with me.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “Something is evolving in you.”

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I think I’m losing myself.”

She didn’t deny it.

She only said, “Then let it go.”

He stared again. That look returning. Vacant and chilling. As if he had retreated somewhere too deep to reach.

Later, under dim lighting in the observation theater, she reviewed footage: one of the medical staff caught Bob in profile—chest rising, bruises blooming under his collarbones, lips moving silently. He was mouthing something.

She zoomed in. Enhanced.

"I am here."

Repeated. Over and over. Lips forming the words without sound.

And then, he looked up into the lens.

Straight into the camera.

And smiled. Eyes glowing at her.

The facility hummed low with artificial life—hallways whispering with cold air vents, dimmed fluorescents casting long shadows across clean, quiet floors. Staff moved with mechanical precision, all too used to the rhythms of experimentation. But tonight, they moved away from one room in particular. Cleared by command.

Y/N’s command.

“Clear the wing. No assistants,” she said without looking up from the data pad. “From here on, I handle Subject Seven’s diagnostics myself.”

Her tone didn’t allow for debate. She didn’t offer reasons, and none of them dared ask. Even Valentina wouldn’t blink—this was her project now. And this subject was beginning to show signs that were far too promising… or far too dangerous to be shared.

She entered his containment room alone, the steel doors sealing behind her with a final hiss. No windows this time. No cameras. She had disabled the feed herself.

Bob sat in the far corner of the room, back against the padded wall, shirtless, still glistening with the faint sheen of post-test sweat. His eyes tracked her warily—red-rimmed, sunken, uncertain. He was thinner than before, but there was something volatile in the way his shoulders tensed, like a man bracing for an earthquake he couldn’t outrun.

He felt sick.

More than that—he felt wrong.

The door opened with a soft hiss. Y/N stepped inside alone again, clipboard in hand, her heels tapping a rhythm that was fast becoming routine. She didn’t knock. She never did.

He didn’t lift his head. Just mumbled, “You don’t believe in knocking, do you?”

“No need,” she replied flatly. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen.”

Her tone was cool as always—clinical. But there was a slight falter in her pace as she got closer, and she noticed something: despite his bruised ribs, his split lip, the tremor in his fingers from exhaustion—he was still sitting up straight. He looked present.

Not shattered.

Not yet.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, setting the clipboard down.

“Better,” he said softly, finally looking at her. “I think… I think it helps.”

“What does?”

“The pain.” He smiled, small and sad. “It makes sense. I deserve it. For the man I was before. For the mess I made of my life. This… this is better than rotting on the streets.”

She narrowed her eyes, studying him.

“You’re saying you like this?”

“No,” he said. “But I accept it. And that’s more than I ever had before.”

There was silence for a beat. She tilted her head, intrigued.

“You think punishment makes you worthy?”

He looked away. “Maybe it’s the only thing that ever will.”

Y/N said nothing, but her gaze didn’t soften. There was no pity. Only analysis. Still, she crossed the room slowly and sat down across from him. Close enough for him to feel the heat of her presence. He glanced up at her, eyes tired and rimmed red.

“You’re different when you're in here,” he said after a moment. “Not like when you’re watching through the glass.”

“That’s because in here, I get answers.”

He nodded, then flinched—just slightly. A jolt of pressure shot through his chest, like a sudden drop. His breathing hitched.

“Hey—hey,” she stood quickly, alarm sharpening her voice. “What’s happening?”

But his body was already stiffening.

His fingers twitched, curled. His skin flushed gold under the surface like light through amber. A radiant pulse began to bloom from his chest—like a sun cracking through skin. Then his eyes snapped open.

They were glowing.

Brilliant, gold-white. Blinding.

He stood slowly, and this time, he was taller. Straighter. Something inhuman rippled beneath his skin—a calm storm, barely held.

She took a single step back.

He tilted his head, that warm glow behind his gaze searing into her.

“I don’t deserve pain,” he said, but it wasn’t Bob’s voice anymore—not entirely. It was deeper. Richer. Full of something ancient. “I deserve reverence.”

She didn’t speak.

The air buzzed.

“You made me,” he said, stepping closer. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said carefully.

“You shaped me from ruin.” His voice was equal parts wonder and command. “Then you broke me again.”

“I had to test you.”

“No,” he said sharply. “You wanted to see if I’d submit. But I’m not a man anymore. You saw it. You know.”

She watched him, heart thudding—not with fear, but fascination.

She understood now.

Bob craved punishment. But the Sentry—this glowing, impossible god standing before her—craved something else.

Worship.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, reverently. “I saw you. And you were… perfect.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. She took a careful step toward him.

“I’ve never seen anything like you,” she said, voice low. “Not even close. What you are—it’s not a mutation. It’s not a mistake. It’s creation. You’re not a man, you’re the answer.”

The golden light around him flared softly.

“You think I’m the answer?” he asked, voice tinged with curiosity, with hunger.

“I think,” she whispered, “you’re the beginning of something new.”

A pause. Then, something softened in him. Not entirely human. Not at all safe. But… tamed. For a moment.

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“That I’m perfect.”

She smiled. “You’re perfect.”

He took a breath—deep and indulgent—and let it out like a sigh of relief. His eyes dimmed slightly, his shoulders relaxing.

And just like that, the Sentry quieted. He didn’t vanish. But he leaned back into the body that held him, content, for now, to bask in her gaze.

Bob blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. He looked at her, confused, uncertain.

“What just happened…?”

“Nothing,” she said smoothly, stepping away and picking up her clipboard. “You're tired. Get some rest. We start again tomorrow.”

She left the room without another word.

But behind the glass, she made a single note in the margin of his file:

Praise increases compliance. Needs reverence. He responds to adoration.

The silence in the observation room was a heavier thing than it had ever been. Y/N stood at the glass wall, arms limp at her sides, her expression unreadable. Behind that wall, Bob sat hunched on the floor of his quarters. The cot remained untouched—he rarely used it anymore. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them, trembling slightly under the white fabric of his uniform.

The last few days had been a slow collapse.

The tests had grown more invasive, more demanding. Neural taps. Strength resistance simulations. Pain tolerance trials. Every time he seemed to stabilize, something inside him would shift—memories would fray, his gaze would glaze, or worse, he would look at her and flinch like she was a stranger.

His powers were accelerating rapidly, almost impossibly. Muscle density, healing capabilities, visual acuity. All off the charts. But the mind—the man inside the mutation—was breaking open at the seams.

And the scariest part wasn’t when Bob cried or screamed or begged.

It was when he stared.

Quiet. Still. Gone somewhere deep.

She had seen that kind of stillness once—on her father’s face.

Y/N pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose and sighed.

You’re losing him.

And if she lost Bob, she lost everything. Her work. Her legacy. Her revenge. But more than that—deep down, in a part of herself she refused to name—she knew she might also be losing the only living being who had ever looked at her like she mattered.

She stepped through the airlock and into his quarters.

The moment the door hissed closed, Bob’s eyes twitched toward her. Red-rimmed. Tired. Suspicious.

She didn’t speak right away. Just walked slowly, carefully, and crouched beside him—knees creaking, lab coat brushing the floor. She didn't reach for him. Just existed in his space for a moment, with warmth in her silence.

“You came to hurt me again?” he murmured, voice cracking.

She shook her head. “No. Not today.”

His brow furrowed, confused. Guarded.

Y/N let out a breath and sat fully beside him, her back resting against the cold wall.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly. “About everything I’ve put you through. And I think I made a mistake.”

He didn’t answer. But he was listening.

“I treated you like a subject. A tool,” she said. “And that’s not fair. I told myself it was necessary. That pain was the price of progress. But… you’re not just a project. You’re a person. You’ve been through hell. And I didn’t stop to see it.”

A long silence.

Then: “Why are you saying this?”

“Because I want to do better,” she said honestly, gently. “Because I see what this is doing to you, and I can’t pretend it’s okay anymore.”

He looked at her, blinking hard. “You made me this way.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Bob turned away, resting his head back against the wall. “I feel like I’m disappearing. Like there’s someone else in here, pushing me out. And I’m scared.”

Her heart twisted. She reached out, finally, and placed her hand carefully on top of his, not forcing him to accept it, just… there.

“You don’t have to be scared alone,” she said. “You’ve had no one. I can be here. With you. If you want.”

He didn’t move.

But he didn’t pull away.

“I thought you hated me,” he said quietly.

“I’ve never hated you.”

He didn’t answer.

So she went on.

“You didn’t deserve the things that happened to you before this. And maybe you think you deserve what’s happening now—but you don’t. No one does.”

He looked down at their hands. His fingers flexed slightly, touching hers. “Then why does it feel right when it hurts?”

Her throat tightened. “Because they taught you pain was all you were worth.”

He shivered, and she shifted closer.

“But I see more than that in you,” she murmured. “You’re strong, Bob. Brave. Smarter than you think. And maybe… maybe you’re becoming something even greater.”

His breath caught. “Greater?”

She smiled faintly. “Stronger than anyone. Maybe not just better. But… perfect.”

His eyes glowed—just faintly, flickering like a match.

That always happened when he surfaced. The part of him that didn’t shake. That didn’t cry.

The part that needed to be told he was everything.

“You think I’m perfect?” he asked, his voice lower now—not quite his own.

Y/N met his gaze, softer than ever. “I think you’re becoming something no one will ever be able to match.”

He straightened slowly, eyes glowing brighter now, tension rippling through his muscles as if remembering his own greatness. His shoulders squared.

“I knew it,” he said, voice nearly serene. “You saw it too.”

And just like that, the shattered man was buried beneath a new mask.

One that needed her—for now.

She stayed at his side. Letting him feel her warmth. Letting him believe.

Because even gods needed temples.

And she would be his, if it kept him in her control.

If it saved her masterpiece.

It started with something small.

A candy bar.

Bob hadn’t tasted real sugar in weeks—his meals had been measured and rationed, protein-heavy, vitamin-saturated, dull as sand. So when she handed him the wrapped snack during one of their quieter sessions—no needles, no machines, just a clipboard resting on her lap—his fingers trembled as he opened it. He didn’t say anything, just took a bite, and then another. A smudge of chocolate smeared the corner of his mouth.

Y/N wiped it away with the corner of her sleeve.

“You’re not just data,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “You’re a person. They forget that sometimes.”

He didn’t look at her, but something shifted in his chest. A tightness he hadn’t even realized was there uncoiled just slightly.

The next day, she brought him a sandwich—soft bread, warm chicken. The next, a coffee, real coffee, not the sterile nutrient fluid they pumped into the subjects. Then a blanket. Socks. A chair with a cushion. Lip balm.

She noticed everything. His hunger. His discomfort. His silence.

And she fixed it.

When the tests were brutal—and they always were—she would come storming into the lab, voice sharp, eyes aflame, berating the staff with just the right fury. “This wasn’t what we discussed,” she’d snap, standing between him and the machines. “He’s not an animal.”

They would quiet, nod, retreat.

They never questioned her authority. She was the one in charge. She wrote the protocols. She set the bar.

But Bob never connected the dots. Never saw that the pain they inflicted was her design. Because afterward, she was always there.

Bandaging his arms.

Apologizing in soft whispers.

“I wasn’t there,” she’d say, kneeling by his cot. “I would have stopped them.”

She’d stay late. Sit beside him as the lights dimmed, reading his vitals by the glow of the monitors. Sometimes, when the nightmares returned—trembling fits, disjointed flashes of his old life, screaming into the dark—he’d wake up to her hand stroking gently through his hair.

“Shhh,” she’d whisper. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

It became a ritual.

She would stay until he fell asleep.

Sometimes longer.

Bob stopped talking to the other staff. He stopped looking at them. When they tried to coax him out of his room for a scan or an exam, he ignored them. Refused to move.

But when Y/N came—just a quiet knock, her voice soft—he followed. Always.

He trusted her.

She was his tether.

His anchor in the chaos of his fracturing mind. The only constant in a world of shifting memories and invasive pain.

Once, when his powers flared unexpectedly—he’d bent a steel tray in half without realizing it—he panicked. Terrified he was losing control. He fell to the floor, fists clenched, gasping.

She was there in seconds.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.

She held him.

“You’re okay,” she murmured, over and over, stroking his back. “You’re not a monster. You’re mine. You hear me? I’ll take care of you.”

He clung to her like a child.

He needed her.

And she knew it.

The deeper he fell into her care, the more isolated he became. They made sure of it. A slow, strategic withdrawal of other contact. Less staff rotation. Fewer voices. Always her.

When he cried, it was for her.

When he smiled, it was because of her.

He began to crave her presence—watching the door like a loyal hound, ears pricking at the sound of her heels.

She was warmth. She was safety. She was love.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Even if it was perfectly orchestrated.

Because behind every soft glance, every nurturing hand, was calculation.

Her notes were full of it.

Subject displays increased cooperation when exposed to emotional care. Recommend continued one-on-one interaction to maximize psychological dependency. Rapid increase in obedience and physical response post-praise.

She was feeding his weakness, nurturing it into loyalty.

And he—poor, broken, beautiful Bob—never questioned it.

Because for the first time in his life, someone stayed.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in the faint hum of soft blue monitor lights, the walls lined with quiet machines blinking in quiet rhythm—everwatchful, everrecording. Bob lay still under the sterile sheets, his eyes open and distant. Y/N sat beside him, as she had most nights now, phone in hand, scrolling, half-engaged, the way one humors a pet that insists on your presence but not your focus.

Tonight was different, though. Bob could feel it.

The pain hadn’t dulled. If anything, it gnawed deeper. His joints ached in ways they shouldn’t. His head throbbed from the flashes—memories that weren’t his, voices that spoke in his tone but not his mind. He felt stretched, hollowed.

And tonight, it felt unbearable.

He turned his head slightly on the pillow to look at her. “You don’t have to be here.”

She blinked, not looking up from her phone.

“I know you’re faking it,” he continued, voice soft—no malice, no accusation, just truth worn thin by exhaustion. “But at least you give me something I crave. And you’re so good at it.”

That made her pause.

The screen lit her face in faint light as she looked up slowly, phone frozen in her hand.

Her eyes searched his—half-expecting him to be teasing, or confused. But there was clarity there. Depth. Something terrifyingly aware behind those tired blue eyes.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

He continued to stare at the ceiling, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You're not like the others,” he murmured. “You're better. You know how to make someone feel needed. Even if it's a lie.”

Y/N’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. Something in her stomach twisted. How long had he known? Had he always? Or was this…new?

She blinked quickly and set her phone aside, suddenly animated, leaning forward as if the shift in posture could erase what he'd said. Her voice took on a lighter tone, tinged with breathy disbelief. “Bob… What are you talking about?” she asked gently, smiling—just enough to seem soft, not insincere. “You’re exhausted. I think you’re reading too much into this. I’m just tired too, that’s all.”

But her heart was thudding—he shouldn’t be this perceptive.

She had to pivot, quickly.

Before he could retreat from her care. Before he saw too much.

Her expression softened further, and she tilted her head with a playful, sympathetic tilt. “You know what I think?” she said gently, resting a hand over his. “I think you’re overthinking everything again. You do that when you're stressed.”

He didn’t pull away. He just watched her. So quiet. So tired.

And desperate for something—anything.

“Hey…” she said more gently, voice dipping into something warm and honeyed. “Why don’t we both rest? Just for a bit. You’ve had a long day. We both have. Friends… look after each other, right?”

He blinked. Her words felt strange. “Friends?”

She nodded, already slipping out of her shoes, unbuttoning her coat slowly and setting it on the chair, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I can stay here,” she said softly, slipping under the covers beside him. “Just tonight.”

Bob turned his head toward her, the sheets rustling slightly as her presence warmed the space beside him. He didn’t move, frozen, eyes wide—not with fear, but with something achingly vulnerable.

She smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek. Her fingertips brushed his skin so gently, it nearly undid him.

" I really care about you Bob,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, afraid his voice would crack.

And then—everything went black.

As if the light had been swallowed whole, not turned off.

The monitors shut down. The gentle hum of the lab fell silent in an instant. Y/N sat upright, eyes wide in the pitch darkness.

The air in the room changed.

Heavy. Electric. Like a storm about to break.

Looking down trying to see Bob, she was alone.

The cold that seeped through her skin wasn’t natural.

Y/N blinked and the room was gone.

Bob—gone.

The hum of machines, the sterile scent of the lab, the soft glow of artificial light—all gone.

Darkness surrounded her now, thick and oppressive, as if she had been plunged beneath ink. She turned in place, breath hitching. Her heels clicked softly against a polished floor that should not exist. And then—

A single note.

A piano.

Sharp. Perfect.

Then—

CRACK.

The sound of a whip slicing air and meeting flesh. Sharp. Wet.

Another piano key.

Then another. A rhythm. Crack. A scream. A perfect A major. Crack. A low sob. F sharp.

It came in cycles.

And suddenly, she knew.

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes adjusted, and the room took form from the shadows like a curtain lifting on a stage she had long since burned away in her mind.

The piano room.

Her piano room.

Back in the penthouse. The place that smelled of waxed mahogany, stale wine, and disappointment. It was too real—the ivory keys smeared with red, the glossy floor reflecting the warped chandelier light above.

And at the piano—a girl.

A child no more than eleven.

Immaculately dressed. A long, silken white gown with lace cuffs. Her dark hair pinned back into a braided crown that a governess had once spent an hour perfecting. But her hands… her hands were ruined.

They bled at the joints, fingertips raw, the keys slick with crimson trails—but still she played.

La campanella.

The impossible song. A cruel performance that her father once deemed the measure of genius. Of perfection.

Her perfection.

Standing beside the girl was a tall man, graying, stoic in his dark three-piece suit. His eyes held no pity. No pride. Only expectation.

The power cable in his hand—industrial, rubber, humming faintly with static and fury—swung by his side. Streaked red.

The child faltered.

She missed a note.

She froze.

He turned to her with the stillness of a statue and said, cold as winter steel: “Get up.”

The little girl trembled, tears streaming down her face—but she obeyed.

She stood. Laid her bleeding hand on the piano bench. No one needed to explain what came next.

CRACK.

Y/N screamed—not aloud, not outwardly, but deep, guttural, in her chest where no one could hear.

She stumbled back, shaking. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop it. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her breath short.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

The walls warped, stretching and flexing like the inside of a dying heartbeat. The chandelier pulsed with an unnatural glow.

And the piano stopped.

So did everything else.

And then—like a snap— they were back.

The room. The bed. The lamp on the desk.

Y/N was still lying beside him, but she was sitting upright now, gasping, covered in sweat. Her eyes darted around in disbelief. Her phone was still on the nightstand. The monitor still beeped. The world was normal.

Bob sat up next to her, breathing hard. “Did… did you see that?”

She turned to him slowly. Her voice was dry.

“You were there too?”

He nodded.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Only the sound of Bob’s heavy breathing and the soft flicker of the light filled the space between them.

Then he whispered, “What just happened?”

And for once, Y/N didn’t have an answer.

She only knew one thing now.

Something else was inside him.

And now, it had seen her.

327 notes · View notes

soulofapatrick · 9 months ago

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Between Battles and Breaths - Bodhi Durran x female reader

Summary: You can’t sleep, terrified of your enemy you’re facing tomorrow in the challenges and you find yourself seeking comfort in Bodhi

Warnings: None

Words: 2.6k

Y/N's POV

I can't sleep. The thought of who I’m up against in tomorrow's challenges has kept my mind racing for hours, churning over every possible scenario. My nerves are a live wire, and the gnawing certainty that this is one I’m not going to win gnashes at me. The others are better, faster, more experienced—and me? I’m just trying to make it through each day without making a fool of myself.

My feet drag across the floor as I pace, the creak of the wooden boards below me a repetitive comfort in the stillness of the night. I know I’ve practically worn a path into the carpet by now, walking the same few steps over and over, but it’s better than lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to consume me. With a huff, I finally stop and run a hand through my hair, frustrated.

I can’t do this. Not like this.

Before I can think twice, I grab my flight leathers, pulling them on with shaking hands. It’s reckless, stupid even, to sneak out so close to curfew, but if I stay in this room for one more second, I’ll go mad. The air feels thick, suffocating, and I need to breathe.

The dormitory halls are quiet as I slip out of my room on the first year’s floor, the faint hum of the academy settling for the night, a reminder that I should be too. But instead of heading outside like I’d planned, something draws me upwards, my feet carrying me to the second-year floor before I’ve even realised what I’m doing.

I hesitate at the top of the stairs, wondering what exactly led me here. I’m not even sure how or why I ended up in front of his door—Bodhi Durran’s door. But I stop there, my hand hovering over the handle. The smart thing would be to turn back. He’s the last person I should be bothering right now, with my nerves as raw as they are, but there’s a pull in my chest that won’t let me leave.

Through the narrow gap in the door, I catch a glimpse of him.

Bodhi lies there, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. The dim light from the window barely touches his face, but it’s enough to see the peaceful, almost boyish look that settles over him in sleep. His sharp features, usually so intense, are softened in this moment of calm. Tousled dark hair falls across his forehead, and there’s something about the way his brow is relaxed, the usual storminess in his expression completely at ease, that makes him look younger than usual, more vulnerable.

I should go, I think, taking a step back, but the thought sticks in my throat when he stirs. The slight rustle of the sheets is enough to send my heart skittering, and before I can react, Bodhi’s eyes flutter open, dark and still heavy with sleep.

He squints at me through the dim light, confusion crossing his face as his gaze lands on me standing hesitantly in the doorway. For a second, I don’t think he’s going to say anything at all, and I wonder if I should just leave before he fully wakes up.

But then his voice, rough and gravelly from sleep, cuts through the silence. “What are you doing here?” His tone is low, hoarse, and it sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not accusatory or irritated, just… curious, like he can’t quite believe I’m standing there.

And in this moment, neither can I.

His dark eyes take in my appearance, sweeping over me with a sharpness that leaves me feeling exposed, bare. A crease forms between his brows as he pushes the blankets aside and sits up, the confusion shifting into something else, something that makes my heart beat even faster. Without a word, Bodhi swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the sheets rustling as they fall away, revealing his body—lean and muscular, his chest broad and defined. He’s only wearing boxers, and it takes everything in me not to let my eyes linger on the way his muscles shift under his skin with each step as he moves toward me.

I feel breathless, like the air has been sucked out of the room, replaced with a thick tension that presses against my chest. My throat tightens with nerves, and I force myself to breathe, but it’s hard to focus when he’s so close, when the sight of him leaves my thoughts scattered, my body anxious in all the right ways.

Bodhi stops in front of me, his presence overwhelming, his gaze dark and steady. For a moment, neither of us says anything, and the silence between us feels charged, like the crackle of a storm about to break. Then, slowly, his hand reaches for mine.

The moment his fingers wrap around mine, it feels like I’ve been set on fire. His hand is large and calloused, rough from training and fighting, yet somehow warm and steady. My pulse quickens at the simple touch, the anxiety in my chest twisting into something deeper, more intense. His thumb grazes the back of my hand, sending a shiver racing up my spine, and I bite my lip to keep from gasping aloud.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice still thick from sleep, tugging me gently into his room. The door closes softly behind me, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet space. His room is dimly lit, the moonlight slipping through the curtains casting long shadows across the floor. It’s sparse, with only a few personal touches—a pile of worn books on the bedside table, his boots kicked off haphazardly near the window—but it feels so undeniably him. Practical. Focused. Just like Bodhi.

He leads me toward his bed, his hand still holding mine, and the closer I get, the more overwhelmed I feel. The air between us is thick with unspoken words, a tension that leaves my thoughts spinning. I’ve always had a crush on Bodhi—who wouldn’t? But I never thought he’d look at me like this, with an intensity that makes my knees weak, that leaves me wanting something I can’t quite put into words.

“Sit,” he says softly, guiding me to the edge of the bed. My legs feel shaky as I lower myself onto the mattress, and Bodhi moves to his knees in front of me. The sight of him kneeling there, his face inches from mine, sends a sharp ache of longing through my chest. It’s a position that feels intimate, almost too intimate, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and touch him, to run my fingers through his dark, tousled hair and pull him closer.

I’m still trying to process what’s happening, still trying to catch my breath, when Bodhi’s hands reach for my boots. He works in silence, deft fingers unlacing the leather with a skill that speaks of years spent in flight leathers himself. When he finally pulls the boots off and sets them aside, his hands return to me, grazing the skintight leathers of my pants legs as he slides his palms slowly, deliberately, up toward my hips.

The touch sends a rush of heat through me, my pulse quickening as his fingers trail higher, a soft, feather-light touch that makes my breath hitch. His hands find their way around my back, moving with purpose but not rushing, until his fingers find the lacings of the dragon armour my brother made for me before I walked the parapet.

He undoes them with practiced ease, and I feel the tension in my chest loosen as the bindings fall away. The weight of the armour lifts, but it’s nothing compared to the weight in my heart, the yearning that’s only grown stronger the closer Bodhi gets.

I’ve wanted him for so long, and now, with him this close, his touch so careful and his gaze so intent, I can’t help but wonder if he’s wanted me too.

Bodhi stands and lifts the now-loosened corset armour from my shoulders, handling it with surprising care before placing it neatly on the chair by his desk. The room feels heavier in the quiet after the sound of the armour settling, my heart beating wildly in the stillness. When he turns back to me, his eyes drop to my waist, his fingers hovering just above my hips. His gaze flickers up to meet mine, and for a moment, everything stills.

He hesitates, his touch light, asking for permission without words.

I nod slightly, barely noticeable, but Bodhi catches it, and as soon as he does, my hips rise instinctively. His fingers deftly find the buttons of my flight leathers, working through each one with an unhurried precision that makes my pulse race. The heat of his touch burns through the leather, and when he finally shimmies the pants down my legs and to the floor, the sensation is almost overwhelming—his hands, warm and firm, feel like fire in my veins.

Once I’m free of the leathers, Bodhi moves away from me, crossing the room toward the washroom. I watch him through half-lidded eyes as he disappears for a moment, only to return with a worn shirt in hand. He approaches me with a soft look in his eyes, holding it out like a peace offering.

The shirt smells like him. There’s a faint woodsy scent, warm and earthy, like pine and leather, mixed with the sharper tang of the wind that always seems to cling to him after a day in the sky. Beneath it all, there’s something uniquely Bodhi, something comforting, steady, that grounds me even as my mind whirls with everything happening between us.

He turns his back to give me some privacy, and I waste no time. My shirt and bra come off quickly, discarded without thought, and I pull his shirt over my head. It’s too big, falling to mid-thigh and swallowing me in its softness, the fabric still warm from his skin. I take a breath, letting the scent of him wrap around me like a second skin, comforting in a way I didn’t expect.

By the time I’m done, Bodhi is already shuffling around me, his movements slow and sleepy, but purposeful. He climbs back under the covers and without hesitation, wraps a strong arm around my waist, pulling me toward him. The warmth of his body presses against mine, the heavy weight of his arm a reassuring presence as he draws the blankets over both of us.

He’s close—so close I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back, the heat of him chasing away the lingering chill in the room. His nose brushes against the back of my neck, and I shiver, not from cold but from the sensation of him so near. Bodhi’s thumb rubs slow, soothing circles along my waist, and it’s enough to make my body relax, melting into the space between us.

“What’s got you up in the middle of the night?” he mumbles, his voice soft and rough with sleep. His breath tickles my neck, warm and steady, and I can’t help but smile faintly at the quiet concern in his voice, even half-asleep.

I don’t answer right away, too lost in the feeling of him holding me, the weight of his arm a comfort I didn’t know I needed. The anxiety that had gnawed at me all night is still there, but it’s quieter now, softened by the way Bodhi holds me like I’m something worth protecting.

Finally, I murmur, “Just… tomorrow.” The words are barely more than a whisper, but Bodhi seems to understand, his arm tightening slightly around my waist in silent reassurance.

Bodhi pulls me even closer to his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat resonating against my back, anchoring me in this moment. His voice, still laced with sleep, drops to a low murmur, sending soft vibrations through me. “You’ve got this, you know,” he mumbles, warmth pooling in his words like honey. “You’ll kick their asses tomorrow.”

His confidence in me feels like a shield against the anxiety that had clawed at me all night. I can’t help but smile, feeling the tension in my chest ease just a little.

“And if that other guy tries anything outside the rules,” he continues, his voice dipping even lower, “he’ll have to deal with me.” There’s a protective edge to his tone that makes my heart flutter, the notion of Bodhi standing up for me sending a thrill through my veins.

He rests his chin atop my head, a gentle weight that feels comforting and safe. “You’re stronger than you think,” he adds softly, each word wrapping around me like a warm embrace. “Just remember that, and you’ll be unstoppable.”

In his arms, with his sweet reassurances washing over me, the fears that had once felt so insurmountable start to dissipate, replaced by a sense of calm. I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of him, feeling utterly enveloped in his warmth and unwavering support.

Just as I’m falling asleep in, Bodhi is nudging me gently, urging me to roll over and face him. I comply, shifting so that I’m looking directly into his dark, expressive eyes. His hand finds my cheek, his touch warm and inviting, and heat floods my skin at the contact. It’s as if his palm ignites a fire against my cheek, sending a shiver of warmth spiralling through me.

He studies my face for a moment, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips, and then he leans down, brushing a barely-there kiss against my lips. It’s sweet, feather-light, and it leaves me wanting more. My heart races, and before I can think, my hands find their way into his dark curls, relishing the silky softness of his hair between my fingers.

But it’s that soft kiss that sends all coherent thoughts flying from my mind, leaving me breathless and craving. Bodhi deepens the kiss, tilting his head to fit us perfectly together, and the world around us fades away. The taste of him is intoxicating—warm, with a hint of mint and something uniquely Bodhi that sends a spark of electricity through me.

His lips move against mine with a gentleness that contrasts the intensity of my racing heart, each brush igniting a heat that spreads through my entire body. It’s as if he’s exploring, learning every curve and contour of my lips, and I’m lost in the sensation.

Every nerve ending tingles as he kisses me properly, the connection between us growing more profound with each passing moment. There’s a sweetness to the way he cradles my face, a tenderness that makes my heart swell. I can feel his warmth radiating through the kiss, wrapping me in a cocoon of safety and longing.

When he finally pulls back, our lips lingering just a breath apart, I can’t help but chase his mouth for just another taste, a whisper of connection that leaves me craving more. The air between us is electric, thick with unspoken feelings, and in that moment, I know I’ve stepped into something beautiful, something I never want to end.

Fourth Wing Masterlist - To be made Comment to be added to tag list

#bodhi durran #bodhi durran x reader #bodhi durran x y/n #bodhi durran x you #bodhi durran smut #bodhi durran fluff #bodhi durran agnst #fourth wing #fourth wing imagines #fourth wing bodhi durran #fourth wing boys #the empyrean #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing bodhi

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iris-qt · 1 year ago

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𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜

⭒ ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⭒ ʙɢ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ: ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ!

⭒ ɢʀᴜᴍᴘʏ x ꜱᴜɴꜱʜɪɴᴇ | 2.4ᴋ

⭒ ᴀ/ɴ: ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟᴏᴠᴇʟʏ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ɪɴꜱᴘɪʀɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ

⭒ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ᴄᴏᴄᴋʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɪɴᴅ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴᴄʟᴀᴡ. ʜᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴜɴꜰᴀᴍɪʟᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ, ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪɴᴄᴇᴅ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴘᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴡɪɴ ʜɪᴍ ᴏᴠᴇʀ. ʙᴏʏ ɪꜱ ʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ..

“Speak no further, Nott. Ravenclaw tower at 9 and that's that.”

Fuck.

Astronomy was quite a time-consuming class, but Theodore Nott would do anything for the credits. Even if it meant partaking in various group projects. It played out in a similar way each time: he’d get partnered with some blithering imbecile and do all the work. Or, worst case scenario, he’d get partnered with some pining girl and have to hide in the deepest corners of the library to avoid their presence which consisted of blabbering on about Merlin knows what. The topic always consisted of everything BUT the task at hand, and Theo would be forced to nod at the appropriate times while doing the project for the both of them.

He wouldn’t let anyone ruin his A grade streak.

The only person he could trust was himself.

Until you waltzed in, threatening to ruin it all with a bright smile and brisk walk.

Infuriating.

Sure, you were smart. Possibly smarter than him, although he’d never admit it, but he hated…no despised working with another person. There were always conflicting methods and ideas which ultimately led to Theodore not getting what he wanted. And what Theo wanted was to ace this project with his own ideas. Difficult to do with a headstrong ravenclaw butting her head in. And so, when the partners were ordered to begin planning, he strode up to you, resolved with his stubborn ideals.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Theod-”

“I’ve got this, don’t worry. Just put your name on the final paper when I’m done.”

You raise your eyebrow, smirking up at the crazy boy. How dare he assume you’d easily give in to such blasphemy. You worked hard for the grades you got and this wasn’t an exception.

“Nice try, but you’re not getting rid of me,” you stand up, scooping up your Astronomy textbook in your arms.

“But-”

“Speak no further, Nott. Ravenclaw tower at 9 and that's that,” you smile deviously, walking away, leaving Theodore scrambling to think of a way to shake you off.

Perhaps if he pissed you off…

But how could he do that?

After consulting with the king of pissing people off, also known as Mattheo Riddle, his task was clear. He walked up the long flight of stairs leading to the Ravenclaw common room with a devilish smirk on his face.

You were waiting right outside the common room drowning under the weight of multiple star charts and apparatuses. As you heard his footsteps, you exclaimed, “You actually showed up!”

He scoffs, relieving you of some of the equipment you were holding; the pile so high it hid your face. He took most of the burden, revealing your beaming smile.

“Don’t make me change my mind, Y/L/N,” he looked around. “Why didn’t we just meet at the Astronomy Tower?”

Your eyes light up as if you’d been waiting for him to ask that question.

“Literally everyone and their mum are at the Astronomy tower right now doing the project.”

Theo frowned at that as the prospect of being amongst even more people did not entice him in the slightest. Noting his scowl, you laughed.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Nott. I know a place.”

He grumbled at your demeaning statement but he couldn’t ignore the way shooting stars began ricocheting around his heart at your words. He followed you into the Ravenclaw common room, in awe of the bronze accents amongst the deep blue waves of gleaming drapes and chairs. The ceiling was made up of moving star charts and planets, making their way around their orbits. Truthfully, this was the most breathtaking common room Theodore Nott had ever set foot in.

You led them to a balcony opening up from the common room, and it contained a giant table, lanterns, and a gleaming silver telescope. He couldn’t help but think the other three houses got the shorter end of the stick, although that may just be because Nott has always been enamored with the stars. Plus, the deep azure blue spread across the ravenclaw common room just happened to be his favorite color.

You set everything down and began to set up, spreading everything out on the table with precise precision. Theodore placed a compass caliper on the table slightly crooked and you gently pushed it into a straight position. He raised his eyebrow, amused at your antics.

“You know we’re just gonna pick that up in a few minutes, right?”

“It’s good to be organized, Nott.”

“Please, I’ve seen all the crumpled parchment in your bag.”

You smiled sheepishly, looking up at him, “That’s called an organized mess.”

“Whatever you say, love-,” and his eyes widened as he realized what he said, panic blooming in them. “Love-leyyy weather we’re having today?” he grinned quite maniacally.

Lightning struck the distant rolling hills visible from the balcony as you shot a smirk at Theo.

“Quite.”

Reaching up to mess up his hair, you moved to the telescope to start setting it up, leaving Theodore wildly blushing, not wanting to reach up and fix his messy hair caused by your touch.

Did he smoke one of Mattheo’s “special” cigs today? Perhaps the stress of this project was leading him off the rails. It’ll pass by tomorrow…

Nonetheless, his plan to piss you off consisted of simply not helping at all until you got mad and quit.

He abandoned that when he saw that your ideas and methods not only aligned with his, but improved upon them.

The rest of the night was spent charting the pattern of the aligning planets and measuring their orbital distances. Awkward glances and light touches were scattered throughout this process as Theodore realized he was entering uncharted territory with you.

At one point, you both attempted to reach for a graphite pencil at the same time, hands touching, and Theodore had an awkward fit as he flung his hand away so quickly it nearly knocked over the telescope.

“Never felt the touch of a woman, Theodore?” you teased him, grinning and finding joy in his odd behavior.

At another moment, he was stuck staring at your furrowed brow and focused expression as you were doing some complicated trigonometric calculations. It’s as if he were hypnotized by your lips softly mouthing the numbers corresponding with your mathematical work. The way you had to fix a lock of hair every few seconds when it fell in your face…

He reached out and tucked that piece of hair behind your ear in a way that would prevent it from falling again.

Tearing yourself from your math, you shoot him the brightest smile.

Brighter than the cosmos visible in the dark heavens above.

He quickly looks the other way, walking off and standing in the farthest corner of the balcony. As far as he can from that evil witch.

She had hexed him.

He was sure of it.

They wrapped up a bit past midnight and agreed to meet at the same place the next night to continue working on the time consuming project …

“I’m telling you, she’s using dark magic or something!” Theo throws up his hands, pacing around the slytherin common room, ranting to Mattheo.

He began muttering to himself, rubbing his face, lost in thought about what you were doing to him. Riddle watches Theo, thoroughly amused. In their whole lifetime of knowing each other, Mattheo had never seen Theodore this worked up about something…especially someone.

It didn’t take a genius to realize Theodore was down bad, and Mattheo intended to do something about it.

“You know, I’ve caught a couple girls tryna spike my drinks with love potion…”

“AH-HA!” Theo points at Riddle maniacally. “SHE SPIKED MY DRINK. Probably my water bottle since it was just sitting on my Astronomy desk.”

Mattheo smirks, “And what’re you gonna do about it?”

“Confront her, of course. Put an end to this nonsense.”

Mattheo grinned, his intended plan coming to fruition.

“Go get ‘em Theo.”

That night, Theo met you again right outside the common room and followed you to the balcony, still stressing about how he’d bring this up with you.

You started laying out a 150 pack of markers and colored pencils along with 3 different bottles of glitter on the massive oak table, putting your hands on your hips after unloading the myriad of art supplies.

Theo looks horrified as he begins to doubt the respect he had built up for you in the past day.

“Are we bedazzling the star chart?”

“No, Nott, we’re making the best poster Professor Sinistra will ever lay eyes on,” you smile, huffing happily.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about the poster,” he leans against the table, looking curiously at you.

Sure you were smart, but how did you brew a love potion from scratch? It was one of the most difficult potions to brew. Perhaps you bought it, although you weren’t rich. Love potions cost quite the amount of galleons. Especially ones this strong. It seemed to be so strong that the idea of you going out of your way to brew a love potion or spend such a pretty penny on it flattered him to no end.

Lost in his reverie, he was spooked as you approached him, leaning over him, supposedly trying to kiss him?

KISS HIM?

Theo enters lockdown mode as his eyes widen to the size of the moon in the ink black sky. He doesn't know how to react to your sudden move, so he closes his eyes and slightly parts his lips, awaiting your own. He buzzes with ecstasy, realizing he wants this more than anything. Want?

No.

He needs to feel your lips on his own.

Instead, he hears the loveliest little laugh and a gentle “boop” on his nose. He opens his eyes, bewildered, and realizes you had simply leaned over to grab a protractor from the table he was blocking.

“Spaced out there, huh Nott?” and you collapse into a fit of laughter. “Get it? SPACED out? Because, you know, space.” She points to the night sky.

He responds with a dazed, furiously blushing expression.

“Just me? Ok,” you sigh dramatically as you move over to start creating the informational poster.

This was it.

Confrontation time.

Her evil antics had gone too far, and, as warm as the feeling felt, he was ready to dispose of this funny, breathtaking, witty, heavenly project partner. His maddening astronomy partner that had him seeing stars. He huffed angrily as he cleared his throat, grabbing your attention.

“I know what you’re doing.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Our..project?”

“No, I know what you did to me.”

You cross your arms, smirking, wondering if this was his weird, socially awkward, very Theo way of confessing. You weren’t emotionally blind, it was obvious this boy was so down bad. But you couldn’t judge. So were you. Perhaps for longer than he had ever been.

“And what did I do to you?”

He scoffs, “Don’t play dumb.”

“Impossible for a genius to play dumb,” you grin.

He squints his eyes at you, heaving a sigh, “You spiked my water with a love potion.”

There was a moment of silence between you two as you registered his bizarre claim and burst into laughter. Theodore must have truly lost his mind.

“And where would I get my hands on that, Theo?”

He looked offended at your laughter and glared at you, fully convinced there was foul play involved in whatever feelings were brewing in his heart.

“Listen, I know you did something. Just tell me.”

You smirk, moving closer to him, eyes averting down to an unbuttoned button on his shirt. Fixing it, you glance up, speaking softly, “What is it you feel, Theodore.”

He felt a lot of things at that moment. He felt as if you were the most ethereal sight in the world. The dramatic lighting of the candles highlighting your face in every right angle. He felt as if he could implode at that moment; the redness of his face causing a cataclysmic supernova of his very soul. He felt as if he could stare into your eyes forever, sinful thoughts arising at the cocky look on your face as you peered up at him. So many thoughts in his head, and ever since the previous night, each and every thought, the ones in the forefront of his mind and the back, had consisted of you.

He subconsciously moves closer, finally letting his gut feeling have a say. Finally listening to his heart over his head, and his heart told him that what he felt for you could not be replicated by any curse, hex, or potion. It was real and pure. It was foreign but as sweet as the nightbird’s song. As radiant as a galaxy far far away.

But you weren’t far far away, you were right in front of him.

And maybe he’d get that kiss now.

He leaned down as you tilted your jaw to perfectly capture his lips in a passionate kiss, hands in his hair, his on your neck.

Making out with Theodore Nott while you were supposed to be glitter bombing the hell out of your guys’ project was not on your agenda, but you’d easily make room for it anytime anywhere.

It was everything you dreamed it would be.

Pulling apart from the kiss of your dreams felt like being launched light years away from him, but in reality he was standing right there, breathing heavily, his lips swollen and pink.

He quickly looked away, fidgeting anxiously, “That…that's what I feel.”

“Definition of actions speak louder than words,” you laughed, taking his hand in yours.

He smiled at you, heart racing a million beats per second.

“That was no love potion,” he laughed, tucking your hair behind your ear once more as his hand laid to rest gently on your chin, tilting it up.

“No, it was just my raw charisma, Theodore.”

He laughed, shaking his head. His laugh was a sound you hadn’t fully captured, and now that you had, you never wanted him to stop.

Theo learned about a lot more than planet alignment during this project. He learned that you were an amazing kisser.

And hey, maybe team projects weren't so bad after all.

#theodore nott #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott one shot #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you #slytherin boys #theodore nott x y/n

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multi-fandom-imagine · 18 days ago

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any chance for more alex weight stuff, specifically smut? something set during a frat party he didn’t want to go to - perhaps a slightly stereotypical pink cheerleader sorority girl reader, she’s in his film class and he’s like mildly obsessed but thinks she’s out of his league entirely?

A/n: I love this little nerd....i fully believe this man is a whimper.

Alex didn’t want to be here.

The pounding bass made his teeth ache, the air smelled like sweat, cheap beer, and Axe body spray, and someone had already drunkenly thrown up in the bushes by the porch. His buddy had dragged him out, insisting he “needed to get laid or at least get over his existential horror fixation.”

And now he was posted up in the corner of the frat house living room, sipping on something suspiciously overly sweet, hunched in his oversized hoodie, scanning the room like he was watching footage from something he made in his film class.

And that's when he saw you.

The glitter hit first. Sparkling, shimmering, unapologetically bright under the shitty LED lights strung from the ceiling. Your dress was short—too short—and pink, clinging to your body like it was painted on, the curve of your ass peeking when you leaned to grab a drink, your thighs crossed on the arm of a couch like you owned the damn place.

You were the kind of girl who didn’t notice guys like him.

Sorority-perfect. Pink lipstick. Flirty, giggling, loud in a way that made people look. And God, he’d looked.

Alex had noticed you long before this night. You sat in the third row of his film theory class, chewing on pens and scribbling in pink gel ink. Your laptop case had rhinestones on it. You always asked thoughtful questions about lighting and tension in horror scenes, surprising him with how smart you were beneath the glitter and gloss. And even worse—he’d thought about you. Late. Often. Alone.

He was 99% sure you had no idea he existed.

Until tonight.

Because when you locked eyes with him across the room, your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head, just a little. Then you smiled.

And walked right toward him.

“You’re in my film class,” you said, fingers twirling a piece of your hair. “Alex, right?”

He blinked like you’d slapped him. “Yeah,” he said too quickly, then shoved his hand through his hair. “Wait—you know my name?”

“Duh,” you giggled, sipping your drink. “You’re the one who made that short film with the creepy elevator scene. I liked it.”

His throat tightened. “You did?”

You leaned in, chest pressing to his arm, voice warm and teasing. “I also liked how you looked all intense and serious while presenting it. Kinda hot.”

He choked. Actually, physically choked.

And you just smirked.

“You okay?” you purred, your fingers ghosting over his chest like you knew what you were doing to him.

He wasn’t. He was painfully hard.

The upstairs bedroom was quiet—until you shut the door and shoved him back against it.

You kissed him like you’d been waiting all semester, hands fisting in the collar of his hoodie, tongue slick and eager in his mouth. He groaned, low and helpless, gripping your waist like you might vanish.

“You sure you want—?”

“Shut up, Alex,” you whispered, sliding your hand down the front of his jeans. “You’re not the only one who’s thought about this.”

His eyes nearly rolled back.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, glitter catching the light as you looked up through thick lashes. “You touch yourself thinking about me?” you asked sweetly.

He made a broken sound, mouth open. “I—fuck. Yeah. I mean—”

“That’s so cute,” you whispered, unzipping his pants. “Bet you didn’t think the girl in the pink dress was a slut for horror nerds.”

You didn’t give him time to respond.

Your mouth wrapped around his cock, and he damn near screamed.

“Holy—shit, fuck—” He slapped a hand over his own mouth, bucking into your throat.

You sucked him slow and messy, spit glistening on your lips as you let his cock slide deep, eyes on his while he watched you fall apart for him. His hips trembled. His legs nearly gave out.

When you pulled off, lips swollen and wet, he whimpered.

“I wanna ride you,” you whispered, voice sugary and filthy. “Wanna bounce on your cock until you forget all about the ghosts and cameras and whatever the fuck else you’re into.”

Alex didn’t answer. He moaned.

You straddled him on the edge of the bed, panties pushed aside, dress still clinging to your glittery tits. He was gripping your thighs like his life depended on it, jaw slack as you sank down on him with a soft gasp.

“Fuck, you’re so tight—” he groaned, head thunking against the headboard. “God, you feel so fucking good.”

You rolled your hips slowly at first, watching his eyes flutter, his mouth drop open, his hands scrambling under your dress to grab your ass.

“Tell me how bad you wanted this,” you whispered, fucking down on him harder now. “Tell me how many times you came thinking about my pussy.”

He gritted his teeth, voice cracking. “So fucking many—god, fuck, you have no idea—”

You giggled as you rode him faster, your glitter-dusted tits bouncing, moaning his name while his hips stuttered up into you.

“Come in me, Alex,” you whispered, leaning in to bite his neck. “Fill me up like I’m your good little wet dream.”

He snapped.

He held you tight, thrusting up hard, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, gasping against your chest, groaning your name like a prayer.

You kissed his temple as he trembled.

“I think I like frat parties now,” he whispered hoarsely.

You just grinned. “Told you the pink dress was lucky.”

#drabbles #drabble #alex wright #alex wright x reader #alex wright x you #horror film #horror films #horror #horror x reader #horror x you #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x s/o #slasher x y/n #slasher x final girl #grave encounters #grave encounters 2 #grave encounters x reader #smut

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rezitio · 6 months ago

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"𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐀𝐋𝐄" gojo satoru

smut. series masterlist

leak: You find yourself in Gojo's bed again

genre: post-high school series, college sex, plaything, smart!rr, realistic college fuckboy (You're just a plaything), messy org, p in v, dacryphillia, gojo is high, sweet talk

artist: gojo satoru

━━━━━━

All your senses are dulled; that smart brain that was always at work, either running that sharp mouth or your honour roll grades, has gone blank.

But you're not spaced out either. You wish you could be, but each thrust brings you right back to the present. The pleasure you’re feeling down there won’t allow you to even dream of being anywhere other than the reality of Gojo Satoru’s bed being pounded into.

But who are you to complain? You called for this. Blowing up his phone with shit like ‘I need you’ when his other girl is right next to him. He was so close to blocking your number if you kept flooding his DMs.

But all it took was one nude to get this man to blow off the other girl and invite you over. You’re lucky, you tell yourself.

So lucky that fuckboy Gojo has a liking for your body. The boy who all he does is lead and everyone cheers.

He’s calling you to his bed of all places. For all his other hoes, it's either their house or another room in his mega mansion; the university calls a dorm. You’d like to think it makes you special. You’re not.

He’s digging you deep into the mattress with each thrust. Your eyes dart across the room; it's all you can do other than yell. The room was dark; the only light around was the blue LED strips hidden by the ceiling designs, matching his eyes.

The whites in his eyes had turned a light red. Contrast to your sober ones. That should have been your first sign, but from ignoring red eyes to red flags, warnings have never been your strong suit.

Your clothes and his mixed on the floor, the purple liquid on the nightstand that got knocked down somewhere in between the time you still had energy to squirm around was still dripping onto the expensive carpet.

Gojo didn’t care; he had enough money to buy another one. Right next to the cup of lean was his firearm. You don't know what happened to him during his teen years that made him turn out like this, but those who knew him when he was in his senior years all say it was inevitable for him and his group.

The lights were all so pretty. Illuminating behind the design of the ceiling. You wanted to get a better look at it, gently raising your head to look up, only for it to roughly be pushed back down.

Just like that, you were brought back to the reality of things: how deep he was in you, how loudly you were screaming. His dick was ravaging you at a constant rhythm. It was hitting that spot repeatedly with each thrust. And his dick wouldn’t even leave your warmth for a second, keeping you filled up.

A drop of salty water finds a way to your mouth. That's when you notice a pool of wet cloth around your face. You had been crying for a while now, although you’re now noticing it Gojo’s been staring at it for a while, but he didn’t care to slow down. In fact, it gave him an ego boost.

You’re crying yet at the same time begging him not to stop; how pathetic could you be? Tired of the noise, his digits find a way into your mouth. You know what he wants you to do; you suck on them, muffling your sounds. In other words, you shut up.

It was working for a while. He could deal with the vibrations on his fingers masking your loud moans until he felt himself getting close. He could care less about the progress he was making and quickened his pace chasing the release.

Trying to keep your sound in, you bite down on his fingers. He didn't mind; all his other sensations dulled down and focused on his cock. He could feel his body teasing him, electric currents rushing from his sacks through to his length, then dancing at his tip as more electricity piles on his tip.

God, he loved your body so much. It was like it was in perfect sync with his. Your lower body started shaking on his dick; the screams were slipping out; you were also close.

Your fingers reached for the hand binding them, digging your nails into his skin. “Toru…” You yelped out, but he already knew; a little bit of your white liquid was already running down his thigh. You were doing such a bad job of holding your orgasm.

“Cum on me, baby.” He commanded his hand, left your hands, and began to work on your clit as you released. All his self-confidence decimated as he felt his own orgasm rushing out and had no control over it. He was no better than you.

He pulled out, and your cream blew over his thigh; he didn't have time to mind it, though. His finger in your mouth pulled your head back quickly, rushing to release in your mouth. But he barely had control over the pleasure you made him feel.

The little squirter almost missed your mouth, causing part of his walls and the side of your face to be painted in the same liquid that was now rushing down your throat. He sandwiched your head between the mattress and his dick, enjoying the vibration of your gags and gurgles.

“Sh... struggle with me...” He lowly whispered as if he wasn't suffocating you. God, he hated how messy you were and how messy and stimulated you made him.

im currently writing a nanami fiction, so buckle up for that 😛

kodaswrld for banner

#꒰꒰ : REZITIOWORKS #jjk #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #Spotify #jujutsu high #song smut #smut inspired by song #yale ken carson

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futbolfatale · 8 months ago

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School stress

Pairing: Lucy Bronze X Reader, Millie Bright X Reader

Tags: School Stress, fully clothed baths, you Acidently water board yourself, Lucy calling reader Mami, Mommy Issues,

Summary: Reader Gets stressed out with school and begins to question her worth.

WordCount: 0.7k

School had always come easy for you, so it was extremely frustrating when a class was hard, which is what led to your current breakdown in your now cold bathtub fully clothed. It's truly not your best moment but it is rather therapeutic. “Mami We are home” Luce’s voice startles you from your haze as you fully begin to take in the scene around. This looks really bad especially because you had just told them how good you were feeling. “Fuck” You mutter trying to strip off your soaking wet clothes and drain the bath at the same time is not a good idea.

As you fall into the bath with your shirt plastered to your face and water trying to suffocate you. Panic fills your chest as you accidentally breathe in some water. You can’t die like this you can already imagine the posts “Deranged girl waterboards herself leading to her death”.

Before you can even try to get out someone is retching you out and laying you on your back. You start to cough up water as Millie pats your back firmly. “It's okay, Mami just breathed. In and out ” Lucy holds your hair back. You cough up the last of the water before sitting up. “What happened,” Millie asks, rubbing slow circles in your back. ‘“Do you think I’m stupid?” You ask, pressing your soaking wet hair out of your face. “Why would We think you are stupid” Millie asks.” Cause that stupid test” You can’t make eye contact with them. “You know those tests don’t show how smart you are and math is a really hard subject. There is no shame in struggling sometimes,” Mill explains, helping you strip out your remaining clothes.

“Is this why you were being so weird this morning?” Luce asks as she and Mills help you into some pajamas. “I wasn’t being weird” you defined as slightly annoyed at her audacity. “You wouldn't get out of bed and you didn’t even drink the coffee I made you” Mills gestures to the long cold cup of coffee on the nightstand. “ Am I not allowed to lie in on my day off?” You defend walking to the cup and taking it into the kitchen, both of them trailing after you. “You are allowed to lie in as much as you want but you didn’t even answer our texts” Luce grabs you from behind wrapping you in a tight hug and pressing her face into your still-wet hair.

“We are just worried about you, if it's this bad maybe you should drop the class” Mills holds both of your hands in hers as she speaks. “ You know I can’t do that” You pull away from both of them and start towards the couch. You just need to be away. They don’t understand what this is like. “ Why because your mom says so” Lucy calls after you are even more annoyed now that you've pushed her away. “I can’t be a quitter.” You flop onto the couch staring up at the ceiling as tears gather in your eyes. “Quitting this one thing doesn’t make you a quitter.” Mills joins you on the couch pulling your feet into her lap and massaging them gently. “She Thinks it does” You can’t bring yourself to look at them. They get this disappointed look on their faces when you talk like this and you can't stand it. “You Don’t need to care what your mom thinks anymore. She isn't your keeper, she isn’t paying for your education, we are and as your partners, we think you should drop the class.” Lucy explains from her spot knelt on the floor in front of you. “I’ll call the college tomorrow and get them to take you out of the class.”.

“You would do that for me” You look between them both the tears that had gathered in your eyes finally falling. “Of course love we would do this and so much more to preserve your mental health you deserve better than this.” Mills stands up and grabs your hands pulling you with her. “How about we go and get a sweet treat.” “I think that sounds really good” You smile as you follow them out to the car.

#woso x reader #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso soccer #woso one shot #woso #lucy bronze #lucy bronze x reader #millie bright x reader

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chaotic-orphan · 3 months ago

Note

A crumb of vendetta, I beg of you governa!

- a sick victorian child.

Vendetta (XII)

Read part one // Masterpost // Continued from here

While most people got the imprisonment part down for what Supervillain did to the Heroes, this part is dedicated to @sunflower1000 to coming the closest to what he actually has in store for them…

To the sick Victorian child, I hope you're still alive considering you asked this ages ago... but here, an offering

*~*~*~*~*

Supervillain leaned down and grabbed Hero under the arms and yanked them into a startled standing. Hero stifled a gasp at the suddenness. The room blurred before their eyes; their brain pulsed painfully against their skull until the world refocused. Before they knew it, they were back in their wheelchair and being wheeled back through the arches into the hallway that led them here.

Their room was to the right, but Supervillain wheeled them to the left from the dining room this time. Hero would be lying if they said they weren’t nervous about where exactly Supervillain was taking them. Was he tired of Hero’s antics already? There was something not right about how Supervillain looked when he spoke of the heroes that remembered. Something Hero needed to know; why did he look so cruel and smug when he told them?

And now? This was an impulsive move on Supervillain’s part, and impulsive people were harder to predict than organised ones… but what did Supervillain expect? That Hero would wake up and just accept the fact that they were to be Supervillain’s counterbalance in a room full of his fanatics?!

The hall led to a ballroom of sorts, or at least that’s where Supervillain turned Hero’s wheelchair into. There was a balcony that lined the upper walls, but Hero’s eyes went further up to the ceiling that displayed a beautiful arched ceiling carved out of white stone like bone and a grand chandelier of crystal teardrops.

“Where are we?” Hero asked, unable to keep the awe from their voice.

Supervillain hummed above them. “Impressed?”

“Yes,” Hero said honestly.

“Then where we are doesn’t matter, little Hero, does it?”

Hero swallowed the biting retort they wanted to throw at Supervillain. He didn’t trust Hero, which was smart, but annoying. Hero couldn’t fight back from this fucking chair. They could barely stand without support… but then again— Supervillain wouldn’t have been able to literally change the world if he only thought about the immediate future. He played the long game, and even if he could trust this pathetic version of Hero, once they got their strength back, they would go right back to being a legitimate threat. Especially if he was stupid enough to give Hero back their swords.

Supervillain wheeled them through the ballroom out into an atrium. Hero dragged themselves from their thoughts at the doors to the outside. Supervillain just wheeled them to it, but that’s not what drew Hero’s gaze.

It was the blonde zombified girl standing at attention beside the wall. She was dressed in all black. Her hair tied back into a ponytail, hands behind her back, like a solider awaiting their orders.

Somehow, this was worse than seeing Medic used as a servant. Teleport’s face and clothes lacked any colour. She wasn’t bouncing from foot to foot, filled with limitless energy she just… stood there. Still as the grave. Hero felt the soup curdle in their stomach at the sight.

“Teleport,” Supervillain said, and Teleport looked at him. She didn’t spare so much of a glance at Hero. Hero wanted to speak. To scream. To say— to fucking say SOMETHING! But their jaw locked and all they could do was stare, mutely horrified. “We need your services.”

Teleport glanced at Villain, then at Hero in the chair and Hero leaned forward, eyes wide. Please, they pleaded silently. Recognise me. Please.

“The cripple coming too?” The words had barely left her mouth before her head whipped to the side, a slap echoing through the atrium. Hero flinched at the sound, stunned. Villain was in front of her, moving quicker than lightning across the sky.

“You will address your betters with an appropriate tone, Teleport,” he said coldly, and Hero knew the bastard was smiling his cold smile. “Or I’ll have you put in the dungeons for another lesson.”

Teleport’s blue eyes widened, a protest on her lips but she didn’t get to say it before Hero lunged out of their chair towards Villain. They crashed into the back of Villain’s knees, and they went down, Hero climbing on top of the bastard as he turned beneath them.

“You fucking bastard!” They hissed, drawing back a fist, feral. “Don’t fucking touch her!”

Hands grabbed Hero and yanked them easily off of Villain who smirked up at Hero as they were wrestled back into their chair. This time when Supervillain had Hero sitting in the infernal chair, he produced a pair of power dampeners. Hero froze for a beat.

“No! No, no, Supervillain—” they said but their words fell on deaf ears. Twin shadowed hands grabbed Hero’s wrists and yanked them to each armrest. Supervillain cuffed Hero’s wrists to the arms of the chair while Hero cursed and raged and kicked out at the bastard. “You fucking cowards! You’re scared of me like this, just fucking wait until—”

Hero shut themselves up. The words died on their tongue as they saw Villain with a knife against Teleport’s throat. Once Hero was secured Supervillain straightened and fixed his jumper before a blur of movement and Hero gasped as flames of pain erupted on their cheekbone. They saw stars as they slumped, completely caught off guard at the violence. Of all people they never expected Supervillain to lose his temper so quickly.

Hero didn’t right themselves in the chair. They stared, glared at the spot to their left, where their head had snapped after the almost knock-out punch. Supervillain grabbed Hero’s chin and yanked their head towards him, looking into his glacier gaze that froze Hero to their chair with fear. The taste of blood metallic on their tongue.

“Are you going to fucking behave?” Hero swallowed at Supervillain’s barely-contained-rage filled question. They glanced at Teleport who didn’t look at them and nodded once, slightly, as much as they could. Supervillain smiled.

“Good.” He said, and his frosty rage melted, replaced with a smile, with saviour Supervillain, the charming man. Hero swallowed the lump in their throat when Supervillain walked around their chair again. “Now, Teleport. If you would, please. Put us in the box, I don’t want Hero to do something stupid again so soon.”

“Yes sir,” Teleport said softly. She grabbed hold of Hero and Supervillain, while Villain held onto her shoulder. Hero opened their mouth to protest that three is too many when the world morphed and folded around them. Oxygen compacted into tight space as Hero felt the world contort and pulled around them. Nausea climbed Hero’s throat as they tried to breathe in the liminal space before the world stopped attacking their senses and they could breathe again.

Hero folded in on themselves, the cuffs clinking against the metal of the wheelchair and they sucked in a few deep breaths trying to steady themselves. They didn’t open their eyes or straighten until they were sure they wouldn’t throw up again.

“Are you okay, Hero?” Supervillain asked. Hero hummed in reply, swallowing hard before they finally sat up straight in their chair again. “It takes some getting used to.”

I know, Hero wanted to snap. Teleport is my friend, of course I know that. But they kept quiet. They didn’t want to anger Supervillain anymore than they already have, afraid of the consequences. Not for them, but what Supervillain or Villain might do to Teleport to make Hero behave.

Once the anger receded, Hero finally took in where they were. It looked like they were in some kind of stadium. Hero could barely see anything from their wheelchair, but it looked like an arena with tiered seating like a football stadium or concert venue, except the stage must be in the middle.

Ahead of them a wall of glass exposed the spectacle to whatever entertainment happened here, and Hero jerked forwards. The only response was the rattle of their chains. Supervillain let out a soft laugh.

“Oh, sorry. I forget you’re sitting,” he said coming around Hero’s chair and wheeling them towards the wall of glass. “Here. A better view.”

The glass box was a little more than a quarter of the way up the giant stadium that looked more like an amphitheatre or… Hero swallowed when their eyes fixed on the arena of sand in the middle of the stadium. Their heart stuttered in their chest as all breath left their lungs and Hero shook their head.

“Do you not like?” Supervillain purred as a door behind them opened but Hero didn’t pay it any mind as they fought against their soup coming back up again.

“What is this?” Hero whispered, horror coating every breath. Hero couldn’t take their eyes from the centre of the arena. It looked like a mockery of the guild sparring pit that Hero grew up in, spent their youth training in day after day. They pulled at the cuffs as they leaned forward, staring down at the arena. “What is this?”

“I could tell you, Hero,” Supervillain cooed. “Though I’m sure you already have a good guess. But I think it’s far more entertaining to show you.”

Hero swallowed the lump in their throat as they stared and stared and stared. Hero couldn’t stop the flashes from the war, fighting in the dirt and the mud so like the sandy pit below, the smell of blood and piss singeing their nostrils and sweat, they swore they were back there now as a siren sounded and two heavy portcullis gates lifted on opposite sides of the arena.

Hero could see everything from the box they were in, even the faces of the two people who emerged onto the sands of the pit. The portcullis dropped as they stepped out far enough. Hero’s heart jumped into their chest as they recognised hero Trainee’s sister, Ishka, a water wielder. She had the same golden skin as her brother, her hard, dark eyes framed by her silky dark hair as she glared up at the box Hero was watching from. There was no lightness to her usual happy features. Hero knew Ishka. She was kind, cheerful. Now she looked like nothing more than a cold hearted weapon.

Her dark eyes widened in surprise at seeing Hero, mirroring Hero’s as they stared down at her. Ishka’s eyes glanced at Hero then Supervillain and then at the cuffs around Hero’s wrists they tugged on as they leaned forwards in their chair. Hero swallowed as they realised Ishka had a pair of power dampeners around her wrists too, but with no chain in between.

“They can’t use their powers?” Hero demanded, hands balling into fists.

“No. They can’t. All thanks to you, really.”

Hero’s head whipped to Supervillain. “What?”

Supervillain grinned down at them. “While you were… asleep, I had my best scientists and craftsmen experiment with your power.”

Hero flinched. “What?”

“I needed my gladiators to be able to fight, Hero,” Supervillain said as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “But I couldn’t have them wielding their powers against me or any of the audience so I set my best minds to work and work they did.”

“Gladiators,” Hero repeated, barely audible. They really were going to be sick. Tears brimmed Hero’s eyes as they turned their attention back to Ishka and AnotherHero, Hero didn’t recognise. Wait… no. Wait, Hero knew most heroes—

“He’s not a hero,” Hero said, gesturing at the other person in the arena with Ishka. He was built like a giant, big and burly and thrice the size of Ishka’s lean frame.

“No,” Supervillain said with something like pride. “He isn’t. There were a couple of… little rebellions while you slept. Some people don’t take as well to their memories being adjusted.” Supervillain smiled wryly. “Who knew. So I squashed the petty squabbles and then offered their leaders a deal. Die for their uprising, or live as a gladiator.”

Hero’s body was like ice in the chair. They wouldn’t be able to move their limbs if they wanted to, but… this? This was too much to comprehend. Too horrifying.

Supervillain imprisoned the rest of the heroes and anybody else who dared question him and made them fight each other… for sport?!

“You’re a monster,” Hero hissed.

Supervillain laughed coldly. “It seems a fighting punishment, no? To those who fought a war against me, who killed my people, people who followed my orders… well, their punishment will be to fight to the death.”

A rush of cold dread struck Hero like a lightning bolt ricocheting through their entire body. “To the death?”

“Only on some occasions,” Supervillain said, his eyes glinting with a cruel malice as he drank in Hero’s horror. Hero recognised this vicious Supervillain, the monster behind his well crafted mask. The man that had Superhero killed and dragged Hero back up the podium to face the spectacle of gathered villains. The sadistic beast that lingered deep under his skin, but was always there.

“Besides,” Supervillain said, his hand lifting palm facing Ishka and the other gladiator. “This is only practice.”

He closed his fingers into a fist and both gladiators bowed towards the box before turning to face each other. Hero watched, their heart in their throat as Ishka sprung at her opponent with lethal grace and speed.

Her opponent to his credit didn’t fall for her feint and instead planted his feet and spun on his heel to bring his broadsword up against her daggers, her typical weapon of choice, though… they weren’t her usual ones. The ones she showed Hero once, perfectly balanced for her short stature and skinnier frame.

“You said you wanted an end to this violence,” Hero ground out through gritted teeth. They pulled sharply on their cuffs. “This is barbaric! Controlled violence?! For entertainment, do you see yourself as some fucking roman senator?”

Supervillain shot Hero his charming smile. “Why? You planning on stabbing me in the back?”

“I’m no coward.” Hero spat, yanking on their cuffs again just to do something. Not a coward, but powerless? At Supervillain’s mercy? Their stomach rolled as they watched Ishka spar like her life depended on it.

“This is the cost of losing a war,” Supervillain said, coming around to kneel slightly in front of Hero’s chair. Hero’s glare snapped to Supervillain’s glacier eyes. “Don’t worry, Hero. You’re safe from this fate.”

“And you call that mercy?”

“Yes.” Hero swallowed at the honesty colouring Supervillain’s voice. “I know you won’t see it that way, Hero. Not now, maybe not ever, but in time you’ll respect the cushion of safety you have by my side.”

Hero’s eyes widened in horror. “I would give my life to save all of theirs,” Hero spat, venom injected into every word. Supervillain smiled like a proud father speaking to a child.

“I know. Which is what makes you all the more compelling, Hero. You and I,” he continued, his eyes glittering with something that terrified Hero, “will change the world. Make it better than it was before.”

Hero pulled against the chains of their cuffs. “Better on your terms!” Hero hissed. “You have changed everyone’s memories to follow along with your stupid narrative of Superhero being the bad guy!”

“The victors write the history books,” Supervillain said softly. He dipped his head, his smile extending on one side of his face. “I mean, if you won, I would be in prison right now. As would all my people who fought with me.”

“Humanely treated!” Hero cried. “Not forced to- to fight for your lives through blood sports!”

Supervillain hummed and stood, cupping his hands behind his back as he stared down into the arena.

“A punishment must fit a crime, Hero.”

“Punish me in their stead!” Hero cried. An oppressive weight pushed down on Hero’s shoulder, on their skull, on their chest and it felt like they couldn’t breathe. “Please! I worked under Superhero! I was his second in command! I made the plans that killed so many of your friends. I was there in the war room. Punish me! Not them!”

Superhero didn’t speak for a moment. A single moment that managed to weave that terrible spark of hope in Hero’s chest.

“They chose their side, Hero. Now they must face the consequences.” He glanced at Hero over his shoulder. “As must you. Besides you wouldn’t last two seconds in the arena in your state, and the people love the spectacle of it all.”

“You’re a monster.”

“As are you,” Supervillain replied easily, pinning Hero to their chair. “We’ve both done monstrous things to survive. Don’t act like we are different.”

“We are different!”

“Not in the ways that matter,” Supervillain replied. He glanced to the right of Hero as the doors opened and closed again behind Hero. His eyes brightened and his smile warmed. “Ah, Hero, you are in luck. Meet the overseer of the Arena of Heroes.”

Hero didn’t want to turn their head and greet another of Supervillain’s sycophant, but they didn’t have a choice as Supervillain turned their wheelchair to face the door.

“I didn’t expect you to be here today, sir,” a strong voice answered that pulled at Hero’s heartstrings. “It is only a training day. There are no games tonight.”

“Don’t worry. We just came for a visit. I would like to introduce a guest of mine that will be joining my office,” Supervillain said. Hero couldn’t hear anything over the booming of their heart, deafening all sound, all love and peace evaporated. They couldn’t turn their head. They couldn’t… it would… it would shatter them.

But their brain had to… they had to see and register that he wasn’t dead. That he was still alive.

Hero turned and their breath caught in their throat.

“Vigilante.”

It was him. It was him. He was… he was alive. Beside him stood Villain who smirked at Hero over Vigilante’s shoulder. Hero wanted to slap that smugness from his stupid face, but they couldn’t take their gaze from Vigilante.

He looked good. He didn’t… he didn’t look zombified like Teleport or mistreated like Medic. He looked- Hero’s eyes raked over the uniform that Vigilante wore. Their stomach turned.

Oh god… he looked like one of them.

He smiled warmly at Hero. His voice soft as he said, “hi Hero. Good to see you’re awake.”

If Hero were a house of bricks, they would all be crashing down around them right now. Vigilante knew Hero? He recognised them? Supervillain didn’t introduce them, did he? No. He didn’t, which means… Vigilante— did Vigilante— was Vigilante?

Hero yanked at the cuffs keeping them bound to the chair. They couldn’t help the tears welling behind their eyes as they looked at Vigilante, their Vigilante, healthy and well. Not in the gladiator ring. Not bloodied or wearing power dampeners.

“You… you recognise me?” Hero asked in a breathy whisper. Vigilante’s golden gaze went from Hero’s face to Supervillain’s and back again, an awkward smile on his face.

“Yes,” Vigilante said with a small laugh. Hero’s breathing hitched. Did he… was he?…

No.

No!

Hero couldn’t entertain the possibility that Vigilante was always on Supervillain’s side. They couldn’t. They knew Vigilante; knew him in their soul. This wasn’t Hero’s Vigilante standing before them. The one who told Hero he’d always find them, that he loved them.

His golden eyes went to the cuffs on Hero’s wrists, and he frowned. Something Supervillain clocked too. “When Hero awoke, they were a little… violent,” he explained. “This is for their safety.”

“Yeah,” Villain scoffed, “and mine.”

Vigilante’s eyes lit up with his smile and Hero swore that everyone in the room could hear their heart break.

“What did you do to him?” Hero cried, yanking their wrists against the cuffs. “Vidge, it’s me, please! Please tell me you remember me. Please! Please!”

Vigilante’s eyes widened slightly. “I– I don’t think we’ve ever properly met before, Hero,” Vigilante said. Hero couldn’t restrain the whimper that broke up from their chest. “I… I mean,” Vigilante continued quickly, “I know you were in a coma for a while and that sometimes long-term coma patients wake with new memories and–”

Hero couldn’t take it. They yanked at their wrists harder as hot tears poured down their cheeks, shaking their head as they said no, over and over again as Vigilante continued. Hero ignored him and turned to Supervillain. “Kill me… just kill me, just- just-” Hero yanked harder on the cuffs until they drew blood. “JUST KILL ME! YOU TOOK EVERYTHING…” their voice cracked at the end as they pulled back hard on a blood-soaked wrist, trying to break their thumb and free themselves.

Vigilante stepped forwards, coming closer to Hero and kneeling in front of them. He grabbed Hero’s hand in his and pulled a roll of bandages from his pocket. “Please, don’t hurt yourself, Hero,” he said, and it sounded so like Hero’s Vigilante that they couldn’t help but stare as Vigilante carefully and meticulously wrapped Hero’s bloodied wrist. “You must be weak from waking and hurting yourself more will only delay the healing process.”

Hero stared at Vigilante while he worked. Their heart slamming against their chest and for a moment, a single, logic defying moment, Hero could pretend that it was only Vigilante and them in the world, maybe back in that shack in the trenches, and he was berating them for being foolhardy in battle.

But of course, reality didn’t let Hero have that delusion for long.

“He’s right you know,” Supervillain said. Hero didn’t take their eyes from Vigilante, afraid if they did that he would disappear again. “In fact, Vigilante watched over you while you slept, Hero. Making sure you were okay.”

Vigilante blushed hard, shooting a sideways smile at Supervillain, but he didn’t drop Hero’s fingers, or their hand and Hero held onto his for dear life. “Way to make me sound like a creep, Supervillain.”

“Good looking boy like you?” Supervillain said with a smile in his voice. “I’m certain Hero didn’t mind.”

Hero stared at Vigilante, heart pounding so loud it felt like everyone could hear but they didn’t care. They had to know. “Why?”

Vigilante’s dark hair fell over his forehead as he looked at Hero once more. “What?”

“Why did you watch over me?”

Vigilante ran their thumb over the knuckles of Hero’s hand absent-minded as he considered the question. “I… I don’t know. I just felt the need to be close to you, like… like I’ve known you all my life,” he said earnestly, his golden eyes bright. “Like this isn’t our first conversation.”

Hope struck in the shape of a knife straight through Hero’s chest as they deflated in the chair, in the cuffs, under Vigilante’s gaze. They knew it wasn’t an accident that Vigilante felt that familiarity that Medic and Teleport didn’t. That he was as soft and gentle as he was with Hero before… it all made a perfectly, devastating picture.

Supervillain crafted Vigilante into the perfect trap for Hero and fuck did it work. How Hero went from hysterical in one second to docile and quiet the moment Vigilante touched them. How their body remembered what their mind fought so hard to try and differentiate against. And Hero understood too the peace offering that this was from Supervillain to them, that he had kept Vigilante happy and fed, that he was in this box instead of down in the ring fighting for his life.

Hero swallowed the lump in their throat. They couldn’t rage against this softness. “Funny,” Hero replied hollowly. They could feel Supervillain and Villain’s gazes lock on hungrily at Hero’s reply. “I feel the same.”

Vigilante's smile was a hammer poised to crack Hero's ribs, but they didn't care. They couldn't. They'd do anything to get Vigilante back, anything... even if that meant sacrificing the world and following Supervillain's plans.

*~*~*~*~*

Hehehe, I will refer back to the song that inspired this entire series Gladiator by Jann...

Tag-list— @micechomper @aarika-merrill @silentpotat0 @dutifullykrispyland @gloriousqueen101 @ehobep @alynaevelyn

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